A short peice on the nature of turning 20 on the blessed isle.
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Really, it was already over. The chances, at this point, were low enough to be negligible. He wondered what the exact numbers were- not that he'd be able to find a verifiable source for the results. The second breaths were written down, of course. Everything was, eventually. It was probably one of those things that went political once you tried to look at the rates of other dynast houses, though.
Perhaps that was something he could work on. Might be easier if it was a matter for a... for.
It hurt a little to think the word. Probably not as much as others would have thought. There was a sort of guilt to it- it was perfectly normal. There were far more mortals then exalts in probably all but the very strongest linages. And even then.
Peri forced himself to stand up, and get dressed properly.
This would have been so much easier if they;d given up already.
But he was supposed to be a natural. He wasn;t sure, anymore, that he understood the logic there. He was a foul tempered intellectual with a penchant for hitting people with sticks. Alright, he could see where he neatly lined up with the cliche. But cliches, like anecdotes, did not count as hard data. What did was knowing that there were plenty of good natured dragon blooded... and plenty of ones tht ere idiots, or needed years of study to be able to hit the broad side of the barn. Or were cunning, or charming, or believed that each battle scar wold someday become a scale when they reincarnated into a dragon, or had all the political sense of a baby *chicken*.
...Not that he was thinking of anyone *specific*, of course.
There wasn;t a set formula for who exalted or not. It wasn't the most worthy, or the smartest- or no matter what some said the most entitled, or arrogant. Some did. Most didn't. Out of the entire population, 20% had a chance of exalting. 2-5% did. That was numbers. That was clean. Impersonal. No fault or sin had barred you from it. Just linage and... luck.
He could live with just being unlucky. You could work with the odds you knew, even if they were slanted against you. Alright, so other people wouldn;t think of it that way. They would forever believe, in their tiny little heads, that he had failed some unwritten spiritual *test* that proved, somehow, that his arrogance was unwarranted.
As far as he was concerned, they could think what they damned well wanted. The sun had risen on him the same as it had yesterday, and he would be damned as an anathemas before he goddamned well moped about his lot- and he would sit in a *forge* before he let *those* bastards bother him.
The mountains summit, it seemed, would never beckon him.
He dressed efficiently- bright colors on sturdy cloth, any material wreckable by a little wear and tear had no place in his wardrobe. He made few concessions to fashion, as he rarely tended to notice what new bit of frippery was supposed to be worn. Serviceable boots, arm guards, and clothing that wouldn;t catch on much or bind anywhere had served his ancestors, after all.
Now, that was a thought. You heard bout the warriors, and commanders. The soldiers and the sorcerers. But even then, there had to be some poor hardworking sod making sure the armors got polished and the libraries dusted. There weren't any statues or parades for being sure the bloody crops came in.
And he was finding, as he stepped out of his rooms, that he didn;t mind that at all. He was fine with no statues or monuments, or marks in the history books... but by god, lets see if he couldn;t make every bookkeeper from here to the *coast* fear the name of Peri the Patrician.