A Holiday Gift: From Where I Come

Before I trusted memoir, I trusted myth.

This piece comes from an earlier era of my writing life—when fiction was a safer vessel for truth.

I wasn’t really a Dungeons & Dragons player; I was a wanderer looking for a container sturdy enough to hold questions about inheritance, voice, and belonging.

What follows is a cleaned and curated fragment from that time—a ‘character’ backstory.

Consider it a small holiday gift: not a game tale, but a mythic self-portrait.

old ramblings appear
rebirth in what was kept
old—found origin

Neihwari of Kaladei

I am Neihwari of Kaladei.

On my father’s side, I descend from e’Taratai—one of the original Adaran monks who long ago chose to host a quori so that our people, the Kalashtar, might endure. Eberron was once a haven for many of our kind, but not for all. In darker times, those who practiced less sanctioned paths of spirit became targets of the Dreaming Dark.

Those were my grandparents: Lanatash and Kalantari. They fled Adar and found refuge far from Eberron, in a place called Greyhawk Echoes near the western mountains of Jathara. There, for many years, we were safe. My father, Kaladeiash, was the first of his line born beyond Eberron’s skies.

My mother, Neihrhana, inherited a quori though she was not purely Kalashtar by blood—if such purity exists at all. She was the daughter of Gaelwyn Galonodel, a high elf of the Silvanesti, and Neihkashtai, a Kalashtar.

Whispers carried on unkind winds claimed that Gaelwyn fell from elven grace when he bound himself to a Kalashtar woman. Those same winds say he carried Neihrhana and their infant daughter away from Dragonlance to save them.

So my mother was half Kalashtar, half high elf. And I, in turn, am something else again—hybrid, layered, unresolved. I believe now that this was a blessing. I cannot imagine what it might be like to carry the voices of the quori untempered.

That is the short view of my blood, as I know it.

I had a sister once. Gaelantari was the elder—and the first lost. Before her passing, she wrote to me, urging me to seek the truth: that something other than death had taken our father from us. Whether she was right remains uncertain. Uncertainty has a way of becoming a companion.

I entered the Jathara Monastery at the age of seven. By ten, I had begun martial training, advancing faster than many of my peers. At twelve, I was told my father was dead. At fifteen, I left the monastery—in faith and in search, though I could not have named what I sought.

Now, having passed my quarter century, I still wonder whether I am seeking or fleeing.

The quori within my lineage presses at my thoughts. My mind feels safest in motion, never lingering too long in one place. I have traveled widely—between the coastal lowlands of Talwith and the western mountain ranges.

If I had a favorite town, it would be Glenmohr, at the base of the Grampians. I thought I loved someone there, once. Or perhaps something.

I believe in good. I still honor Il-Yannah—the universal force of light—though I no longer cling rigidly to the Path of Light. I strive to help where I can, especially those who waver, or those who simply need kindness.

I have known many temporary homes and many passing friends. Some I return to again and again. At present, I travel toward another such reunion, meeting Quilee—a companion re-encountered across years and roads. Not my dearest friend, but safe enough.

My dearest may be long gone.

My training grants me skill with simple weapons, and I carry a short sword. I appear lean, even fragile, but my strength surprises those who misjudge.

Still, my greatest strength—and my greatest risk—lies in my mind. I can form mental links, read intention, and weigh silence as carefully as speech. I do not choose violence first, but I do not flee what I believe is mine to face.

The quori can betray as much as they empower. Some are gentle, nurturing presences. Others are cruel architects of fear. I live with the tension of that inheritance.

Another weakness remains: my reluctance to depend on others. I trust those who earn it—but dependence is another matter. This too is something I continue to meditate upon.

I am reclusive by nature, yet I search for a larger belonging—something that advances not one people, but many. And always, beneath every road, I search for the truth of my father.

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Afterword

Reading this now, I recognize how clearly the themes of my origin were always present: hybridity, wandering, inner voices, the uneasy dance between discipline and compassion.

I didn’t know then what shape my writing life would take. I only knew I needed a myth big enough to hold the questions.

Perhaps we all begin there.

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