Issara. My home, though it is not my fate to find my place in it. Nor is it that of my people, driven long ago from the swamps that for time out of mind were ours. Around the nighttime fires, the storytellers tell tales. Sometimes that tale is of our wanderings and the Curse that legends say is what drives us ever on, never staying
in one place as the other clans do. Depending on who tells it, the tale is of a Hag who cursed us for not coming to its aid when an expedition was mounted by outsiders to slay it. We, who had minded our own business, would have no home to mind and no one to call friend, and that when we might call for aid there would be no neighbor to come for it. So the story goes.
I don't know what the truth of it is, or if it is just a story like the ones they tell about the stars being holes in the veil of night. I do know that I can't remember a time when I spent more than a month in the same place. My place in the Clan is also clear to me: to eliminate threats to it. Perhaps, if this curse is real, I should see if a way can be found to eliminate it as well.
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