My first real memories are as blurry as the cloud of pink blossom flying past me. I close my eyes to block the vision of the petals and my mind travels back to primary school. I was lucky my parents send me to one of the best. It had lore and art as its highest priorities. Beauty and knowledge, my favorites. My parents did not visit me very often. This had mostly to do with the fact that I am one of the youngest children in a rather large family. As a child at that age I was not very attractive either so I think my parents rather visited my older siblings. Their love for me was not physical not until I was 14 I think. My mother forced herself on me, no not forced; I did not resist but let it happen. Had there been passion? No, not as far as I remember. I would have respected her more if she hadn�t done it; she just became flesh to me, no longer the figure of respect and authority. No longer that high and lofty ideal that is being Exalted. She wasn�t that storybook heroine, that lady of might. She became a mortal thing of flesh and base lust in my eyes.
The memory fades into the recesses of my mind, blown back by the soft breeze that caresses my skin and plays with my hair. I remember that wind, that strange breeze from six years ago. Shortly after the incident, as I refer to it, I exalted. It happened when I was in my room writing a poem about petals on the wind, it was an exercise in mixing the physical with the symbolic. As I concentrated on the creation of the poem my mind seemed to slip beyond the words I was writing down, beyond the paper I was writing on. Paper and ink seemed meaningless, a medium and as they faded I saw the petals on the currents of air floating through the room. Their symbolism, moments of thought, became reality and thoughts welled up inside of me and in that moment I saw beyond the petals and symbolism and understood the truth about beauty about what all art aspires too and what every creature so desires. When the moment passed I realized that the paper had been torn to pieces. The shreds where the shape of blossom petals that circled around me on a breeze that seemed centered on me. With but a thought the breeze vanished and the petals floated down towards the floor. The world had changed, I had changed. But the world had not changed, only my perception of it, only my world had changed.
The scent of the blossom fills my nose. That sweet aroma, I remember a party that was held for me that had the same aroma, only warmer. It was probably incense. After I exalted the world might not have changed around me; the people in it did change their reactions towards me. Proud family members, respect from people and so on. My mother wanting to celebrate this event in private chambers, I refused her. She became angry, I did not realize then how beautiful I was and how much she desired me. This time she forced me, calling upon the respect I had for her as both my mother and an older and more powerful exalted. This time I truly resented her for it. The first time was simply a fall from figure of power to a mortal thing of flesh, this time though I was hurt. I decided to go to the Heptagram for two reasons, to continue my study of knowledge and beauty, and to be far away from my mother.
The breeze breaths it�s last sigh and dies down. Then silence. I remember the silent halls of the Heptagram, halls of ages of tradition and knowledge. The beauty of simplicity and the magic of a thousand spells linger forever there. My years in the Heptagram where easy. That is to say I lost myself in my studies trying to grasp the unfathomable. The teachers there where powerful and stern. I respected them more then I respected any one else and they did nothing to destroy this respect. I don�t care much to remember anything else about those years, for there is nothing else to remember accept the demon I summoned there to be my servant, N'Thuma. This demon, a Neomah, was not the first demon I summoned but the most pleasing one. So after the spell ended I summoned it again. After my years in the Heptagram I had a short time of rest and then offered my services to the family meanwhile trying to stay away from my mother.
This city is beautiful. I am staying at my families vacation residence in Tuchara. Luckily my mother is too busy to come here. This place drew me to it, it is a city of art and beauty, and maybe I will relive that moment of total beauty and understanding here.
The moment passes the petals are gone, and I walk to the end of the bridge to continue my stroll through the garden.