“The difference between a mask and one’s face is the amount of time worn. The longer the mask is worn, the more likely it is to feel like the face, instead of just a mask. It can become confusing as to which is real and only a mask. There exists a school out there. A school in which people learn to wear the persona of others as a mask. A school in which the art of it all, is to become someone other than themselves. They lay, waiting, slowly pushing their agenda on the world.” Findahl’s father spoke the words methodically behind vacant eyes.
“Does that school really exist?” Young Findahl asked, his curiosity peaked. His father nodded still looking through Findahl.
“That’s what the stories say. They say that this school of mysterious people exists. There are rumors that the land is shaped the way it is because of this school. I don’t know how much stock I put into that, but the rumors spread like wildfire.”
“If the rumors are just that, why should we believe them? Shouldn’t we question their validity?” The young boy’s brain was hard at work as he asked his father about this mysterious school. His father stood and patted his son’s head, revealing scars across his massive forearms.
“It’s good that you question things, but know who you are asking questions of. Not all are as kind as me, son.”