Excellent fistibus, said Eldric, but he wasn't done with my hand. He inspected my left palm, the pucker of scars. There's no fortune to be read in that palm, I said, but of course he wanted to know about it; of course he'd been dying to ask since we first met. Do you want the version of the story in which I'm a hero, or do you want the true version?
Eldric complimented the fistibus, but his interest extended to examining my scarred left palm. Although I insisted that my palm held no fortune or stories, it was clear that he was eager to learn more about it. This interest had been simmering since our initial encounter.
I offered him a choice: I could recount a heroic tale or share the honest truth behind my scars. This question implied a deeper narrative, hinting at complexities in my past that shaped my identity and experiences.
