Within the swirling Mist (IC) > Biographies

Of the Blood

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tears_of_elysium:
I was always different. Children can tell, they can always see difference, because nobody's taught them to pretend not to yet. Children can be cruel.

A small boy huddled up against a low stone wall, on the outskirts of one of the many nameless villages and hamlets that dot the countryside throughout the lands of the Core. A look of fear filled his panicked eyes, his face an expression of both pain and longing as a group of slightly older children taunted him with sticks and thrown rocks. But it was their words that hurt him the most.

It's my mother I feel for the most, thinking back now. It can't have been any easy choice to make, keeping me.

"Gypsy! Gypsy!" One girl chanted the word over and over, with the kind of frantic hysteria that accompanied doing something wrong that you knew you wouldn't get punished for. Another taunted him.

"My Da said your mothers a whore, half-blood."

I used to hate her, when I was young. Eventually, when you get told something often enough, you grow to believe it. I used to wish I was like the others.

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