THE NAMING OF GALE SALISIAN
I’ve made a special request to Cassandra, the Royal Reader, since this is a special occasion. And she’s agreed to read your name, Gale. Now, take a seat, as your Naming is about to begin.
Here you sit, on the throne in the kingdom. And from the shadows Cassandra slips out. She’s dressed as always, in a simple dress; hair hanging long around her like a cloak; and her eyes, deep, stormy grey, are set back into her pale face. You watch as her hunched frame circles you, as her eyes pierce you with an intense gaze as if surveying your every thought.
Finally, after several long, excruciatingly quiet minutes, she removes a piece of parchment from a small pouch on her waist and lays it on a podium. A feather quill dipped in ink appears beside it. If you had blinked, you would have missed it. She picks up the quill, shuts her eyes–then lets the pen move on its own across the parchment. Lets the ink speak for itself.
You sit stock still now. The next few pen strokes will determine everything.
Quickly, the Reader sets the quill down and snatches the parchment in her hands. No one, not even she knows what the ink wrote. It’s waiting to reveal itself to you.
Her face is emotionless as you stretch your hand out and take the parchment. You can barely catch your breath. You grip the paper and brace yourself for what comes next.
Deep breath.
Eyes focused.
And then you read.
“Gale Salisian. Lively.”
Here you sit, on the throne in the kingdom. And from the shadows Cassandra slips out. She’s dressed as always, in a simple dress; hair hanging long around her like a cloak; and her eyes, deep, stormy grey, are set back into her pale face. You watch as her hunched frame circles you, as her eyes pierce you with an intense gaze as if surveying your every thought.
Finally, after several long, excruciatingly quiet minutes, she removes a piece of parchment from a small pouch on her waist and lays it on a podium. A feather quill dipped in ink appears beside it. If you had blinked, you would have missed it. She picks up the quill, shuts her eyes–then lets the pen move on its own across the parchment. Lets the ink speak for itself.
You sit stock still now. The next few pen strokes will determine everything.
Quickly, the Reader sets the quill down and snatches the parchment in her hands. No one, not even she knows what the ink wrote. It’s waiting to reveal itself to you.
Her face is emotionless as you stretch your hand out and take the parchment. You can barely catch your breath. You grip the paper and brace yourself for what comes next.
Deep breath.
Eyes focused.
And then you read.
“Gale Salisian. Lively.”