Difference between revisions of "Logs:Journal - Cutting Quills"

How do I begin? Today Master Jeroman, my employer and the head records keeper of High Reaches Weyr, gave me an aptitude to measure my abilities. I am ashamed to say he found me deficient in some areas, not the least of which being penmanship. The result is this journal which he has ordered me to keep, that the daily practice of recording thought and reflection might improve my ability to copy (legibly) the thoughts and reflections of others. In drawing at least I managed to please him with a modest talent that too must be refined through such constant practice. In the interim, my duties are restricted to shelving materials and running errands while the weighty work of recopying those texts about to be lost to decay is left to the senior apprentices until such time as my weekly tests prove my proficiency in writing.

I received the first news of home I have had since I came to High Reaches Weyr. My eldest brother, Cron, wrote upon his arrival in Esvay to take over father's estate. His letter contained a great deal about the death of the villain Rone, and a lengthy plea for me to return home to Esvay, as there is (in his mind) no reason for me to stay since I did not impress. I expect his reproach for my response, but how can I go back when everything in our lives is so altered? Without fathers warmth Esvay will never feel like home again and how can I return now to a life as confined as the one I had led before? Can an avian return to its shell once broken? No it must grow and learn (eventually) to fly.

I relish new-found independence; every day is something uncharted waiting patiently for discovery. I never would have imagined a year ago that I would be making my own living in a Weyr. Nor did I think I would be surrounded by such wonderful and strange people: Whether it is a simple cup of tea, a reminder of a father's love and kindness, meeting a baby dragon, drinks in a bar, aid in a quest, a new job given, simple friendship or thoughts of the future, I learn something from every encounter with these people, about myself and about the world. Yet, can I truly say I am one of them? That I belong here as they do? I don't know the answer to that, and it is not a question easily answered, with the spring many of the refugees will return home and rebuild in the wake of what has happened.

Sometimes I forget home, but I still owe Nabol something. I aim to meet with the Weyr leaders and see if maybe we can find volunteers among the refugees and riders to help with the planting at the holds. With the fields either burned or left fallow something must be done lest hold and weyr alike starve in the next winter. Enough practice for now, my fingers and apron are both stained with ink and if I try to fix my quill once more I may draw blood.