In a sort of ARG I'm playing (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEqJeua-_1M if you're interested in what it's about), and decided that while not amazing, it's not bad, either. Writing it also helped me to feel better, so maybe I'm not entirely a non-creative after all. Huh.
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I was never a normal child. That much can be said. While others were playing during recess and lunch, I would sit indoors and read. This prompted a certain amount of teasing which, I suppose, was inevitable, but I persevered and, I believe, grew the stronger for it.
I always had a goal in life, and followed it, determined and sure that I would face down life's adversities and triumph, in my own quiet way. While early life had given me my love of books, and the seeds of my burgeoning intellect, it was later that I started to interact with others more, and learned methods of dealing with conflict beyond running away or hiding within myself.
I progressed through college with little struggle, and became a librarian easily enough; my qualifications, dedication, ability to handle people with finesse, and love of books all spoke well enough for me. As time passed, however, friends drifted away, either through petty conflicts or because I no longer had anything they wanted. I began to seek out seclusion and peace more and more often.
Eventually I applied for and received the position of curator of a somewhat extensive collection of books, some rare, others merely beloved by my employer. I was allowed to read any and all I chose, and there, amongst the quiet, I found inner solitude for a while.
I don't remember much about the event itself. I suppose none of us really do. I remember, hazily, watching, horrified, as the walls shook and books fell all around me. I remember cracks in the earth and my beloved wards disappearing - downwards or, in some cases, simply vanishing in puffs of ash. I remember wandering, broken, amidst the desolation and wondering if I would ever see civilization again.
Perhaps this was what I needed. A call to my senses. All I know is that after wandering for some time, I found a group of refugees. While I tried to help them, explaining ways to refine their drinking water and make their shelters more secure and habitable, more often than not they would not listen, demanding querrulously that I provide them with trinkets they missed and supposed they still needed, or gathering the folds of their misery about them like a blanket, deaf to their own needs and the ones of those around them. Having restocked my supplies, and done the best I could for them, I moved on.
Traveling like this, some weeks later I found a shanty town of those with vessels, some honest traders, some people fallen on hard times and turn to piracy, and some cutthroat theives. The first sailor to lay a hand on me got a smart boot to the groin. The next, a firm thwack around the head with a steel-shafted umbrella I had found and correctly reasoned would come in use. After that, I was granted the modicum of respect I required.
I worked, after that. Hard labor, my hands once soft from indoor work becoming tough and strong. Where at first I had driven people away in my desire to be seen as someone of whom others could not take advantage, I eventually realized that cutting myself off from all contact could not be good. And so, I helped people. Fellow sailors mostly, just small pieces of advice or a friendly ear, but the littlest things can mean the most.
When I had earned my way to owning my own ship, I was pleasantly surprised to find a caedre of willing crew who would be happy to serve a captain who would treat them fairly, though by no means undemandingly. And so, I set to work.
Now I traverse the seas, trying to help where I can, and treat others with fairness at the very least. This apocalypse, this Penumbra may shaken apart our lives and set everything upon its head, but I believe that in some ways, it has done us good. It has shaken us out of our complacency and taught us to work together. And that is why I am proud to host the lending library for this, my 17 Hills tribe.
