[Dimmie Dunce]

I still think of you, sometimes.

From the moment where I found you, stationary, frozen.

Drifted too close to a Brine Pool, you did.

Your magitech diving gear sent haywire.

It wasn't pretty.

I remember getting you to the surface.

I had to be so, so careful. Rise too fast.

And you'd have been a bloodied smear.

A stain of crushed meat, bone, blood in a suit.

I remember fortune smiling on you.

A nearby doctor soaking by the beaches.

Tended to your ailments.

Spoke words I did not understand.

Eyes of wisdom looked upon me.

When he woke you. Unflinching, staring.

You asked my name.

I gurgled.

"Ah, Murghal is it?"

What a silly joke from an old woman.

I'm still not sure what compelled me to stay after that.

I may never know.

You spent days, weeks, months, years.

Teaching me of how to exist above the land.

How to breath with my magics.

You defended me when others thought I was strange.

You taught me Her words. Those four Tenets.

I remember when you first pointed Her out to me.

I struggled to comprehend.

Even after speaking with Her, and Her Knight.

That any Gods could care for me.

I hear your voice in Her Words.

See your eyes in Her gaze.

I still struggle to understand.

But as much as I wish I was You.

I am not.

So I do not see the finer points.

The more important details.

It does not matter, in your honor.

In Her name, my fervor shall never falter.

You were my Mother

Not of the sea, but took me in.

I love, and miss you dearly.

And I remember your words.

So strongly.

Love holds not the strength.

To carry...

The weight of Devotion.

I did not understand.

Now I do.

So mote it be.

[Dimmie Dunce]

Thinking hurts.

It hurts my head.

It upsets me.

It makes me sad.

It makes me hate.

It makes me agitated.

It makes me feel regret.

It makes me feel guilt.

It makes me feel things.

It is bothersome.

Bothersome to be asked.

What drives me?

Bothersome to understand.

That I do what I do.

Because it is what I am supposed to do.

It is what I want to do.

It is easier, when I am given purpose.

Vague colors. Colors. Gives little.

Makes no sense. Annoy me.

If enemy, why everyone stay blade for a Gala.

If enemy, why must I be the one to snap my teeth

to silence.

Purposeless. Empty.
But devout, my role, immovable.

Perhaps purpose is not of violence.

Merely to provide of coin.

Of material.

Of blind faith.

If ordered, I strike.

I need no moral high ground.
I need no reason.

Only the guiding hand.

That drives me.

It is all I crave.

I have always saw myself.

As an extension. A tool.

To be wielded as seen fit.

Even as I see.

Doubt that I am

Deserving of being a person.

Thoughts wriggle like maggots.

In my skull.

I like it when I am given orders.

I like it when specific things

Are asked of me.

It feels nice.

What would you tell me.

If you were still here?

To hold faith?

My faith is strong.

Her words guide me.

So what would you say to me?

To find my own path, maybe?

But what path forward is there
For someone that yearns to be

Little more

Then a

Tool.