A Servants Tale
For many years, Jareesh had worked as a servant. Sometimes it was for a rich Spicer from Lys, sometimes one of the Old Blood in Volantis, and sometimes a rich craftsman from Myr. From a young age he had learned the art to be only ever seen or heard when his masters had need of him, and keeping his lips tight about anything he saw or did in his duties. Dimly he recalled how proud his teachers were of his skill and subservience, and how high a price they fetched for him when he was sold for the first time. Many times did he change owners in the coming decades, being traded away as a favor to an ally or a bribe to an enemy, auctioned off when his old master fell on hard times, or bought up by one who would pay his weight in gold for him.
In all these years, he stayed quiet and out of sight, but ever did he listen and watch in turn. He learned the tongues they spoke, the subtle cues they gave one another, the rivalries between them, and what secrets they feared to become known. Ever was he the most dutiful, the most trusted, and the most prized among his fellow slaves, for it meant that never would he have to feel the kiss of the lash or be subject to the petty cruelties others had to endure. But he listened and he watched. And only when the day came that a man with a golden badge of a book and a sword asked him about his former master, it was his turn to speak.
On the very same day, he packed his meager possessions and took a ship towards the south, not caring one way or another what would become of those he spent his life to please. Yet the voyage that had been his dream for many years was not how he imagined it. As a boy counting only six namedays, he was taken from the beaches of Naath, and as an aged man more than ten times as old, he had returned. The blurry memories of a distant childhood promised a return to home all but forgotten, but what he found was not that.
No one spoke ill of him when he arrived, and for all the changes griping the small settlements of the island, he was greeted with open arms as a lost son of Naath. For a while he traveled from village to village, trying to find what was wrong with the places he had already visited, but try as he might, he could not shake that feeling of wrongness. It was only when he silently watched a group of children playing a strange game he had never seen before that he understood. It was not Naath that did not fit. It was him. The years had made him into a stranger to his own people.
This truth pained him, but truth it was, and so he took the very next ship leaving port, not caring one way or another where it would bring him. Still, his surprise was rather great when the small galleon's destination turned out to be cursed
Gogossos of all places. Jareesh had half a mind to sit himself into a sturdy barrel and jump overboard, taking his chances with the currents instead of calmly being sailed to his doom, but the stories the sailors told managed to calm him somewhat. The Dragon King himself had apparently been there, and now some of his most trusted mages and a large number of Volantene soldiers were refurbishing the ruins on his orders.
True, it was not a destination he would have picked willingly, nor was it one that sounded all that good for an old manservant like him, but where else did he have to go? Maybe it was worth to see if the fickle hand of fate had picked this ship for him.
AN: Something entirely different from what I've set out to write, but we will get there sooner or later in Jareesh's footsteps.