Story of a Wanderer

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Cold….it was cold.
Illinther wandered out beyond the city’s streets and down the bridge to the thicket. A guard hailed him as he went past, but he did not take any notice. All Illinther could feel was the cold, cold so deep it went to his soul.
Searching for something to warm him, something to make the cold go away, the young Vah Shir wandered in the thicket. Most creatures ignored him, sensing something wrong with the young child of the cat people. Even the vicious, lizard-like saureks avoided him. The trees offered Illinther no comfort, the smooth white bark offering no warmth as they had once, their purple and blue leaves lifted to the light of Norrath, the shining world above. But Illinther found no comfort in all the things around him…all was cold.
As he walked, he slowly began to slip to the ground as all warmth left him, his strength sapping away like sand through a sieve, and was consumed by darkness.

Illinther woke slowly, as if the claws of death and despair would not release him from their clasping grasp. He began to crawl, always away from the city. It was only cold there. The mountains loomed above him, but no matter how much he feared the other side he must find warmth. He was drawn inexorably on, inch by inch over the rough ground, struggling with every move, every breath as if his last. Out of the corner of his eye darted a red and black object, but he did not care.
“Fleesssssshhhh. Cold flesssshhh to stop the burrnnninng,” a charred corpse screamed as it ran towards the young Vah Shir. As if awakening from a dream Illinther screamed as the skeletal creature grabbed him by the scuff of the neck. Vainly Illinther fought back, but was no match for the ancient creature. It began to flay the skin from Illinther, taking it for its own. Illinther’s screams were lost in the mountains, and soon he lost all consciousness.

“Where am I?” his first thought. “Who am I?” He woke, sore, but otherwise perfectly well, not a scar on him, not even from when a grimling master has sliced him down the side. His mind seared, fearful of the memories he could not contain. “Mother!” he cried, not remembering why. Softly he began to hear a mewing sound behind him, and turning met face to face with a tiger.
The mother had but one single kitten, one single kitten only. Illinther was sad, knowing how his feline cousins were being depleted in the thicket, becoming scarce where they had once been plentiful. He looked around, and discovered he was in a cave, fairly warm and not at all damp. Still, however,  he was cold inside. He crawled up to the tiger, trying to gain some of her warmth. The giant cat allowed him to snuggle to her as if he was her own kitten, and the other cuddled next to him.
He discovered with a shock that the moment the other cat touched him, he became warm as if all the warmth in the world were upon him. He smiled and slept once more.

Waking, he first heard the sound of mewing, a crying sound coming from the cub. When he looked at it, it was trying to move its mother, trying with all its tiny might to wake the great cat. But to no avail, the tiger’s body was cold. Taking his first good look at it, Illinther realized the tiger had a large wound on one side, and it had festered and burned. With a shock Illinther remembered the corpse, killing him, skinning him, tearing all his flesh away, yet not a scar remained.
He did not understand, but he knew somehow that the tiger had saved him. He felt cold again, and when he touched the pool in back of the cave, it began to freeze. Whimpering he scrambled back, afraid of what he had done.
Hearing the mewing of the cub again, Illinther looked down to discover the little thing cuddling up next to him, spreading its warmth through Illinther. Illinther scooped up the little kitten, and began the long journey back to his home.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Yelling. There were yells and the screams of his people all around him. Illinther could not see for the sting of smoke in his eyes, but his mother carried him past the palisade, running from the creatures that had come to burn his people. Then a flash of light, and he heard his mother's roar of pain. Still clutching her son, she fell to the hands of one of the creatures. Blackness took Illinther as he heard the hoarse, guttural voices of the grimlings.

"He may be useful to us. Kill the mother and take him."

Pain. Such pain as he had never felt surrounded the young one. To the darkness he cried out, calling for the mother he knew he would never see again, wondering what had happened to the rest of his family.

His ears pricked as he heard footsteps coming up the tunnel, for he could sense he was underground, in some kind of cave. He shrunk away from the sound, deathly afraid of what would come to take him. A dim light appeared in the tunnel, and a shadow. His mind screamed, knowing what was coming.

He cried out in the feral tongue of a feline beast in fear and pain, and his mind was lost. The grinning grimling that appeared from the tunnel's mouth showed his yellowed teeth as he took his knife to Illinther's side, slicing open the child. In his rage, Illinther clawed the creature, and three lines of red appeared on the grimling's face.

The grimling merely smiled all the more and tied Illinther down on a slab of stone in the center of the cave. Beginning a chant, the creature called magic into Illinther, freezing him deep down inside, sealing his wound with ice as the grimling took blood from him. Then the grimling left, leaving the unconscious cub to freeze.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Illinther trudged his way across the thicket, moving as quickly as he could to avoid the saureks and insect-like ch'tk. Gasping with effort of running with the tiger cub in his arms, he arrived at the feet of one the sentries that scouted out the routes around Shar Vahl. The concerned sentry slowly bent down to look Illinther in the eye, trying not to startle him or the cub.

"Greetings little one, my name is Ferrin. I will take you to Elder Dumul."

The sentry drew Illinther up to his feet and guided him to the grand city of the feline Vah Shir, knowing what the cub in Illinther’s hands meant. Several Vah Shir stopped to look at Illinther as he passed, wondering where he was going with the sentry until they saw the cub.

Ferrin led the young Illinther up the steps to the palace, a place he had never been, but had stared up at the grand walls and hoped to one day enter. In and down into the castle he was led, until one of the Elders was before him. Ferrin went out immediately, leaving all business to Elder Dumul, going back to his duty in the thicket. Illinther looked up into the ancient Vah Shir's eyes, then down again at the ground.

Dumul studied the young one, wondering exactly how he should deal with him. Dumul knew that very rarely did such a thing happen, that a young Vah Shir would be drawn out and come into contact with the wild tigers that were growing ever less. He also knew that Illinther was far too young. But here the child was before him, clutching the cub he had rescued. Dumul reached out in spirit to the young Vah Shir, wondering just how this event had occurred.

In recoil, Dumul's spirit retreated from Illinther, fleeing from what was there. He had been attacked by freezing cold from the young one, and then a fire, not from Illinther, but from the cub. Illinther looked up into Dumul's eyes, and Dumul felt the young one's presence within his own mind. But to Dumul's dismay, all he could feel was the primal fear of a young cat, injured and running, but somewhere deep down a trust in him beyond anything he had ever known.

"Hello, Illinther. I do not know for sure what brings you here, but I do know this. You have been chosen. You are a beastlord."

Then, Illinther's exhaustion took him, and he collapsed. The cub curled up next to him and they slept together as if they were the littermates neither had ever had.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Didn't know these were still around. Guess no one ever got interested. Oh well, I'll at least put in a timeline for clarity.

Posts 1-3 are actually meant to be in this order:
1: 2
2: 1
3: 3

So basically just switch 1 and 2. Always meant to go through and edit these, as well as continue the story, but real life, raiding, and a general off and on disgust with the game have impeded all my real desire to put to pen (keyboard) the story of a character in a digital world.

Add that to my mediocre writing and storytelling, along with a lack of any outside interest, and I just didn't feel like continuing this anymore. Bumping this to see if anyone gets interested. If so, I may be compelled to add to it. Feel free to let me know how much you hate it too. Ah well, back to work.

[Tardar]

Keep in mind, most are a bit hesitant to critique someone they don't know.

I love reading stories like this.  What you have here though isn't really a story.  It's more like 3 separate scenes.  Now you do a decent job of describing the scene that you see in your mind, but they don't flow together.  You obviously have a good imagination and a writing skill I only wish I had, but take your time.  Get into the scene and the characters.  I would love to read a whole book about Beastlord lore.  I wish I had the talent to do it.  For instance, in scene 1, Illinther was tied down to a stone in a cave.  The next thing we know he is wandering out past a city into a thicket. 

Too quick.  Why was he tied to the stone?  How did he get out?  What did the Grimlings want?  Develop the story and the characters. 

[Tiroon]

Thank you for clearing up the timeline and bumping a story I know I eagerly read after I first rolled a beastie in 2004.

I very much enjoyed this story and I am surprised this one never got any reaction. I most certainly would enjoy to see it continued!

As for any kind of critique: If I were able to write anywhere near like that I might offer advice. As it is I rather keep my mouth shut.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

I think I originally intended these as a collection of flashbacks that I was going to have Illinther wake up from a night of bad memories in his dreams. Not sure yet really. I haven't thought about these in ages.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Brushing a tuft of fur out of his face, she was still shocked at the amount of heat burning in his flesh. Wiping a tear from her cheek, she dabbed at his forehead with a damp cloth.

“Is there still no clue what is wrong with him?” came a quiet yet commanding male voice from a chair in the corner, shrouded in shadow.

“Some fever that I’ve never seen before, nor have the elders from Tanaan. My healing has been completely insufficient so far…” she said, faltering at some of the words. Her dark, sun-kissed skin and long black hair were heavily mussed and stained, signs that worry had long overshadowed any concern for herself. Still, there was little that could hide the beauty of her elven features.

“Sariani…you really must sleep. I can keep watch over him,” said the darkly shadowed figure, moving to get up from his seat. Concern for both of them was easily heard in his voice, as well as his own exhaustion.

“I can’t just leave him, I can’t just wait while he dies!” she sobbingly shrieked at him. Hot tears tore through the ash and dirt covering her face. The figure put his arms around her comfortingly, his dark crimson robes and pointed ears showing as a silhouette against the fire, his pale skin glowing. “I can’t…” she trailed off as she buried her face in his shoulder.

“Sleep, little cousin. Sleep.” Picking her up as if she was a child, he knocked quietly on the door to the adjacent room with a slippered foot. It opened to reveal the face of an old Halfling nurse. “Please, take Mistress Sariani, give her a warm bath and put her to bed.”

As he handed the grief-stricken woman to a towering barbarian that the nurse had summoned, he heard her softly whispering. Briefly saying a few words to the nurse, he closed the door shut and turned back to his old companion.

“Where is that  blasted Dwarf when we need him…” he said under his breath, more out of frustration than anything. All of the best clerics of Tanaan, Felwithe, Kaladim, even Rivervale, and many others had been sought out to discover what had stricken his comrade. All had been just as perplexed by his illness. Still, the comforting familiarity and dry humor of the cleric he had known for nearly a century would have been welcome.

The great big cat had just come flying out of a portal in the middle of Tanaan, yelling something about the second coming, and just collapsed from there. There had been no mark on him, save one nasty cut on his shoulder that seemed to already have been bound. No doubt he had stopped to bandage himself during whatever he had been doing. There had been blood on his black striped white fur, but none of it had been his own. In fact, it didn’t seem to be familiar blood at all. While it seemed to have the same chaotic nature to it as many of the discordlings of Taelosia did, it burned like an acid when touched by magic. His weapons had been missing entirely, not that the cat even used them that often. Where his warder had been was entirely unknown…his armor itself was in tatters.

Wiping the cat’s forehead as had Sariani, he bent down to his knees as he tried thinking of something, anything that he might do to help his friend.

“Illinther…what happened to you my old companion? Please, wake up.” Illinther continued to mutter under his breath occasionally in his fever as he tossed and turned. The elf continued to worry about what his friend had tried to warn them about when he first came through the portal. “Illinther, what is going on in that big furry head of yours?”

[Tiroon]

Now I really want to know how this continues!

Thank you for continuing the story.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Illinther strode through the orc camp confidently, shrouded in a dark brown cloak that covered his decently tailored leather armor. A blue orc scout ran up a hill nearby and then flew back towards the fortress he came from, almost tripping over a fallen trunk, screaming something about the great white terror. Almost chuckling under his breath, the big cat continued on his path. “So, they do remember me.”

The huge forest he was in literally hummed with life, everything in it going about its way. Giant wasps, miniature drakelings, faeries, wolves, deer, all the life a magical forest could contain was here. The grass beneath his feet crawled with insects both large and small, birds sang in the massively tall trees. Coming through to where the front of the orc war continued, however, the trees gave way to stumps, mud, and trashed material everywhere. It grew quiet, other than the sound of metal on metal and the hum of an empire building in the mountain.

Silently slipping past the guards he entered the place known as Crushbone Keep, lair of the emperor of the Faydwer orcs and his dark elven ambassadors. Sniffing at the stench of the latrine trenches as he passed, he came to the slave pits. Creeping behind an orcish slaver he drew a claw across its throat. Letting it fall to the ground, he dropped into a fighting stance as another came at him with a whip, confident that he could take a lone adventurer. Wrapping his cloak around his arm Illinther caught the whip on his wrist and pulled the orc to him, snapping its neck when it came in reach.

One of the slaves yelling out caused him to wince as he prepared for more orcs to come for them. Stooping down shortly he pulled the keyring from one of their belts and tossed it to one of the elven slaves who looked up at him with unabashed thanks and began to set herself and her companions free. Many fleeing, others remained to pick up the dropped weapons, shovels, picks, anything they could find in the pits that was useful as a weapon against their oppressors. Elves, gnomes, dwarves, many of them tired, badly fed, and bedraggled. Illinther only hoped that they wouldn’t waste their lives meaninglessly.

Hearing orc screaming he turned to face a full platoon of the giant centurions, assisted by a number of the much smaller pawns. The big, filthy orcs had slightly pointed ears, leathery blue skin, pointed nails on the ends of their fingers and red eyes that glowed slightly in the dark. Many of them wore nothing more than a tattered shirt and loincloth for clothing, while others had poorly made chain or plate armor, some even had armor that was of elvish or dwarfish make that they must have stolen from the battlefields, or even those he had just freed. Screaming their primal war cries they came brandishing spears, swords, whips, crude flails and clubs.

Setting free a number of throwing stars in their wake, he also took a bottle from his belt that he threw in their wake, breaking open to emit a cloud of poisonous gas. Coughing, the orcs kept coming as their shamans summoned a brief wind to clear the air, even though between the flying metal and gas Illinther had already killed two, gravely wounded three and injured a few others. Flying into them he broke the neck of one, twirled to block and break an incoming spear, while taking a glancing blow on his arm from a wayward sword. The former slaves moved in to assist him as the orcs became increasingly in disarray, some not faring well against their better equipped and fed adversaries while others worked together to take down their large foes. It appeared that some had been druids or clerics but both were without much of anything to use to the goal of healing. Most were simply artisans and relatively unskilled civilians that had picked up a blade. Illinther grimaced as many fell.

Standing in the midst of corpses, gasping for breath, he gathered what slaves were left and let loose from a pouch some magical dust that would obscure them from view, instructing them to follow him as quickly as they could. Killing every orc in his path as best he could, he couldn’t protect all the slaves. Taking a black-feathered arrow to the shoulder, he went to his knees and hissed as he felt the sting of poison. Hearing a loud roar, he turned to see a giant tiger rip the orc that had shot him from the hill in half. Grinning, he cast a quick curative spell on his shoulder as he ran for the gates.

Hearing a loud dwarfish voice, Illinther turned to see a short figure in flashing plate armor brandishing a giant maul slam his hammer into the helm of a centurion leading a fresh platoon straight to the slaves. Cheering for joy as he realized the dwarf led a raiding party from the Storm Guard of Kaladim and the elven rangers of Kelethin, he called out to them. Joining together they tore the platoon apart orc by orc.

“Well there, looks like the big puss was in a bit of trouble now wasn’t it?” said the stout dwarf.

“I was fine until you got here!” Illinther yelled back.

“I like ye, what’s your name ya big furry mess?” the dwarf said laughing as he brought his maul to bear on another of the larger orcs.

“They call me Illinther Sarantiel, and your name, master of the shortlings?” he said as yet another orc fell with a neck bent at a remarkably unnatural angle.

“Ha! I am Dwarp, cleric of the Lord of the Underfoot, ye overgrown, flea-bitten, fur-covered rug,” orc blood by now covered the dwarf’s face and was running in his beard. Hearing an orcish war horn blowing, he turned his attention back to the orcs laying dead around them. “I be thinking it is high time we got those slaves you have following you out of here before those beasts bring their full power to bear on us. Orderly retreat men, it’s time we headed back to that blasted city in the trees.”

“Illinther…wake up. Please…just wake up,” came a quiet and insistent whispering that Illinther could of sworn he knew, and pain…everything blurred.

“So, ye came all the way from the mo…” fading…fading…darkness took him.

“Illinther…wake up,” still watching over him the figure began to despair as Illinther did nothing but toss and turn, burning ever warmer to the touch. The fever was going to fry his brain soon. Possibly the only thing saving him was whatever that grimling had done to him as a child that made him freeze things by touch…normally at least.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Footsteps in a dark city, rain drops in a place that rarely knows kindness. A hooded figure walks amongst the filth of a harsh city of harsh people, used to dealing with harsh leaders and an even harsher environment. Even here the thieves and brigands shied away from the stranger, for a fear they could not understand kept them from daring to touch someone who seemed so dark, foreboding, and deadly. There even seemed to be some kind of haze surrounding them, as if a shadow had consumed them that not even the rare rain could wipe away.

This part of the city of Freeport was swallowed in the sands of the deserts it bordered, its citizens living in shacks, holes, even in the sewage ditches from the richer portions of town. The dark figure was unaffected by the stench of waste from humanoid bodies that had long since given up on living, consumed by a purpose that was unyielding.

In one of the ditches that might have been called a street a small troll midget…one might even mistake him for a goblin…was hawking the sad remnants of what might have been fish. The figure stepped directly up to the poorly-constructed stand of the troll and addressed him straightforwardly, “You will tell me what you told the beastlord, and you will tell me now.”

The troll, who for his race was also remarkably intelligent, peered into the hood of his visitor. “I know of no beastlord, nor what I might have told one. Even if I did, information costs money, and it’s not as cheap as the fish.”

Looming closer to the diminutive troll, he let his anger bleed into his voice, trying to hide his desperation “As I said, you will tell me now, Glib, or you will wish you had been born like the rest of your kind,” his voice crackled with magical power.

“I might have seen one of those big rugs a fortnight or so ago, but I’m not saying more until you pass the coin,” the indignant little troll crossed his arms and waited for the figure to respond in kind with gold.

“Fool,” said the figure, his voice now fully raised. “Do not insult that which you cannot touch in decency!” The little troll flew through the air as magical energy caused the hair of those nearby to stand on end, hitting the wall he had been standing in front of. “You know well of whom I speak, he has used you as a contact countless of times.” The troll struggled against invisible bonds as he still looked quite determined not to speak a word, however, there may have been just a little bit of fear in his widening eyes.

“Who are you and why do you seek word of Illinther?” he let slip, still trying to break free. He had never had the strength of his race, the price he paid for his mind.

The figure placed a hand on the wall next to the troll’s head, glowing with what seemed to be almost fire. “My name does not matter. Suffice to say that I am his friend. I must know what you told him, and where he went. You will tell me this.”

The troll, trying not to glance at the burning so very near to his ear, spoke in a bitter voice. “Word is that the servants of the lord under the earth are rising again, one injured by a Vah Shir child at their head. Word is that the snake people are returning. The dead will walk again, and in greater numbers. That is all I know!”

There was a crack as the wall nearly exploded. “I see…rumors of past debts.” Letting the troll fall to the earth, the figure quickly turned and began to leave, but not before the hood of his cloak nearly fell, briefly revealing his face. Before Glib was a worry-torn and freshly aged face of one of the Eldest, an elven caste he did not even recognize. Closely resembling the Koada’Dal, he had proud features. His eyes were a deep blue that were like vast pools, but were red with exhaustion, grief, and worry. His raised eyebrows and swept back hair were a dark crimson in color, speckled with gray. Lines crossed his forehead and surrounded his eyes. Pulling his hood to, he continued on.

“The Crims…”

“No names will be spoken, Glib. No names.” Clicking his fingers together the troll fell into a sleep. “Nor will you remember our conversation.” A dark red handprint remained glowing on the wall behind the poor little fish stand.

Once out of the city he stood briefly in a clearing, chanting while gathering magical energies. Stepping forward, he disappeared into the mists, trying to find answers.

[Blarp]

Very nice . post more as you can i would love to read more.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

I have the next few sections planned out (I think, I tend to write on the fly and make changes as I'm writing it), just working on how I'm going to pace it and the order it will come in.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

As the dust settled a green hand reached up and fumbled to grasp the top of the grainy wood table. A mumbled curse sounded as the leathery green face of Glib laboriously appeared over it, nose wrinkling at the smell of burnt fish and stone. More grumbling was heard as he looked around his stall, blinking and trying to stand upright. The other mongers in the ditch had either quietly disappeared during his confrontation or flatly ignored it. Altercations were not uncommon here; theft and death were like old companions to those who lived in the filth.

Picking up a clay pot of what had been filled with ale elicited more cursing as the troll found it empty. Packing up what was left of his meager funds, at least, those that were made from the fish, he headed down the street. Stumbling and listing in an almost drunken fashion, many would have heard him talking under his breath about ale, fish, and bad customers.

Entering an inn he tossed the keeper a small coin and leered at one of the tired half elven maids in an almost devilish fashion. Walking a bit more steadily he headed up the stairs to the room he had been renting with the meager funds he had accumulated of late. Slamming the door shut behind him, his entire demeanor seemed to change. Cursing out loud he barred the door and began dragging things out from under the bedroll in the corner.

Replacing his rags with a small, dark brown robe and placing a pair of bronze bands on his wrists, his entire frame seemed to stand taller, and a dark grin showed off his unusually white and sharp teeth. Opening a small silver jar, he dripped a little of the dark crimson liquid on a cloth covered in symbols. Chanting, his eyes turned a pitch black and then began to glow a pale red in the dark.

The blood on the cloth began to bubble and boil, spitting in the cold night air. As the troll’s chanting grew louder, the blood began to rise and take shape, growing larger. Wings sprouted from it, a beak, talons, and eventually feathers, until it took the shape of an exceptionally large crow. Turning it’s head to Glib, it spoke.

“Command me, master.”

“You will inform our master that everything goes as planned, and the wizard is on his way. And, you will inform him I expect my payment.” The robe and wristbands he had put on began to slither and squirm with dark runes that seemed to avoid being directly seen by the eye. “You will go now, fly, quick. Do not be seen.” Opening the tiny window of his room, the troll let the bird fly out into the darkening sky.

Almost giggling now, the troll began packing up his things, shrouded himself in a shadow. “I was promised…I was promised all I ever wanted. You will all pay for treating me like a dog!” Mumbling more of what might have been taken as insane babble, he headed towards the door.

“I was promised the blood of the Crimson Wizard, and that wench he calls his cousin, and I will have it!” Quieting his laughing, he slithered down the hall and out of the inn unnoticed, disappearing into the night.

[Illinther Sarantiel]

Sariani shivered as if a great chill had passed through her. Drawing her knees up to her chin tighter, she shook back and forth in the huge chair, biting her lip until blood dripped down her neck. There was still no word of the wizard and no sign of a cure for Illinther. He lay just two feet in front of her, dying, and all the healing and power she had ever learned were useless. Even if she had been gifted as a true healer, she would have been helpless against the despair that was eating at her heart.

There was a knocking at the door, which at first she either ignored or didn’t hear…she wasn’t even sure anymore. As the knocking became more insistent, she slowly got up from her seat and went to the door, her now well made hair and dress already showing signs of neglect. Opening it, she didn’t even look down to see the Halfling nurse in front of her.

“What is it?” she said, her dead stare putting the nurse aback.

“A letter for you, mistress. It’s marked with his seal.” Light coming back into her eyes a little, Sariani bent down to her knees and looked her in the eyes.

“Thank you, Nisha. I’m sorry I have been so distant of late.”

Smiling tiredly, Nisha responded, “It is all well, child. I know the feeling you do, of being helpless in the face of death. We are all here to help you.” Even smiling, there were dark circles under her eyes. Illinther was not expected to live for more than a few days longer if the fever didn’t break. Closing the door behind her, she left the woman and the cat alone.

Going back to her chair, Sariani sat down and dug at the seal, tearing it open. The red wax embossed with an ancient elvish house broke unwillingly, hissing with the slight puff of magic that yielded at her touch. Reading the hasty handwriting of one who usually took painstaking care at penmanship, Sariani dropped the letter to the floor. Looking wearily at Illinther sleeping restlessly on what might well become his deathbed, she had long lost all her tears. Bending down to kiss his forehead, she whispered quietly in his ear for a moment.

Opening and slamming the door shut she began shouting to the servants, “Nisha, take care of Illinther. I must leave for a couple of days. Edgar,” the big barbarian answered her call almost immediately, “ready my horse and make sure the saddle with the weapon holster is prepared. I’ll need a bedroll and supplies for two or more days.” Walking to a room nearby, she threw the double doors open to reveal weapon and armor racks, armoires, and various devices of war.

“I promised never to come in here again…I promised to never again spill blood in anger. Now I have no choice if I want to see my husband awake ever again…” drawing her hair into a bun she looked around the room. “So many memories I wish I never had.” Tossing her dress to the floor she began lacing up in the leather and cloth under-armor that would protect her from the chafing of the mail tailored for her in days long past.

Running her hands over the blued steel of the leaf-emblazoned metal, she pulled on leggings, shirt, and boots. Walking over to a stand in the corner, she paused, not wanting to continue.Grasping the aged leather hilts of two ancient swords, she slowing drew them from their holder. Glistening in candlelight, the wings of the eagles that formed their guards were nearly transparent. One could almost swear lightning danced on their blades. Feeling a surge of energy go through her arms, she grimaced. The smell of earth and rain permeated her senses for a moment. Sheathing them in her belt, she lovingly went to her bow. Short enough to be drawn on horseback but long enough to still have range and power, it was her brother’s finest work.

Deftly stringing her bow and throwing her quiver over her shoulder, she strode out of the room, only stopping to take one last glance at the one she would kill to protect.

“You will be alive when I get back, or I swear you will suffer in the afterlife.” Turning to go, she began to run.