Diary of a Half Human: 7th Day of Midsummer, 1187

reshana-tinchild-1Mother said it would be wise for me to write down my thoughts. The words are to be written exactly how they are in my head now, so that I may look upon them as I grow and learn how dreadful I once was. She says I have a fiery spirit and an escape like this would help to extinguish the flames. It is hard not to agree with her, but dreadful? That is entirely a matter of perspective.

I almost blinded a boy today, with a pebble from the river. Cannot imagine his perspective will sway in my favour, however. The sun caught me at a disadvantage, which made me miss his eye by a fraction. He’ll have a lovely nick on the side of his head to remember the occasion and that thought makes me smile. He pushed me too far this time but I think the unbearable heat has contributed somewhat. Bochy is his name and he never wonders anywhere without his three younger brothers. He takes great care of them but has little care for anyone else in the settlement, especially a half-blood like me. “Wide Eyes” the zealots call me but not for the reasons you might think. I barely look any different from them. Do they fail to see that my ears are a little pointier than theirs? Or would that be too obvious an insult from those unbathed creatives. 

I’m not naive, I know they torment me more for coin in my family’s coffers. Just because we are more fortunate than most, does not make me any different them. Or perhaps it should, perhaps they should hate me? Nonetheless, I shan’t wright about this gloom any further, my head aches from it.

I suppose I should introduce myself to you? Is that how this practice works? It might help you to understand me a little more. Then I must give you a name. Should I be naming you I wonder? Perhaps that it is not the best of ideas. It is one thing to confide in a book of empty pages and another to make one appear more, civilised. I will decide in the morning, it will give me time to think of a good title should I be that way inclined. Speaking of which, where are my manners? My name is Reshana Tinchild and I live on a small patch of earth called Yetna Falls. It is a town perched on a coast of ash coloured sands and a canvas of ancient red wooded pines. The mighty Yetna river spans for weeks until it reaches its end here at the falls. Everything inland eventually finds its way to the sea and it is truly a sight to behold. My home rests right on the edge of the cliff and offers quite the view from my bedchamber. I look out upon the vast waters as this is written, the sun beats hard on us this summer and I embrace it arms open mostly. It’s warmer than past years but it still feels good on the bones. 

Mother gave birth to me on a bright day like this, twelve years ago next week. She is unaware I know. Thinks I have lost count of the days but I know full well. It is a key requirement for a diary after all is it not? One hopes she will gift me the books I requested. Body Beyond Steel, a comprehensive study of unarmed combat from the anchorites of the winter provinces and a copy of Tyrannical Botany by Lady Jayne Borrers. Those are what I desire the most. An odd combination I realise but such are my interests. Though the practice of putting my own thoughts to paper is not beyond me, I would rather read about the minds of others any day. Great literature is few and far between out this far west, and I only know of these books through voices of travelling merchants and Lord Tene’s scribe. I consider it a treasured gift that I was schooled at home and if there is any given thing, I take for granted, my education is not it. It was mother who is mostly responsible for my undying tolerance for knowledge, barring the odd mentor here and there. Between them, they taught me to read, write and question just about everything.

I do try my very best not to upset mother, she works so tirelessly in the running of the Crystal Caravan Company. That’s what I call the family business, consequently for the decades of beautiful wares we’ve shipped for the glassblowers. Our wagons are built with an original spring design that absorbs more roughness of the cobble and dirt, thus allowing for an increased average speed and cargo capacity. We also use only the best quality sawdust and hay to hug the fragile cargo onboard. It guarantees their goods will reach inland swiftly and securely. That is the melody we sing to them at least, but it is mostly true, especially if our vast patronage has anything to say about it. Traders will always consider us first and foremost where speed and precision is of the utmost importance. An all-encompassing arrangement, just the horseflesh which gain no real profit. Though we do try our very best tending to their needs. The company’s real name of course is Tinchild Haulers named after my Grandfather Ser Avery Tinchild. I think mine is better but this is the official title. He built our family business from nothing but what little he had as a young travelling field worker, or so mother tells me. Came to this place when it was barely chartered on the map, finding his feet as a blacksmith’s apprentice. Always building and always tinkering until the day he parted from the world, apparently. If it was not for the fair-minded nobility of this community, he made his home, a poor man with radical ideas would never have achieved anything above his precedence. For his ingenuity and service to the Falls, he was granted a knighthood by the Lordship and for that we are fortunate indeed. It is a rare thing for such a title to be bestowed upon a being who has never witnessed nor fought heroically on a battlefield. He earned his, for his mind and ability to turn a steady significant profit and frankly expanding the constitution of local commerce. I just wish I had gotten the chance to meet the old fellow. 

That being said, I always speak more highly of him than my own absent snake of a father. Though I have never met him either. But it is only proper I mention the man, he did bring me into this world too it pains me to say. My distaste for father began when I first enquired after him. It’s odd but my first experience of a father figure was seeing a child struck by a man in the roadway heading to prayer. Unremorseful, the man did not bat an eye to the grief he had caused this child yet appeared to see it more as a fulfilment of duty. The child was scolded for their mischief, but not by their mother. 

To this day my mother has never hurt me, at least not physically. I tell myself she would not ever keep secrets from me even if I am too young to understand the trials of parenthood. However, I fear there are other contributing factors to her methods of upbringing. I am born out of wedlock; it is no mystery. If it wasn’t for my family’s long standing in this community, I am positive the circumstances would be more trying. For mother especially. And as for that dirty charlatan of an elf I refer to as father, he has ceased to exist my whole life. I know almost nothing of father, part from the few belongings he left behind and the even few details mother wishes to share about him. Everything is locked away in the cellar and mother holds the key. I do not know why she doesn’t simply give them away. Will she eventually pass them down to me? Or perhaps part of his charm leaves a mark on her still. 

Absent husbands should be lost at sea or fallen in a skirmish, not disappear forever like a fiend in the night. I hope he is dead, not to ease the pain with some semblance of closure but because he doesn’t deserve to come back to what he abandoned. Enough of this colourless drivel, I won’t let the thought of him upset me.

I believe these words will suffice for one day. Think I’ll enjoy this writing babble after all, whether or not I’m going about it the right way. It has been quite a remedial experience telling you of bliss and woefulness. 

Perhaps I will share it tonight with the friendly voice in my dreams.