The story of Artus Arzaria: complete revision

[artus]

The last blood of the horsehead clan left alone in the wilds.
His heart is numming cold even when the weather is mild.
Tribesleader son he once was didn't save his people anyway.
His father's sacrifice didn't make him feel good any day.
The plant consumed people yet does nothing to his will.
Revenge he once sought but now his world is still.
For a journey to shatter turns a walk of peace.
His only purpose is for this infestation to cease.
Driven by dim light, he carved names of hatred and love all over lost lands.
The wrong and the right he does accept, for he will have to part with his bloody hands.

Wandering ranger Artus Arzaria, Born 1197
Last Armaz of clearwater Valley, The pride of Untaise, the bloody hands of broken kindness
Written 15/12/1215

By the time I read this, I may have been 70, 80, or it may have been someone reading it after I pass. On this tree, beneath this bark lies a tale untold to anyone, a tale for the lonely and isolated to remember.

Little did I know about my mother aside from that she was dead giving birth to me. Little did I hear about undying before I faced it head first myself. Little did I care about resen until it robbed my people until the last blood dropped...

It was a cold winter night when a lone monk stumbled upon a boy's body, then 5 years of age, a tribesleader's son. He fell off a cliff while playing on the tree next to it. The light and undying blood brings him back to life. A leader he was meant to be, the pride of the small tribe...all but a child with severe brain damage. Once wild and vibrant, he had to relearn all that made him human. It took him years to be fully normal again. Years he should have had a chance to learn, to prepare as caretaker of his people were spent bedridden, gazed at in shame. The wasted fate of a leader's son...me, Artus Arzaria.

It was a shameful state of my life. By the time half of children my age already got steady with their weapons and skills. People still had to make sense of what I tried to gibber. They laughed. They thought I couldn't make it as anyone important among them, yet they loved me nonetheless as the handycapped of the group, up until I was 10. By then, no trace of other brain defect was left, aside from occasional instability over sensitivity and a sleep disorder, something that keeps ending the battle too soon for me.

The real hell at 14, the real scent of resen, silently creeping and robbing 6 life from my people. All but one of them left. The captive was injured but died a short while later, but not before launching the spore, vomit in disguise toward my group healers. News came before that and we should have listened. But it was far too late by then. My healers turned. My people turned. The remaining fought for survival and only my father and me stood til the end. Me, a disgraced, missed nearly every arrow shot. Everyone died, and it was only my father's body, his daggers and the last snapped bow string that bought me time to flee. With a severe stab wound to the left side of his chest, He wouldn't survive. He didn't want me to see him die.

A traumatized lone wanderer wandered far from people, from civilization, aimless and empty. It was 4 years after that I heard about Tse Gaiyan Lit Nuam, a group originally formed by my own people that spread their dedication to protect people from Resen in Arad. It was then that I decided to engage again, to realize how broken I'd been throughout those years with absent connection. Said hello to the real world again in the most rough way possible, Wish I didn't have to.

I came here to the quarantine to seek vengeance for the lost Armaz, the justification of forgotten untaise of clearwater. But all I saw was the remnants of carnage, of people crying for their unknown past, living in fragmented memory. My vengeance turned to compassion. If only anything could protect those remain from them and help those who already turned, I'd go for it.
I have my team as my second family now. My life is content though unhappy, hands bloody, heart crushed, name carved on many people's hated list. Even my side time spent as a healer can never pay for the crimes I caused. It's the life uncalled for, devoid of peace and serenity, the kind of story never to be told to anyone but my bitter self.

This blood drenched knife I carve on this tree, The soul survivor of Clearwater Valley Untaise, the last Armaz, will die under this ground, carrying the last drop of pure fasa blood of his people with him. May friends be loved. May foes be forgiven. Underneath is ground lies only my pleading for forgiveness, for every wound I carved, every arrow I fired, every life I end. They are loved and forgiven, but not forgotten, by me. My story begins and ends here.

[Alexander]

A delightful read. Thank you for sharing your character's story.

[artus]

Rewrote the entire thing if anyone's interested. It's quite different from the original, with unnecessary ooc portion removed.