And
leaning against a low stone wall with an open book in her lap and
watching people fifty years older than her play without a care and
wishing she could slow her mind down, or everyone else hurry up, so
she wouldn't have to wait all the time. And reading more and more,
dreaming herself away in stories of dwarves and gnomes and orcs and
half-orcs and half-dragons and half-elves and half-ogres and
half-trolls and particularly humans, so like her with their easy way
to learn anything and everything even from earliest childhood. They
fascinate her with their tall towers and their bold adventures and
willingness to give all their short lives away and apparent ability
to mate with everything under the sun, so symbolic of their fluid,
changing nature. To Aseka they seem to have perfected the
heterogenous culture her own people strive for but fall short of,
always clinging to traditions. The stories she reads have no shortage
of elves painted as heroes for resisting change, excluding outsiders,
sacrificing themselves to honor dead ancestors, and it frustrates her
in ways she dares not put in words.
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