A dozen or so sentences

The Tomemasters and biographers of kings have it all wrong. You don’t need tomes foaming across poetic volumes to tell someone’s story.

In my experience a dozen or so sentences define a life, just dandy.

Mine, would go something like this:

“That’s the mark of Scythe, he’ll be lucky to see his tenth birthday.” Proclaimed the village shaman, when he spotted the strange mark on the back of my palm, minutes after I was born.

“Sorry Jors; I can’t marry a dead man.” Apologized Lis, shortly before I left Shirring for good.

“That one’s bad luck, I’m telling you.” Muttered, the barkeeps, peasants and labourers, whenever bad luck struck during my travels.

“Jors Velen, to fulfil the duties of a clerk, aboard the vessel, ‘Lone Sail’, for a dozen silver each week until termination of this contract, by either signing parties.” Stamped, sealed and signed by me, Captain Stanley and a witness, in the Maritime Office of Windgate.

“I like you Jors, but you need to go before the others get to you.” Whispered, the former First mate, now Captain Victore, shortly after the unfortunate demise of Stanley.

“Don’t let that singular mark define who you are, son; you have much more ahead than you think. Don’t give up.” Told me the old gentleman in the nice suit, after he pulled me down from that bridge.

He left me some medallion and a book. This book in fact.

It doesn’t have much in it, but I read slow these days. It’s been months since I kept the ledgers on the Sail. I still have the same rags though. The first few pages describe some weird old order of knights and their thinking.

The rest is blank. I think it is intended as some kind of diary of sorts.

I’ve written this down to remind me.

I wonder what will I write in the rest.