Board Thread:What Would You Do?/@comment-26622438-20190311213924/@comment-43741305-20190921164501

I look at my hands. My little, white, weak hands. The hands of a child.

I'm slow, uncoordinated - a frail, waddling cute thing in a poor rural home. I may die of ANYTHING from an animal attack to dysentery from the well water.

But as any gamer worth his or her salt will tell you, restarting Skyrim only means you can try a better build. You know where things are in advance. You know what to do. You don't have to reinvent the wheel, only remake it.

So I train. Every time I can, sneaking off then openly as I grow older. Brothers and sisters are born. I don't care.

I'm the odd one out - grim, silent, detached. I don't form bonds, I don't do relationships. I train - day in, day out as my body reacquaints with what I learned in my previous life; the art of fist and foot, elbow and knee. I peak, getting past the limit of my older body, unfettered by age and the malaises of "modern civilization".

When I hit fourteen, on a moonless night, I gather what little I have and leave like a shadow in the night - without a word, written or otherwise. This is not my family and this is not my place. East I go, towards the land of the Rising Sun...and my true fate.