"Everybody gets one one-armed joke. Then I lose my sense of humour."
Tall, tanned skin, intimidating scars.
I am a tribal nomad. Broad shouldered, heavily tanned from my time on the planes. It was tribal custom to shave our heads except for a small patch at the back which would grow long and get braided. Heavy set eyes, almost Neanderthal brow. Tired expression, permanent bags under the eyes. Tall, with a muscular form from a lifetime of labour. My hair is black, my eyes are brown. My son is very much like me. He was slimmer though, as when he worked with me I always took the harder and more intensive work from him. His eyes were also yellow, the only one in the tribe. We were close until his mother died. She succumbed to scorpion venom after being stung while gathering food. I went into my own head, wondering why I couldn’t help. I turned to drink and pushed away the whole tribe, including my son. There was a brief period, maybe 9 months ago, where there was some sickness after trading with a merchant caravan from the kingdoms. One of the elders had a pretty nasty boil. It was his time anyway. They said sickness had been wide spread. It’ll take more than that to overcome us. But Nathan got it in his head that his calling was to go out and help those in need. I believe this was because he felt he couldn’t help me. I woke up from a stupor after a night of heavy drinking. It seems as though I’d finally pushed everyone away. My son was gone, with my axe! The tribe was gone, leaving only discarded bones and scraps of flesh. And me. In the most clear moment I’d had in a long while I realised I couldn’t be absent my whole family, and set off following the set of sole footprints that could only belong to him.