A room filled with empty shelves, about the size of the average classroom. To the left, the right, and the back as well, an empty museum exhibit would not be an exaggeration. Within the center of that odd room, was a solid mahogany desk, the intricate carvings showing familiar yet unrecognizable faces. A small girl with a noble aura, her face framed with long twintails. A gruff man, whose appearance may inspire fright, but there is kindness within his eyes. A boy with a melancholy expression, his face almost hidden by his curly mane. The reality of them was astonishing, life-like to the point where you might think they would blink. The struggles they faced… the adventures they’ve seen! You may not know them at the moment, but you will in due time.
Ah! Sorry, I get sidetracked sometimes, though every good story should have one or two good tangents. But I digress, lest my manners vanish forevermore. Above the desk with stories aplenty, a form of human likeness leans forwards. Their hands are unblemished, lacking the scars of life commonly found on them. Pale skin, yet it pales in comparison to our lovely Fina. Elbows pressed against the desk, any skin further beyond hidden by the rolled up sleeves of a grey robe that hid most distinguishing features from the neck down. Continuing further up the body, you find a face without blemishes, surrounded by choppy hair that grasped at the shoulders. The pupils lacked color, a snow white residing within. Though, with the position of the brows and the half closed eyes, a permenant aura of drowsiness exuded from that being. Overall, the features lacked evidence in either direction, neither definite. You might be asking who that figure is, which I will answer promptly. That character is me, or the form I shall show you.
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A teller of tales is what I am. A bard, a writer, a painter, I’ve done it all! The art of storytelling is vast, yet ever fickle, only certain mediums able to handle the depth of it all. Thus far, I have found that books are the most appropriate, as they can last far longer than the author, and be shared endlessly. Oh, sorry, I have done it again! Yet… oh bother, where should I start…
Yes, I know, I can feel your annoyance from a world away. Give me a moment and I will introduce myself properly. My name… well I guess it might be irrelevant. Your mind would be unable to understand it, let alone could your tongue pronounce it. Nevertheless, it is disadvantageous to go without something to call me by… Alright, from henceforth you may refer to me as The Scribe. Quite fitting, if I say so myself.
Now, I will be the teller of what follows in this tale of twisted fates. Whether it be graphic, tragic, or maybe a mixture of both with a tinge of comedy, I will relay it all to you. Though personally, I prefer a story that compiles those natures, I know some may not feel the same. So be warned, this is not some dreary happy-go-lucky tale that ends happily ever after. And please, even if you dislike the outcome, do not curse my name, for it is not a soul but you who chose to listen.
A clock ticks ever forwards as the author’s hand never stops. Isn’t it peculiar that a writer never drops the pen, even after death? No? Well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand at this moment. Speaking of that clock, it seems like the time has come. Do not worry, we will meet again, whether it be in life or death.