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What makes an identity? What does it mean to earn a name? For one individual trapped deep in the bowels of rootless squalor, suppressed by two mighty nations, it is the equivalent of finding one’s own being, perhaps one’s own soul. Stapen Evesuni was never one to step out of line. He knew his place in life and understood the path ahead of him. He knew he was at the bottom rung of the ladder of society, slightly above the dirt he was commanded to till. But life is not a direct path. There was something in him that told him otherwise, something that compelled him further. Maybe it was the dim light of a family he longed for, yearned for in the brightest of days and the darkest of nights. Perhaps it was the musings of a mad dictator. It could have been his religion or his rusty moral compass. Regardless of the reason, he tried to press forward despite his limitations and handicaps. One who could not read was not a threat. One who pontificated with an unpolished canter lacked the charisma to truly change the world around him. One who was raised on the streets couldn’t possibly gain the trust of any sensible dreamer. Yet despite the toils and struggles, despite the lingering conflicts and ever-present perils, Stapen Evesuni journeys on a struggle for his soul and the souls of those who dare to listen. Across the blood and battles, the soliloquies and speeches, he seeks to find his true self, chasing the identity of that which eludes him: the Listonian, the identity of his people.
