by Edreina on July 12th, 2013, 7:49 am
Winter 87, 512 AV
There comes a day in everyone's life where they must sit back and reflect, if even for a moment, upon the choices that they have thusfar in life. For some, there is a peace in knowing that all you have done is right, that the mistakes only made you who you are today. But, for others, there is this nagging feeling that you have done nothing with your life yet.
And that is the feeling plaguing me.
Ever since the Goldengrotto became mine, I've done naught but cruise the Suvan in search of adventure. So far I have found only murky caves and too many interesting chunks of coral to keep with me. No fellow of the sea befriends me on these long days alone; I often feel the clawing hunger for company gnawing at my heart. Each day seems longer than the last, and I feel myself slowly becoming lost at sea. I'm afraid that if I do not return to civilization soon, my own voice will be a stranger's.
And this is why I have finally set course for the Flotilla. Despite how the interlocking web of boats feels like a dead-end cave to me, I must return. If only to visit once more with my nearly-forgotten kith and kin, I must return. The land-legs I encountered in Syliras have no reckoning of the power of the Suvan's call and, though they all interested me for a time, their allure was quickly dashed away by the tide.
And now, even the waves themselves seem to have lost their splendor in my eyes. For what is beauty if there is no one around to share it with? No additional eyes to view each marvel from another angle and make it all the more wonderous? Each cloud is but a cloud without someone to remind me of how that cloud could also be an Orca or a harpoon.
All I see is blue, blue, blue and I fear that it is slowly driving me mad.
I miss the dark brown of foot prints as they cross from deck to deck; the vibrant colors of the Flotilla's market are but a distant and faded memory; my heart yearns for the red and yellow warmth of the bonfires that turned night into day as Svefra old and new gathered about to hear tellings; the aurora of a Fratavan tune has been swept away by the constant static of whistling wind.
Again I find myself rambling across the paper, using blasted Common in places where a Svefra could use a gesture or a simple facial expression. I must return to the Anchorage if only to be caressed once more by my native tongue.
Perhaps, this time I will even find an adventure.
