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9.30 PM
I looked through the rare papers I always used to carry with me. In this town you never know where you will wake up next, or wake up at all.
Different from my tribe's stories I had some sort of memories of some ancient time, or even different world.
Maybe not my memories at all, but they were too alive and I wrote them down.
Like witnesses of something that never should be forgotten, or something that is about to come.
Small letters on the dirty paper, those were my most precious belongings. Even my axe wasn't that important.
In those stories I knew people I never met in my real life. I knew them too good, and it disturbed me a little, but even more it made me feel at home, in this world where there was no home for me, even in such a short time, during my imagination sessions.
City smells like death itself, and I'm trying to get the last glimpse of that other world. But tonight I'm just another fighter... or pray, depends who's faster.
Us vs. them - winner unknown.
It's strange, I couldn't write down, despite remember anything for a year now. And this morning I woke up with the knowledge of who I am exactly, and with the wrinkles that told me exactly how much time has passed.
I must have been injured, or dead... or undead. And for some reason people who know me just leave me without an answer.
I don't know what it means, I'm just afraid to keep asking and of not getting an answer.
Here, I'm lying on the floor, among first aid kits and rats and trying to separate my reality from that other memory of me.
Who am I?
A healer? Storyteller?
Sure I am, in this or the other world. But she had been way too weak in the past year.
She fought with her friends, though the enemy seemed to have grown stronger every time.
(Or am I the slayer?)
I can't remember that instance of me, not at all. I think I was never just a slayer. I had another role.. if I could remember which??
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Fork: a year later
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