My memory is a tide. Sometimes she goes down and there rises the relic of an old souvenir, like dead coral. Most often she remains dormant, silent like the dark water of an unammed lake, under an obsidian sky, long forgotten by any stars.
My name is Renoir. I'm certain of it. I was there, before Her Church fell into darkness. When the gloomy flame rose upon Her figure. I was there before the Amalgam. I was there before the first turnament. And before that… Where was I…?
I wander and wherever i may roam i feel like i've always been there, on the surface of this scorched and dying world. I have this Hammer. And i know quite well how to use it. Where did i learn? Who did i kill? Sometimes, i feel the most exquisite pain looking at the Northern East. Nostalgia. Bitterness. Longing. Something is waiting for me there. Something that i fear as much as i desire.
I must recall, as i know if unprepared, i might not come back. I don't trust the others. There are a few that makes me curious. Sometimes, i have the shady intuition i shouldn't trust myself. As if i was using duplicity over my own senses and mind. To remember, i must understand. By studying, exploring and registering i might find something familiar. I might remember, and conquer back who i was, bit by bit. For better or worst.
I'll consign my discoveries. Và faĭl.