Character  -Koborai-<br/><br/>Willow wisps upon the ancient winds of time and fairies dancing in the shadows, a world of pure fantasy and imagination unbound. This was the world of a child, the world of a being of pure innocence. This was what had been taken from him. The small brown haired boy sat on an isolated bridge, on the outskirts of a village he didn’t even know were he was anymore. He sat watching the cold snow fall around him. Each tiny flake serving as a momentary distraction from his thoughts as his green eyes darted from one flake to another calmly almost in a detached manner.<br/><br/>Who was he? He was Koborai. Who was Koborai? What made him this person? Was it a family, A mother who loved him, and a place to call home? Was it the legacy of a father or a sense of who he was inside? Maybe it was a sense of purpose a reason to exist? Such thoughts were not easy for a young mind to contemplate, yet he forced himself to. Should these prove to be what defined who this person was then he was not this person at all. He had become someone else and he needed to know who that someone was.<br/><br/>Barely ten summers old he had been flung into a world so violent and traumatic it had stripped him of his identity. His family had been taken by a great famine, which had swept through his village like a passing tide washing away his entire world. Everyone had perished in the throws of a horrible disease, yet he the one accursed child had lived. None would touch him, seeing him as the incarnate of some demon. Surely he was they had whispered, for why else would he have survived when all others had perished? He had fled for his life from the priests who had come to cleanse his obliterated village, he was sure they wanted to kill him, to exercise this demon they saw inside him. He felt no different but was there something wrong with him? Had it been his fault what happened to mama and papa? Tears streaked the child’s eyes as he raised a tiny hand to brush them away from his face.<br/><br/><br/>He had tried to go somewhere else and had found the world far crueler than he could ever have imagined. This lesson was served up at the hands of Avarian Slaver’s, they had promised him food and shelter, and then bound him up and sold him to the highest bidder. The highest bidder turned out to be a dirty old man content to fatten him up for uses most unbecoming of another man toward a young boy. Luckily he had found it in his heart to stab the old codger to death in his sleep long before any of those plans came to fruition. He might be young but he wasn’t stupid, mother and father had certainly warned him often enough about that sort of man.<br/><br/><br/>Now a homeless runaway slave who had killed his master, Koborai fond himself with several very puzzling dilemmas , the most immediate being he was starving . He had exhausted what he’d managed to steal from the old man days ago and had no way to get more. The second, he was cold and likely to freeze to death tonight. The third and most daunting was finding a reason to do anything about it. There was no reason for him to exist. He was a burden to the world, so why try at all? He could simply lay here on this small wooden bridge, outside some strange place and die a homeless wretch. That was befitting of someone so shameful as to live when all he loved died wasn’t it? He didn’t think it would take long, all he was wearing was a ratty shirt filled with holes which soiled almost black with dirt, and a pair of pants. He didn’t even have shoes. He would surely freeze to death in a few hours. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had bathed, not that it mattered it would be over soon.<br/><br/>The child could only sigh and tuck his head low to his chest as he lost himself to dreams of a child hood with parents who loved him, and began to sing a song he remembered. We will work here until Bon, So we will no longer be here from Bon, If Bon comes early, we will go home early. We are beggars they are of a good family. Wealthy people with nice sashes and nice kimonos, we don't like to take care of crying babies, If they cry the blame is put on us, even if I die. Who will lament my death? All that is heard is the chirping of the cicadas among the pine trees in the mountain near by.<br/><br/>He let a soft sigh escape his lips as he continued to whisper it in a hushed tone rocking back and forth. His old sitter had always sung this and he'd never understood it. Yet if he understood it or not didn’t matter anymore he supposed, for he was going to die and it was a slight comfort to one with no purpose in living to remember his happiness.