I’ve wanted to post in this thread for quite some time, but I really dislike talking about myself. I always hesitate, because my story seems so … generic? I’ll tell it anyways though, as proof that I - like so many others - have found a home in the Mountaineers.
I grew up too fast. One of the many impacts of having too many siblings is that my parents never had a lot of time for any one individual child. It soon became the norm that unless you did anything outstanding - good or bad - or unless you were hurt or what have you, my parents generally left us to our own devices and a chore chart. I love my family, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?
I’ve never truly felt at home in my parents house. I was always trying to be somebody else for someone else, or wishing I was somewhere else. In a loud and active house, I was quiet and still. In a family that only understood what they could physically interact with, I wanted to explore not just our world, but all the other worlds that could be out there whether in reality or literature. As time went on, I learned that it was easier to be quiet with so many others being loud to gain attention. I like to think this is where I get my love of stories from - all this time spent wishing I could be out adventuring in the world. In no time at all, I grew a love for books, and so did my parents, because it kept me quiet and occupied.
Soon the quiet was no longer my friend, because I was always quiet. Too quiet to make friends. Quiet about being bullied at school. Quiet about things a parent should know about their child. So I used books to escape, at home and at school. That is who I became known as: the quiet girl with a book who won’t tell the adults.
Some really awful things happened in my childhood, that I’m pretty sure my family still doesn’t know about. I didn’t really realize a lot of it was wrong until I started listening to others tell me of their normal sounding childhoods. Now it’s too late. I was too quiet for too long, and I bear my pain in silence still. How do you tell people about these terrible things that happened to you, but at the time you were a quiet kid who didn’t know how to tell anyone that anything was wrong?
So I don’t tell people. I stay quiet. Even if I did, they could listen, but I doubt they would understand.
Probably because of the burden I was carrying by myself, I became aware of when others were struggling with their own. I went out of my way to help share the weight with anyone else. I was still quiet, but I became good at listening. I discovered that stories didn’t just reside in books, but that the world was full of them too. Each person had their own collection of stories just waiting to be told. I also learned that, all too often, people are so engrossed in their own story that they overlook the stories of those around them. So I began to seek out the stories of those constantly overlooked, because they needed to be told, and quite often turned out to be worth the extra trouble of finding them.
After all the bad I’ve seen and experienced in life, I have come to believe that everything happens for a reason, there are no coincidences. Even if the only reason something terrible happens is for you to learn something. This is where magiq comes in. After reading extraordinary tales of heroes venturing far and wide, and exploring all sorts of different and fantastic worlds - I desperately wanted magic to be real. I believe it is … just maybe not in the way witches and warlocks wandering around all willy nilly. I have learned through life that magic is all around us, in people, in places, in events, but most importantly in stories. It connects us all, it causes all these so called coincidences and puts us exactly where we need to be. I’ve always believed in magic, but I didn’t always know it was real.
There was a park I used to frequent as a child. I enjoyed going there just to swing. It always felt like I could finally breathe when I left the house. I would swing for hours on end, and imagine myself in my own adventures or pretending I could fly away from everything. One day I went to that park, and I noticed a book left on the bench. I hesitated because I was uncertain, afraid. Finally, I worked up the courage to go pick it up, and I read the word Magiq on the front. I debated taking it home to read it, but I didn’t because if it were me and I realized I had forgotten my book only to find someone else had taken it … I would be heart broken. I was fascinated by this book, though, so I repeated the title to myself until I had it committed to memory. Then I placed the book under the bench, so that if it rained it wouldn’t get soaked, and returned to swinging. I went back to the park after supper that evening, and the book was gone, and I felt relieved it had found a home, but also a little sad that I didn’t know the contents it held. It haunted me as a massive what if? Years went by, lots of change had taken place, and I had learned of the magic of storytelling. One particularly bad day, I was walking home and chose to stop at a park I often passed. I chose to go on the swing, something that felt like a luxury I couldn’t normally afford. The sky soon turned to ink, and was threatening to open up so I was going to head home despite my love of storms. As I went to leave, I noticed a book had been left on a picnic bench. As I approached, I couldn’t believe my eyes. After all this time, there was the book I had seen all those years ago. This time, I did not leave things to chance. I took it home with me, and I read the Guide.
At long last, I had found proof of magiq in the world. I was given Ebenguard, which confused me. Shouldn’t a book lover be Thornmouth? How could I be the great protector of balance? I was certainly not one of the heroes in my books. As I read the description of my guild, though, I realized it was exactly who I was. I protect the balance by giving a voice to the forgotten. By seeking out these stories, by offering a listening ear to a weary soul, that’s how I make a difference. It’s also why I dislike telling my own story, because I am okay with it not being known. There are other stories out there that need to be told far more than mine.
Not long after finding the Guide, I found the Mountaineers, and at long last I finally found a group of people with whom I felt at home. I didn’t tell you all this story, but I felt understood. It’s incredible, and empowering, and I will forever be grateful. Everything happens for a reason, and I was meant to find the Guide, I was meant to find magiq in the mundane.
Morgan le Fay was far more interesting than Guinevere if you know what I mean?
p on my life. I became, misguided, new feelings blurred what I needed to do. I was my own worst enemy. Grades dropped and I began to neglect my studies in favor of rebelling against authority. I was miserable. I began harming myself, trying to understand why I was destroying my life. I wanted it to end. I spent five years whining over “how bad my life was”. I was a jerk. Then, as it goes, I had an epiphany. A sudden realization that I’d stop feeling bad for myself if I simply get the work done. The fog cleared. I started enjoying life again.
Santa, I still couldn’t help believing in them. I was stuck. Living between what I knew, and what I felt. The magic was there, I could sense it, but it wasn’t something I could touch.