<<Steel Wolf!>>
Saachi liked violence. It wasn’t something she was proud of; rather, she was quite horrified by it. She kept this truth, this enjoyment , this craving of battle, as closely guarded a secret as she possibly could because every time she was forced to acknowledge it she’d try to talk herself down. “It’s not as bad as you thinkâ€, she’d tell herself and when, after a particularly impressive bout of brutality it was not possible to deny how bad it was she’d think, “…I can fix this… I can fix this… Next time doesn’t have to be this way.â€
               But like the change of the seasons, her regiment of moods and responses were almost like clockwork. The horror at what she had done, the denial, the guilt, the peace with herself, followed by more brutality always found itself back in her life.
               She wanted to be a great hero, a great healer and a great person. She honestly set out to do the best things she possibly could for a world too accustomed to people not caring about it. She listened to rumors of where trouble might be starting and she tried to be there to stop it. When people told her their plights, no matter how small (for what seemed small to her might well be very large to someone else) she listened and tried to help. She studied conjury, threw herself headlong into it, so that she could learn a more peaceful and kind way of existing and heal the wounds, at least physical, of as many people as possible. She became a paladin so that she might use her skill with a sword (and to some degree her shield) as a means to protect others.
               But that was just it. She was much better with the sword than she was the shield and at certain moments, with certain terrible people, she was far better at meting out justice with bloodshed than stopping the bloodshed with her magic. But her blood pulsed and her heart raced and she felt like she became a wind, a cyclone, of power and like she was wrapped up in something stronger and more incredible than herself when she was engaged in battle. She stopped feeling awkward and childish. She didn’t over-analyze things, she just intuitively knew how to move and what to do. It felt as though so invisible guide moved her along the battlefield and helped her win and it was unbelievably exhilarating. To give up fighting at all felt like it was giving up her invisible friend… and, as a rule, she looked down on giving up of any sort.
               Still,it was embarrassing and made for uncomfortable conversation if she said, “Hi! Sometimes I feel most alive when I am killing bad people! Do you want to talk about fun books we read?â€
               Today was a day where she was feeling guilty. Her stomach was tying itself in knots and she was knocking back hard alcohol to try to loosen it up. She was on her fourth drink of a particularly hard, and not particularly pleasant tasting drink that the bartender at the Drowning Wench said people had taken to calling “Drake’s bloodâ€, when the inn keeper remembered to hand her a letter. It took awhile for her to 1) realize why he was handing her a letter at all and 2) for eyes to adjust enough to read it.
               “Someone elsh…â€, she said, narrowing her eyes and bringing the letter close to her face and then pulling it far back away from her face to see which of those angles made it easier to read, “Feels….lik shit today……too. Or whatever day thish was. Gimme a… a… gimme a…. gimme a pen and some paper, pleash.â€
               The innkeep considered not giving her the requested items, but then grinned and gave them anyway. He’d watch her and if she wrote anything too embarrassing he’d dutifully take the items back away from her and throw the letter away.
               She hiccupped and began to write, her letters leaning one direction and then the other in varying sizes:
       Â
 She paused to consider the sentence and found it very hard to read. It bolstered her spirits, though, to realize that even drunk she had managed to write down a complicated sentence. If she could do that she could do anything! It did not bother her that the sentence had taken her a full minute to write down.
The innkeeper took the pen and paper and told her to go to bed and try again in the morning. He was, truth be told, impressed that she had done as well as she had, but watching her add “eâ€s to the end of words as though she were seasoning her letter had grown far too frustrating for him. He assumed she’d thank him for keeping her from sending that letter to someone else.
The next afternoon she handed him anew letter to give to her original letter writer,
     She handed the new letter to the inn keeper and went about the rest of her day in a strangely content and introspective manner. He dutifully took the letter, folded it up, put it in a nice envelope and sealed it for her, awaiting Steel Wolf's arrival. The task took him some time though as many customers flooded in requesting a room on account of a local event and when he got back to the task at hand, he absently included her original letter, full of needless 'e's at the ends of words, in the envelope as well.
((Do you mind if I copy your letter and put it on the Driftwood forums where so many of the other letters are? It's OK if you'd prefer I don't!))
Saachi liked violence. It wasn’t something she was proud of; rather, she was quite horrified by it. She kept this truth, this enjoyment , this craving of battle, as closely guarded a secret as she possibly could because every time she was forced to acknowledge it she’d try to talk herself down. “It’s not as bad as you thinkâ€, she’d tell herself and when, after a particularly impressive bout of brutality it was not possible to deny how bad it was she’d think, “…I can fix this… I can fix this… Next time doesn’t have to be this way.â€
               But like the change of the seasons, her regiment of moods and responses were almost like clockwork. The horror at what she had done, the denial, the guilt, the peace with herself, followed by more brutality always found itself back in her life.
               She wanted to be a great hero, a great healer and a great person. She honestly set out to do the best things she possibly could for a world too accustomed to people not caring about it. She listened to rumors of where trouble might be starting and she tried to be there to stop it. When people told her their plights, no matter how small (for what seemed small to her might well be very large to someone else) she listened and tried to help. She studied conjury, threw herself headlong into it, so that she could learn a more peaceful and kind way of existing and heal the wounds, at least physical, of as many people as possible. She became a paladin so that she might use her skill with a sword (and to some degree her shield) as a means to protect others.
               But that was just it. She was much better with the sword than she was the shield and at certain moments, with certain terrible people, she was far better at meting out justice with bloodshed than stopping the bloodshed with her magic. But her blood pulsed and her heart raced and she felt like she became a wind, a cyclone, of power and like she was wrapped up in something stronger and more incredible than herself when she was engaged in battle. She stopped feeling awkward and childish. She didn’t over-analyze things, she just intuitively knew how to move and what to do. It felt as though so invisible guide moved her along the battlefield and helped her win and it was unbelievably exhilarating. To give up fighting at all felt like it was giving up her invisible friend… and, as a rule, she looked down on giving up of any sort.
               Still,it was embarrassing and made for uncomfortable conversation if she said, “Hi! Sometimes I feel most alive when I am killing bad people! Do you want to talk about fun books we read?â€
               Today was a day where she was feeling guilty. Her stomach was tying itself in knots and she was knocking back hard alcohol to try to loosen it up. She was on her fourth drink of a particularly hard, and not particularly pleasant tasting drink that the bartender at the Drowning Wench said people had taken to calling “Drake’s bloodâ€, when the inn keeper remembered to hand her a letter. It took awhile for her to 1) realize why he was handing her a letter at all and 2) for eyes to adjust enough to read it.
               “Someone elsh…â€, she said, narrowing her eyes and bringing the letter close to her face and then pulling it far back away from her face to see which of those angles made it easier to read, “Feels….lik shit today……too. Or whatever day thish was. Gimme a… a… gimme a…. gimme a pen and some paper, pleash.â€
               The innkeep considered not giving her the requested items, but then grinned and gave them anyway. He’d watch her and if she wrote anything too embarrassing he’d dutifully take the items back away from her and throw the letter away.
               She hiccupped and began to write, her letters leaning one direction and then the other in varying sizes:
       Â
 She paused to consider the sentence and found it very hard to read. It bolstered her spirits, though, to realize that even drunk she had managed to write down a complicated sentence. If she could do that she could do anything! It did not bother her that the sentence had taken her a full minute to write down.
The innkeeper took the pen and paper and told her to go to bed and try again in the morning. He was, truth be told, impressed that she had done as well as she had, but watching her add “eâ€s to the end of words as though she were seasoning her letter had grown far too frustrating for him. He assumed she’d thank him for keeping her from sending that letter to someone else.
The next afternoon she handed him anew letter to give to her original letter writer,
     She handed the new letter to the inn keeper and went about the rest of her day in a strangely content and introspective manner. He dutifully took the letter, folded it up, put it in a nice envelope and sealed it for her, awaiting Steel Wolf's arrival. The task took him some time though as many customers flooded in requesting a room on account of a local event and when he got back to the task at hand, he absently included her original letter, full of needless 'e's at the ends of words, in the envelope as well.
((Do you mind if I copy your letter and put it on the Driftwood forums where so many of the other letters are? It's OK if you'd prefer I don't!))
