Act I, Part IX: Home

By Antuul Dralosi, Scavenger

If one were to describe New Balmora in a single word, the only one appropriate for the task would be: Aged. The streets widen and narrow without seeming rhyme or reason to those who haven’t watched this city explode since I was a kid, but there was once an order to this place—it’s just long gone now. It’s only been ten years since I got out of here and so much has changed. The streets I used to pull my biggest hauls from are all worn down and decrepit, my hangouts are gone, even the sound of the city is different. We used to say that the difference between a native and a foreigner here was whether they could hear it—whether they could hear the way the city seemed to talk, not in words, but in the rhythms. The patterns. The subtle you never really pay attention to you, but you seem to notice anyway. The city doesn’t talk like it used to—doesn’t talk at all like it used to. It just—exists. An empty shell of itself and I saw that with my first steps in here when I saw a woman’s coins being lifted by a pickpocket. She screamed and everybody in earshot went running for the kid and they beat him—bad. Real bad. He was still twitching in a puddle of his own blood as I stepped over him. Things weren’t like that when I was a kid. Everyone knew what Dro’garra did to us and what he made us do and when they caught our hands in their pockets, they swatted us off most of the time, but that was it. Sometimes they’d even give us a bit out of pity, but this—this would’ve never happened back when I was a kid and not because Dro’garra cared about our welfare, but people cared about us—if only for that one interaction with us. That kid? Nobody cared about him. Nobody ever will again either given they’ll likely be scooping him into a furnace before nightfall given you don’t survive a beating like that. The city’s changed and not for the better.

Still though, as much as it’s changed, some things haven’t. Dro’garra hasn’t. I made a trip down memory lane and I saw that manor of his with all manner of orphans running around it. The only thing they had in common was that none of them were much more than skin and bone and most of them had eyes that had seen too much too young. Still though, it was nice to see that a few of them had made it this far without being broken and things weren’t all bad—I saw one of the kids who had just been picked up just before the time I was leaving. I remember telling my friend, Shakes, that I didn’t think the kid would make it a week before he roped himself, but sure enough, he’s still there. He doesn’t remember me, but I could never forget that dumb look he always had on his face (and still does). It’s good to see I was wrong about him. It’s really good.

I had one last thing I needed to do before I made my way here to Council District and that was checking on an old friend of mine, Bravora. She grew up in a totally different world than I did. Redoran Councilor’s daughter and here I was, a Khajiiti Boy, but somehow, we were friends. It’s funny too, because the first time we met, I was cutting her purse strings and she caught me in the act. All she had to do was make a sound and who knows what would’ve happened, but she just stood there in silence as she watched me pull back the knife that was too dull to cut through the netch-leather strap and smiled at me. It was a kind smile. The kind that I hadn’t really ever seen before and she motioned for me to follow her. Every instinct told me it was a trap. She was setting me up and I knew it, but it’s the one time my instincts have been wrong—or maybe they were right and it was just a different kind of trap than I expected. We talked for a while, I don’t know how long it was, but it was long enough I didn’t have enough time to get my haul for Dro’garra that day before curfew and my nose has been crooked since, but it was worth it. For—however long it was—I wasn’t a Khajiiti Boy—I was the boy this girl who had no business talking to me, wanted to talk to. It was a good day. One of the best in my life in fact, right up there with all the other days we spent together, even if all those days came with bumps, bruises, and scratches at the end. No matter how mad I knew he’d be, spending time with her was always worth it.

I just wish we had spent more time together when we had the chance. She’s gone now. According to her little sister who never much liked me, but never ratted on us talking, it happened two years ago. She caught something the priests, the physicians, none of them had ever seen before and she just—didn’t get better. They did everything they could for her, but she just—didn’t make it. It’s funny how that kind of thing happens. She was the only person to ever see me as more than just a Khajiiti Boy or a Ruins Rat or a piece of trash my entire life and I never got the chance to say bye. I never got the chance to tell her I loved her. I never got to tell her a lot of things I should’ve when we were kids—I just always thought that when I came back, she’d still be here. I knew she’d get married to some other noble and that she probably would’ve forgotten all about me by time I finally came back, but her sister, her sister says she was waiting for me. She refused the suitors who knocked down her door because she was waiting for her friend to come back. She waited almost a decade for me to come back and I never did. She spent the rest of her life waiting for me and I never thought so much as to write a letter to her. But she didn’t care. She still waited for someone who didn’t deserve her—as a lover or a friend. And now she’s gone and I just wish I could’ve been there with her through it. I wish I could’ve talked to her one last time and told her all the things she should’ve heard before I left, but—life doesn’t always work out the way it should. If it did, she’d still be here. She deserved to be here a lot more than I ever did and now she’s gone.

Maybe that’s why the city doesn’t sound right anymore; it lost its light. I just wish it could’ve been me instead, but I guess that doesn’t matter, does it? I guess none of what I should’ve said or what I should’ve done matters anymore, because the past is the past and she’s gone. No matter how much I wish she wasn’t. I guess this means I just have to accept it, but that’s going to take more than a couple shots of Sujamma. But I’ll deal with that in a little bit, my appointment with the Council is in a few minutes and I should probably compose myself. I wouldn’t want to go before them, her father included, looking like this, so I’ll have to stop here for now. But I do need to say one last thing before I close this entry.

Bravora, I loved you since the day I met you. I loved you since the moment you didn’t scream or shriek or anything, you just smiled at me with that smile your father made you practice all the time and I loved you a little more every day since. And I should’ve come back for you, but things got out of hand and I always thought I had more time and—I just—I’m sorry for not coming back. I’m sorry for not writing. I’m sorry for leaving you waiting for so long—I just—I was scared to come back. I was so damn scared, Bravora, I can’t explain it to you, because I just—I’m just not smart enough to put it into words, but if I’d have known—if I had one inkling of an idea that this was going to happen—things would’ve been different. Things would have been so different. I’m so sorry and I hope wherever you are, you know that. You know I’d do anything to make this right, but I can’t.

I’m so sorry, Bravora.

Please, wherever you are, please forgive me. I’m so sorry.

-Antuul Dralosi, the Friend Who Never Came Back