My father was a soldier, but I am far from that. Who am I kidding, being stationed here alongside those broad-shouldered, valiant, violent men? Their eyes show no light. The obsidian pits simply swallow me whole, reflecting my own weakness back at me, mixed with disdain.
They don't possess kindness... their only known emotion is radiating anger, an inner heat that easts them up and warms their husks while blazing through snow and ice.
When my father passed, the heart of this outpost was ripped away. And so was mine.
They know me. They know I'll run and hide at the first sign of trouble. It's in the way they scoff at me, in the way they snarl my name. That's why they force lookout duty upon me... even that frightens me.
