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Stories of an Old Soldier


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I've got a few stories planned about Koen Stone, my character (mainly so I can fill in that damn Stories tab on the wiki page, partly out of boredom), and rather than clogging up the place with a different thread for each one, I figured I'd just put them in the same thread with different posts. I haven't done any kind of creative writing for... over a decade now, I think, and even back then I failed the subject, so bear with me. Feel free to respond; this is just something to kill time with, but I appreciate feedback none the less.


Some of these stories will be sad in nature, some will be violent and some will depict the darker sides of war. I'll try to drop in a few positive ones, but I doubt I'll be writing these on a common basis or with any kind of structure, so no promises.

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His Daughter's Nameday


Inside the Coffer & Coffin, Roger idly washes mugs and pitchers, occasionally giving a curious glance to the lone patron, a man whose age shows as clearly as his companion, a large greatsword leaned against the bar. A glass of highland whiskey seems to be the target of his gaze, but the slight frown and tired eyes decorating his creased face show otherwise. After a long sigh, he empties the glass down his throat and slides it to join the others, along with more than enough gil to pay. The stool groans in relief as the man stands and forces a smile, an act his eyes betray, “Later, lad. Thanks for the drinks.” He earns a nod in response, but he doesn’t seem to notice it.


Not long after, he stumbles through his apartment door, finally some life in his eyes as he takes in the room. Simple in design, but with more luxuries than the man is used to. A soft bed, a hot bath, and a sturdy desk. He lays his weapon next to the bed, treating it almost as if it was built for decoration, not battle. After taking off his shoes and placing them neatly next to the desk, he sits at the nearby chair, paper and quill set up already. As he relaxes, his lips curve in to a warm smile and he starts to write.





Happy name day, kid. I hope you’re well. You’re coming up on thirty now, unless my memory’s worse than I think. When I was your age, the only thing that kept me away from the battlefield was that smile of yours. That and your mother’s cooking! How is she, I wonder? Things between us- well, that’s not what I’m writing to you about.


As old as I am, I think I’ve managed to adjust. It’s just me now, but I get by. I walk a lot, to make sure my bones don’t get weak, and everywhere I look I’m reminded of when life was better. I see people enjoying life in the city, and I wonder if you’re still the happy girl that you used to be. I see young couples, and wish everything had worked out all those years ago. When I look at myself, I see an old man who’s made a lot of mistakes. I’m glad you’re not one of them.


Sometimes I dream of what it’d be like in an ideal world. I’d train you and your big brother to fight, and then you’d make me proud when you finally beat me like I did my parents. Eventually you’d get married to whoever was tough enough to survive your mother, and you'd have kids of your own. They’d be your reason for fighting, like you were to me. These dreams are comforting, but they’re not enough. We’ll meet up again soon though, don’t worry.


Until then, look after yourself lass,


Your father.



He takes a deep breath, his shoulders shaking as he slowly exhales. Half a bell goes by before he moves again, putting the quill back in the ink and picking the parchment up. He presses it gently to his lips before opening the top drawer in his desk and carefully laying the letter on the top of a thick pile of similar messages, letting his eyes linger on the pile for a long moment. His right hand pushes it shut, then joins the left in supporting his head as he leans forward on the desk; eyes closed and chest moving with each shaky breath as he silently weeps.

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