Smothering a Flame

“Westel! Get up!”

The boy, tangled up in his bedsheets, swatted weakly in the general direction of the voice that disturbed his sleep.

“Westel! You lazy, incompetent, child. You’re late!”

That got his attention. Westel sprang from his bed, dragging his sheets with him , and stumbled to his wardrobe. Hurriedly, his robe was pulled directly over his pajamas and he turned towards the slim, golden haired young man standing by his bed.

“How is this, Vathal?” The robe was much too large, the hem dragging the floor and sleeves extending far beyond his hands, with one shoulder slipping down. West looked quite proud of his garment, however, and stood awaiting his elder brother’s opinion.

Vathal twisted his lips, regarding the younger boy. “Did you have to pick such a…revolting color?” He inquired, eyebrow quirked. While the Quel’dorei were fond of their bright colors, the robe his brother had picked out was the most eye-searing shade of yellow.

Westel’s ears drooped slightly and he busied himself with rolling up his sleeves, “Well…it was all I could afford.”

With a sigh, Vathal beckoned his younger brother to follow him from the room. The house was dark, and the two endeavored to remain silent as they journeyed to the study. Vathal glided easily through the hallways, barely even disturbing his robe. Westel, meanwhile, had some trouble. While he tried to emulate his brother to the best of his ability, he continually stumbled over the too-long robe, wincing as he feared waking the entire household with his clumsiness. Impatient, Vathal pulled the boy along until they finally reached the study unhindered.

“So, what is giving you trouble, Wessy?” Vathal sneered as he strode about the room, lighting candles with a flick of his wrist.

Westel scowled at the nickname, though watched with earnest as flames magically flickered to life, illuminating the study in a soft orange light. With a sigh, his ears drooped and he collapsed into one of the large armchairs by the bookshelves. “…everything, really.” He admitted dismally.

***

For a month, the two brothers met in the dark of night as student and teacher. Vathal had long advanced beyond all other elves his age in the area of arcane studies. Westel, though, had fallen far behind those his age. In their late night studies, Vathal stressed the basics and while over the weeks West made minor improvements, his older brother refused to teach new material until Westel had complete mastery of fundamentals.

When not in nocturnal study sessions, Westel often stowed away in his room with books borrowed from the study and from Vathal. He would sit hunched over at his desk, staring alternately between an open text and a fresh candle. During the days, he would try over and over again with little to no results and in the evenings he would lament his failures to Vathal, who in turn would instruct his pupil to continue trying. Eventually, Vathal insisted, the boy would get it.

***

“Come on,” Westel begged, desperate eyes trained on his still pristine candle. By now he had memorized the spell, and while the words fell seamlessly from his lips all he could produce were a few measly sparks. Conviction, he recalled Vathal saying. Westel drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, envisioning that candle alight. You must have that fire inside of you first. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and opened his eyes, focused on nothing but the candle wick. He lifted his left hand, precisely uttering the proper words….

“VATHAL!” Westel leaped to his feet and darted from his room, blazing candle in hand. “Vathal! I did it!” He cried as he sprinted down the hall to the studious elf’s room. Without thinking, Westel barged inside nearly shouting, “Look! I did it!” He practically hopped forward to present his candle, but stopped short. Two handsome blond heads had turned to regard the young dark haired boy in his gaudy yellow robes.

Cal lofted a sculpted brow and stood from the edge of Vathal’s bed, staring down at his youngest brother. “What on Azeroth are you wearing, little Wessy?” He plucked at the slipping shoulder of Westel’s robe, lips curled into a cruel smirk.

“A robe…” Came Westel’s timid reply. He sought out Vathal’s face behind Cal’s broad frame and found the former looking on impassively. “I’ve been practicing my mage studies,” he tried to elaborate, but Cal’s abrupt laughter cut him off.

“Didn’t you quit those months ago? Thought you were hopeless at that like you were hopeless at sword play.” The burly elf leaned down to blow out Westel’s flame, but the boy quickly shielded it.

“No!” He said with a ferocity that surprised even himself. “I have been practicing…and I finally managed to do this.” Once more he presented his candle, looking to Vathal for his approval.

The second eldest of the Sorrelon boys glided over, a pair of spectacles perched upon his nose. “To do…what?”

Westel lost some of the conviction he had started with. “To…to produce fire. Make a flame.”

Cal snorted and Vathal’s eyes were drawn to the oldest elf’s critical sneer. He cleared his throat and adopted his haughtier tone. “You call that little flicker a flame? Westel I was half your age when I could light candles one after the other. There is little you could possibly do to impress me. Now be gone, Cal and I were busy and we hardly have time for your trivial intrusions.” He waved his hand dismissively, and with one last flicker, Westel’s flame was gone.

Disheartened and humiliated, Westel turned to leave with Cal’s snickering and Vathals’ murmur of “witless boy” at his back. Later that evening, Westel had rid his room of all his books and Lady Sorrelon was rather confused upon finding an atrocious yellow robe in the garbage bin.

A Boy in a Tree

I was not more than five or six when I first climbed one of the many trees surrounding my family’s property. On the way up, nothing had ever felt more natural and as I sat high above to observe the forest around me, I felt both powerful and content. Unfortunately, making my way down was not as easy as climbing up. It was well past supper time when my brothers came looking for me and spotted me clinging to the tree trunk, too scared to make any sort of movements.

After a while of laughter and jeering on their part, they left to fetch father. By the time he sauntered on out of the house, already dressed for bed, I was nearly down. He waited in silence until my feet touched the ground, then proceeded to chastise me–not for risking my health in climbing trees, but for missing dinner and being out past dark. He then forbade anymore tree climbing, and said should I do so again and end up hurting myself, I would see no sympathy from him.

For a while, I listened. However, I often found myself looking out my bedroom window and reliving that thrill I got during the climb, as well as the terror I experienced when I discovered I had to eventually get down. Such a memory might deter most children, but I took it as a challenge and every time I glanced out at the forest on the edge of the property it was as if the trees were egging me on.

I took to scaling the trees when my father was gone on business, which was often. It gave me ample time to get up and down the trees until I found the courage to leap down from one of the lower branches instead of wiggle the rest of the way down the trunk. Eventually, the trees became my safe haven when my elder brothers were bored and sought me out for entertainment. Neither of them ever tried to follow me up into my trees.

One late afternoon, I was feeling especially daring for some reason. I had been trapped inside for most of the day, suffering my asinine studies of etiquette and family history and I was anxious to get out and get some mud on my shoes. I decided to ignore the fact that my father was home for the evening already, and I set out for my trees.

It was a tree I often sought solace with. It was especially tall and had plenty of cover so no one could see me perched on a branch high above the ground. I was comfortable with this tree, and climbing was second nature to me now. So you can imagine my shock when half way up, the branch I was using to pull myself up snapped.

The next thing I knew, I was at the foot of the tree, clutching my arm with  the breath knocked out of me and tears streaming down my face. When I regained some of my senses, I noticed that I was not alone. My father, who had probably been watching me the entire time, stood over me. I continued to sob and try to put together some kind of coherent sentence, and he continued to stand in silence. Finally, once my sobs had subsided into hiccups and sniffles, he spoke up.

“That hurt?”

I nodded feebly.

“Good. Go inside and get cleaned up for dinner.” He turned and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back at me with a critical eye. “Do not let me see you crying again.”

I did as he said.

Again, most kids would have allowed such an event to keep them away from trees for good. And for a while, I did. It was as if my trees– my trees– had betrayed me, I thought. Well, that eventually just pissed me off more and once my wrist had healed I returned to climbing them. I still fell, and every time my father was there to watch me while I struggled with the pain.

I never cried though, not in front of him. I had made the decision to go against what he told me. He was just holding up his end of the bargain. I decided to climb the trees, the falls and resulting injuries were my problem.

Eventually, though, I was able to pick myself up and dust myself off before he reached my side. And when I did so, I told him I would see him at dinner and limped off back to the house.

We Choose Our Joys and Sorrows

The Ranger paused about one hundred feet out from the estate. Before him stood a grand home, a bit more modern than the places he was used to; brighter and flashier, a gaudy display of wealth and grandeur. So this was the life she had chosen, he mused to himself as he tipped his head up to observe the building in its entirety. Silently, he wondered if life on the other side of the huge front doors was as magnificent as the home suggested. As he stalked up the path to the front door, the man was happy to assume that it was all a sham.

Upon reaching the huge doors with their thick golden knockers, the Ranger drew himself up to his full, impressive height. A gloved hand rose to lift the heavy knocker, but the door was open before he dropped the metal the first time.

“Can I help you, sir?” Inquired his greeter, a small dark-haired woman in a servant’s garb.

“Ah, yes,” he flashed her a nervous sort of smile, despite the confidence he was attempting to exude, “I have business with the lady of the house. Could you let her know I am here, dear?”

The servant woman narrowed her blue eyes at him, and gave the tall man a long, critical once over. His hair was long and ill-kept, pulled haphazardly into a ponytail so to keep it out of his scruffy, sun-kissed face. While he was tall and obviously fit, he was not big, and actually appeared not to have been eating well for a while. His long ears almost twinkled in the sunlight, due to the amount of  rings pierced through them, and as the breeze blew a few of the earrings jingled softly against each other. The dark leathers he wore were scuffed and dirty, and one of his gloves was missing the thumb; this man certainly could not be here for business with her Lady.

“Servant’s entrance is around to the side, sir.” Said the woman curtly before moving to close the door.

“Oi!” The Ranger shouted indignantly, his left hand darting out to catch the heavy door as the woman continued to shove against it. “We’re friends, the lady and I. Old…old friends.” He tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice as the servant continued to try and shut him out. The man gave the door a shove with his shoulder, causing the servant to stumble backwards, panting and looking quite frightened of this unkempt man now. He growled in frustration and pointed to the huge staircase at the woman’s back.

“Tell Cersei that Ranger-Captain Tyren Firewing has called on her. And that is an order.”

She gave a small squeak and dashed up the stairs without further protest.

Tyren stepped over the threshold, grumbling to himself as his dark green eyes scanned the foyer. His old leather boots were certainly muddying up the pristine white floors, and he made a point of smearing the marks across the entrance with an indignant snort. “…Servant. Bah.”

Hands knit behind his back, Tyren waited stiffly in the center of the foyer. After a minute, he could hear voices drifting from the floor above.

“He was very insistent, my Lady, and strong…” Whimpered the servant who had tried to force him out.

“Momma I’m hungry!” Moaned another voice, a young one that made Tyren’s gut twist into a knot.

He remained still, despite his body’s impulse to bolt, as he strained to hear the third voice.

“It is fine, Irona. I will deal with it…” Cersei’s firm tone faded slightly as she rounded a corner and spotted Tyren from the top of the stairs. Her fair, pale skin appeared to lose what little color it had to it. She faltered for but a moment before she straightened her shoulders and descended the stair case with all the elegance of the Lady she had shaped herself to be.

Silent, Tyren watched her, not quite able to save face the way she could. Cersei was not the epitome of beauty; her nose was a little too small, her lips slightly too wide, and she had never quite adopted the womanly figure of her female peers. However, she had slightly more curve to her than Tyren remembered. Probably thanks to the small blonde boy who padded along at Cersei’s heels. Behind the make-up, outrageous jewelry, and rather tawdry and low-cut gown, she was of average appearance, as far as their beautiful-by-law race went.

“You look surprised to see me, Cersei. Did your lovely, hospitable servant not inform you as to who your caller was? Or were you expecting a different Ranger-Captain Firewing?” He smirked, and his voice carried with it a light-hearted mirth.

“Irona,” said Cersei, never taking her eyes off of Tyren, “take Vathal to the dining room and have the cook fix him lunch, please.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Irona eyed Tyren with a scowl and reached down for the boy’s hand and began to lead him away.

“Oh and Irona?” Cersei finally tore her gaze away from Tyren.

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Lord Sorrelon does not return this evening, does he?”

Irona eyed the Ranger as he smeared more mud across the floor she had wiped down just that morning. “No, my Lady.” With that she tugged young Vathal away, leaving the Lady and her caller alone in the foyer.

“Captain Firewing,” Cersei dipped into a small curtsey, “I apologize for my servant’s earlier rudeness. It is not often I am paid visits by…Rangers.” She left the last word hanging as if speaking of some grotesque ailment or deformity.

Tyren rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s cut the bull shit, shall we, Cersei?” He brushed past her to a small end table with little more purpose than to house an old vase which hadn’t a purpose at all. Tyren lifted the delicate pottery and tossed it back and forth from hand to hand. “How are you doing, my old friend?”

“I thought we were cutting the bull shit, Tyren.” Cersei hissed and snatched the vase from his grubby hands.

Tyren scoffed and turned to snatch the vase back. “That was not bull shit. That was genuine interest in how you are fairing.”

Cersei reached for the vase with a sigh of exasperation, but Tyren held it just out of her reach with a sly smile. “I am doing marvelous, Tyren. Everything is fabulous– Please put that down!”

He turned the vase over to peer down inside of it, with one eye shut. “A little dusty. Your maids clearly aren’t up to snuff.” Tyren grinned devilishly and tossed it up into the air. Cersei squeaked and cringed in anticipation of the ceramic piece crashing to the floor. The Ranger-Captain snickered and held it up between them. “Are you quite sure everything is fabulous? You are far too young to have those creases in your forehead, love.”

Cersei sighed at him and leaned up to take the vase back from him again. But just as her fingertips brushed its slick surface, Tyren snatched it away again and swiftly leaned down, his lips pressed to hers. Cersei’s green eyes went wide and for a moment she was frozen as Tyren kissed her. Once he finally pulled away, she stared at him, as the blood rushed to her cheeks. Tyren just smirked, quite satisfied with himself.

“You–You…!” With an unintelligible shout she grabbed the vase from Tyren’s hand and smashed it furiously against his chest. The vase shattered and the pieces fell to the floor at their feet.

“…Now that was a little over dramatic, don’t you think?” Admonished Tyren as he rubbed his chest.

Cersei was in shock, standing in front of the Ranger in silence.

A moment later, Irona appeared in the door way, “My Lady? What has happened?”

Being addressed by someone other than the scoundrel Ranger seemed to bring Cersei back to the present. “I– Yes, Irona. Just..clumsy, quite clumsy. Clean this up, if you please.” She stared up at Tyren for a moment, then turned on her heel and stalked from the foyer.

Tyren smirked at the servant girl and patted her cheek. “You heard her, doll. Clean up!” Grinning he slipped out of the foyer after Cersei. She continued  to march through the house, passing through the parlor, down a corridor and into a room off to the right. Tyren quietly followed, ducking into the vast study. Book shelves lined the walls and a large portrait of Dath’remar was mounted on the wall above the fireplace. Cersei perched on the edge of a large desk, pinching her slightly too small nose.

“What are you doing here, Tyren?” She asked quietly, all the venom gone from her voice.

Tyren sighed and closed the door behind him, closing them off from the rest of the house. “I came back to see if you had thought about what I said, last we spoke.”

She looked up at him, delicate brow furrowed. “I have not seen or heard from you in almost sixteen years, Tyren.”

“I suppose that means you do not recall my proposal.” He replied quietly, his charming smile faltering.

“No, no I remember it. But it’s been sixteen years! Tyren I have two sons, a husband, a life.” Cersei shook her head and stood up. She watched Tyren as he avoided her gaze, looking around at the hundreds of books kept in the study.

“I merely thought to give you plenty of time to think about it.” He shook his head and looked around the study again. “You can’t possibly be happy here, Cersei.” Tyren looked back to her, confident in his assertion. He knew her. He had known her for almost his entire life. “This is not the type of place we used to talk about. It’s outrageous.”

“I…bettered my standards.” Cersei insisted.

“No, you weighed down your coin purse. And stooped ridiculously low to do so.”

“Tyren I am comfortable here, happy. I don’t have to worry about anything. I can just live my life freely, without a care in the world.”

The Ranger-Captain shook his head, “You’re not happy. I have seen you happy, and that’s not how you look or act when you’re happy.”

“Perhaps I have changed.” Snapped Cersei, causing Tyren to wince. She frowned and strode forward, placing her hand on his arm. “I am not the same girl who dreamed of prancing about the world, living on whatever we could scrounge up. It is a childish romance, I know this now. We were just a childish romance.”

“I am not a child, Cersei.” Tyren growled. “I am a grown man, a Ranger-Captain. I have esteem, I have a social life outside of boring political parties and stuffy brunches, I live a comfortable life. But I’m still missing something.” He looked down at her meaningfully. Under the intensity of his gaze, Cersei tried to look away, but he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, forcing her to look back up at him.

“Tyren…”

“I’m missing you, Cersei. Us.” His thumb gently stroked her smooth cheek and he smiled softly. “Let Lord Sorrelon find himself another trophy wife.”

Cersei’s lower lip trembled and she leaned away from Tyren’s warm touch. “I can’t do that, Tyren.” She insisted. “I am a mother, a wife, a Lady.”

“You could still be all those things– Well perhaps not the Lady bit, but who gives a damn about that anyways? Come on, I have given you sixteen years to play princess in the castle. Come back with me.” Before she could protest, Tyren pulled her into his arms. Feebly, Cersei tried to squirm out of his grasp, but it really was no use.

“I cannot, Tyren. I am truly sorry, but I made my choice many years ago”

“And so did I.” He pulled her into a kiss, holding her steadfastly to his chest.

Cersei tried to protest, but soon her I can’ts were lost to his lips as she melted against him.

Forever Dreaming

The suit he wore was horribly uncomfortable, the fabric itchy and his cravat too tight. He had no time to adjust his clothing, however, for people continued to approach him, smothering him with hugs or grasping his hand in a friendly handshake. Faces he only vaguely recognized passed before his vision one by one. They praised him on his good fortune and good taste, and West smilingly thanked them each though he was not quite sure why. Until she pressed herself against his side, fiery red hair obscuring her visage.

“Dessandra?” He questioned automatically, and the woman at his side lifted her chin to smirk at him. She was stunning, with her fair skin, high cheekbones, and slightly pursed lips that curled perfectly into that smirk that forced his heart into his throat. Deep red locks framed her face and Westel reached out instinctively to brush a few stray strands out of the way. It was a crime to have such a face blocked in any manner. Her smirk softened into a smile and a fair hand lifted to touch his cheek.

Slowly, Dess raised up onto her toes and brushed her lips against his ear as she whispered, “I love you, Westel. Forever.”

His heart soared and as he opened his mouth to respond in kind, Dess slipped out of his arms. The line of people crowded around them now, watching, judging. Westel’s fiance turned so she walked backwards towards the crowd, daring West to follow. But he did not, he stayed put, watching her in some kind of trance. From the crowd sauntered a tall, blond man. Westel’s eldest brother was broader of shoulder and cleaner in appearance. His own suit seemed to fit him perfectly, in spite of his thick build. A winning smile was shot in West’s direction as Caloneth situated himself beside Dess. Westel’s fiance curled herself into the blond paladin, eyes turned up to his handsome face with the utmost adoration. Cal gave a mocking salute and he and Dess turned to make their way through the parting crowd.

“Dess!” Westel cried, taking a step forward.

The red-head looked over her shoulder, that smirk dancing across her red lips again.

“You…you love me!” Westel attempted to remind her, a white hot pain piercing his chest.

“I loved you once. Perhaps.” Came her reply, and she and Cal continued arm and arm until they disappeared into the crowd.

He crumbled, as did the world around him. Feeling heavy, Westel wandered through the darkness. He had pulled his cravat loose around his neck, his jacket was unbuttoned and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. He dragged his feet in silence, moving out of the darkness and into the forest. Eversong.

“West!”

He turned and was met with a heart-shaped, freckled face. The petite woman beamed up at him and hopped up to throw her arms around his neck. A slight baby bump pressed against his middle. He was still recovering from the sudden hug when Ashelyen returned to her feet. Her hands found both of his and she peered up at him, grinning.Her curly ginger hair fell every which way, but the chaos suited her.

“Are you excited?” She asked, squeezing his hands.

“For what, love?” Her smile was contagious and now he could not even recall why he had been feeling so morose moments before.

Yen laughed and tugged one of his hands to the slight swell of her belly. “For the baby, babe. It is a boy, I think. Soon, we’ll have a family together. And you and me, we’ll always be together. Forever, West.”

Westel smiled, “For–” Yen dropped his hand and her bubbly smile fell away as well. Silently she backed away as a man even taller and stronger than Cal appeared out of the shadows of the woods. His armor was perfectly polished, his goatee trimmed in the latest style, and his hair pulled into a neat ponytail. Annexious Bloodfury drew Ashelyen into his arms and stooped down to kiss her. One large hand rested over her stomach. Yen looked to Westel and shook her head, almost sadly.

“It will be our family, West. Not yours.”

“You love me, Yen.” Westel insisted, feeling weak-kneed.

“Look at yourself, Westel.” She gestured to his tattered suit and messy hair. “How could I?” She lifted her gaze up to Annexious, who sneered and steered her away into the darkness.

Westel turned and stumbled over some tree roots. His chest felt tight and his head ached. He scrambled through the woods, his suit gaining rips and tears. At some point he lost his shoes and then his jacket. Off balance, Westel blundered through the woods until he came upon a great home. In the very front, beautiful, intricate stained glass windows reflected the fading light of the sun. Standing in the vast front entryway was a dark haired woman, her arms folded lightly. A few children of varying ages skirted around her and scampered inside. Her attention, however, was on Westel as he shuffled closer to the front of the home.

“My wanderer.” Astoreth said affectionately as Westel stood before her. The contrast in their appearance was almost comical. Westel’s clothes were torn and did not fit right in places, his hair had twigs and leaves in it and his face smudged with dirt. Astoreth, on the other hand, was dressed impeccably as if awaiting a dinner party, her straight black hair was smooth and silky, and her skin as flawless as always. She, however, did not seem to notice Westel’s state of dress as she raised up on her toes to peck him on the lips and drew him inside. Hand in his, Astoreth gently lead the ranger up the stairs and down a dark hall into their bedroom. She turned to smile at him, genuinely happy, as she collapsed onto the bed. Westel made his way to the other side and slipped beneath the covers to allow the warlock to fit herself snugly into his side. Her head rested against his chest and her fingers toyed idly with one of his earrings.

“I love you, West.” She tilted her head up to kiss his chin. “I always will. Forever.”

He sighed softly and bent his head to find her lips, but she had sat up. The bedroom door had opened, and in walked a tall paladin. The handsome, dark haired man beamed at his wife as she leaped from the bed and flung herself happily into his arms. Once more, Westel felt heavy and broken as he watched the couple laugh and kiss. Bareris held his wife to his chest, swearing he would not leave ever again, declaring his undying love. Astoreth returned the sentiment sincerely. Quietly, Westel rose from the bed.

“Thank you for keeping her company while I was away.” Bareris grinned, holding Astoreth to his side.

“Westel…” Astoreth looked up at him, still happy as could be. “I did love you.” She says, as if that was some kind of assurance.

“Yes, just not Forever.” West answered hoarsely.

———-

Westel’s covers were tangled and twisted in every direction when he woke, blinking and confused. His chest felt tight and his skin and hair were damp from sweat. He worked his way out of the grasp of those green silk sheets and wandered eventually to the kitchen sink. He silently replayed the events of his dream over and over as he splashed some cold water across his face.

“I don’t even know how to tie a cravat.” He concluded finally, scowling as he went to return to bed.

Entry #1

August 11

Age 11

Today is my birthday.

My litter sister, Melody, has declared today to be my birthday. Everyone else in the family has a birthday, she says, so why should I not have one? Three days ago she decided that today, Thursday, would be my official un-official birthday. She is five, but her tiny heart is in the right place I suppose. And I got a present out of it- this journal. To write all about how much I love my little sister, she told me. To be honest I think this ragged leather book was all she could afford with the spending money mother gave her when they went out shopping the other day. I rather like it, though. Mel also managed to sneak a couple left over pieces of cake from Caloneth’s birthday last week up into her room, along with a candle. Cal is my oldest brother, by the way. She told me Cal blew out a few candles on his cake, but she figured even one would grant me my birthday wish.

I wished Mel said I am not supposed to tell anyone what I wished for. I do not know if the journal counts, but I’ll be safe. I wonder if the wish only works on your real birthday. Probably.

My name is Westel, by the way. I probably should have mentioned that at the beginning. Mother says it is polite to introduce yourself, but many of the people I have introduced myself to I have either never seen again or they ignored my existence all together. I do not think formal introductions are all that important, but I do try to make mother happy. So I’ll properly introduce myself.

I am Westel Araseid Sorrelon, son of Caloneth Sorrelon I and Cersei Sorrelon. I am the third son of the Sorrelon family, a blessing supposedly. Children are not a common thing among our race, so I hear. My immediate family is uncommonly large, but has plenty of funds to support it and have left over for the luxuries of the manor I live in. My eldest brother is Caloneth Sorrelon II, after him is Vathal Sorrelon, then myself, and then my little sister Melody Sorrelon. Everyone in the family has light blond hair except me. I suppose I live up to the name “black sheep” with my strange hair color. I remember once my mother contemplated dying it so I would “actually look like a member of the family, even if I do not act like it”.

I would like to write a bit more, but we are being called for dinner and if I am late I will not eat tonight. Good night.