Ever since, I have learned that I can only rely on myself.
They exiled me, hunted me into the woods laughing, thought me dead. There was nowhere to return, even if I wanted to.
I hungered the first few days, there was naught I could save, weapons, food, just the loincloth.
I did pick up a large, gnarled stick from the mossy ground. The legs still hurt and the road to Last Hope would be long, I could use a walking cane.
How many days have I been wandering? Months? I have lost myself between the trees, in the plains and steppes.
My callused feet shuffled across and ached, my arms were raw from foraging, but I felt stronger than ever.
When the wolves came for me, I seized them by the throat, I clubbed them and they fled. When the nuts and berries were sparse, I chased the hare and the fox and they could not outrun me.
A strange feeling of familiarity began to set in.
And now I laugh at the fools in the cities. Even my former tormentors felt pitiful, before they lay broken under my feet.
When the sun sinks, the moons light the way through the thicket and the beasts of the night cower in my path, I feel to understand who I truly am. A master of my own destiny.
[Feedback appreciated]
