Liliara Shepherd
Posted: Thu Jun 24, 2010 12:00 am
Stepping through the streets of bazaar, at first glance, appears a young human woman. She stands half a head taller than most humans, but does not seem to look down upon anyone. She is garbed in a simple woollen robe that hangs down to her feet, the dark blue fabric almost covering simple leather boots. Her skin is a healthy pink, slightly tanned from the sun.
Her hair is a soft blonde, cropped short and tucked behind her ears meticulously, every strand in place. Along her hairline run darkened spots, leading down to disappear down the back of her neck.
Her azure gaze takes in the sights of the bustling city, her expression open as she walks the streets, clearly new to the experience. As she walks, the tip of a fleshy tail peeks out from the hem of her robe, swaying to balance her. On the occasion the tail raises itself out of the robe slightly, short feathers of a dark brown leading to blonde fleck along its length.
The most striking aspect of the woman is the large symbol hung about her neck. A silver lightning bolt clutched in a golden fist hangs upon a simple copper chain, openly displayed on her breast over the robe. She walks holding her head high and her back straight, every expression open and honest, every step sure and simple.
The image of a kindly faced man comes to her mind. Beard and hair of a light grey, his soft blue eyes twinkle in the candlelight.
“I remember when we found you, my daughter. You have heard the tale many times before, and no doubt you shall hear it many times again. But you would grant an old man his peace, would you not? The peace of remembrance, of times passed.”
She smiles down at him, holding his rough hands in hers, both callused from the constant use of weapons.
“Tell me again, father.”
The man closes his eyes, leaning back in the large wooden chair, sighing softly.
“The summer was dreadfully hot. All of the Brothers and Sisters were on edge since the sun first started beating down upon us, and the Abbot knew that we needed something to take our minds off the wilting crops and stillborn calves. Word spread through the villages of a new evil that was gripping the minds of the people, and the Church knew they must be stopped.
The Brothers and Sisters decided to hold a grand tournament, to raise the spirits of all, and to draw out the would-be dark ones. I was chosen to joust, as I managed to best Sir William in swordplay. The villagers were shocked, yet excited. A simple Shepherd who had risen to the ranks of Knight-Errant in the Church of the Arch-Paladin, from their blood, no less! To champion Valour and Justice. The tournament was grand, many lances were broken on noble chests, and I still remember the bruises to boot! But it was a roaring success. The hearts of the people were somewhat restored, and the next night, the dark ones struck.
They came in the darkest dark, as we were resting in our beds. But they were clumsy, careless. We did not lose a man, and captured many of the attackers. The questioning was short, they were little more than simple villagers who had been corrupted by dark whispers, and they were eager to return to the Light. At dawn, we rode.
The foolish folk had taken to the abandoned ruins of an old fort, barely half a days ride from the Church, and we were upon them in no time, with barely a drop of sweat despite the beating midday sun. The guards were yet more villagers, once more happy to drop the dark mantle of their new lords before the Valorous Host. But as we dismounted and walked into the dark tunnels, we were assailed from the dark.
Fire and ash, steel and pain struck us from every side, and several good men fell. Poor Sir Gullam, may he rest with his ancestors. We came to what seemed to be the main chamber, a shadowed cave that seemed to end in darkness on every side.
Covered in our own blood and that of evil, we were stronger than ever, shining with glory before the dark tide. The dead rose and fell beneath our blades, and fiery beasts screamed their death cries into the dark. At last we came to it, a crude altar of bone and obsidian, terrifying and malefic at a glance, even more terrible to lay your eyes upon. The last battle lasted hours, minutes; we lost count as the dark fought the light. As a handful of us stood, shining brightly than ever, a shrill cry came from the altar. And there you lay, my daughter.
You were small. So small, and so frail. Sir William approached you, the fire of righteousness in his eyes, and raised his blade. I cried out, and he faltered. He turned to me.
“It is a creature of the dark, Arthur. We have killed many in the name of Heironeous. It is not a sin.”
I lowered my blade, approaching the altar and Sir William. I laid my hand on his shoulder.
“Have we not sworn an oath, my friend? We follow the Duty to Chivalry, as much as Honour and Justice. Has this child done wrong? I see a babe, a girl, innocent as the sunrise. Who is to say she shall fall into darkness?”
Sir William lowered his blade, and his eyes took on a sadness.
“You speak true words, Arthur. Now I see this child, she looks almost human. What do you suggest?”
It was my turn to falter. I sheathed my bloody sword, removing my cloak. And then I bundled you close to me, turning to those of us that remained.
“We take this innocent to the Church, so she may see the Light. I put myself forward as her father. I shall raise her as my own blood. In doing so, I take all responsibility upon my own head. She shall know the hardships of the farm, and the faith of our lord. But she will know love, companionship, valour, honour, and every virtue we can bestow.”
The others remained silent. But then Sir William himself sheathed his sword, and belt to one knee. All those standing did the same, and the tears I wept were of joy. Surrounded by death and darkness, my daughter, you were born in the Light.”
Her hair is a soft blonde, cropped short and tucked behind her ears meticulously, every strand in place. Along her hairline run darkened spots, leading down to disappear down the back of her neck.
Her azure gaze takes in the sights of the bustling city, her expression open as she walks the streets, clearly new to the experience. As she walks, the tip of a fleshy tail peeks out from the hem of her robe, swaying to balance her. On the occasion the tail raises itself out of the robe slightly, short feathers of a dark brown leading to blonde fleck along its length.
The most striking aspect of the woman is the large symbol hung about her neck. A silver lightning bolt clutched in a golden fist hangs upon a simple copper chain, openly displayed on her breast over the robe. She walks holding her head high and her back straight, every expression open and honest, every step sure and simple.
The image of a kindly faced man comes to her mind. Beard and hair of a light grey, his soft blue eyes twinkle in the candlelight.
“I remember when we found you, my daughter. You have heard the tale many times before, and no doubt you shall hear it many times again. But you would grant an old man his peace, would you not? The peace of remembrance, of times passed.”
She smiles down at him, holding his rough hands in hers, both callused from the constant use of weapons.
“Tell me again, father.”
The man closes his eyes, leaning back in the large wooden chair, sighing softly.
“The summer was dreadfully hot. All of the Brothers and Sisters were on edge since the sun first started beating down upon us, and the Abbot knew that we needed something to take our minds off the wilting crops and stillborn calves. Word spread through the villages of a new evil that was gripping the minds of the people, and the Church knew they must be stopped.
The Brothers and Sisters decided to hold a grand tournament, to raise the spirits of all, and to draw out the would-be dark ones. I was chosen to joust, as I managed to best Sir William in swordplay. The villagers were shocked, yet excited. A simple Shepherd who had risen to the ranks of Knight-Errant in the Church of the Arch-Paladin, from their blood, no less! To champion Valour and Justice. The tournament was grand, many lances were broken on noble chests, and I still remember the bruises to boot! But it was a roaring success. The hearts of the people were somewhat restored, and the next night, the dark ones struck.
They came in the darkest dark, as we were resting in our beds. But they were clumsy, careless. We did not lose a man, and captured many of the attackers. The questioning was short, they were little more than simple villagers who had been corrupted by dark whispers, and they were eager to return to the Light. At dawn, we rode.
The foolish folk had taken to the abandoned ruins of an old fort, barely half a days ride from the Church, and we were upon them in no time, with barely a drop of sweat despite the beating midday sun. The guards were yet more villagers, once more happy to drop the dark mantle of their new lords before the Valorous Host. But as we dismounted and walked into the dark tunnels, we were assailed from the dark.
Fire and ash, steel and pain struck us from every side, and several good men fell. Poor Sir Gullam, may he rest with his ancestors. We came to what seemed to be the main chamber, a shadowed cave that seemed to end in darkness on every side.
Covered in our own blood and that of evil, we were stronger than ever, shining with glory before the dark tide. The dead rose and fell beneath our blades, and fiery beasts screamed their death cries into the dark. At last we came to it, a crude altar of bone and obsidian, terrifying and malefic at a glance, even more terrible to lay your eyes upon. The last battle lasted hours, minutes; we lost count as the dark fought the light. As a handful of us stood, shining brightly than ever, a shrill cry came from the altar. And there you lay, my daughter.
You were small. So small, and so frail. Sir William approached you, the fire of righteousness in his eyes, and raised his blade. I cried out, and he faltered. He turned to me.
“It is a creature of the dark, Arthur. We have killed many in the name of Heironeous. It is not a sin.”
I lowered my blade, approaching the altar and Sir William. I laid my hand on his shoulder.
“Have we not sworn an oath, my friend? We follow the Duty to Chivalry, as much as Honour and Justice. Has this child done wrong? I see a babe, a girl, innocent as the sunrise. Who is to say she shall fall into darkness?”
Sir William lowered his blade, and his eyes took on a sadness.
“You speak true words, Arthur. Now I see this child, she looks almost human. What do you suggest?”
It was my turn to falter. I sheathed my bloody sword, removing my cloak. And then I bundled you close to me, turning to those of us that remained.
“We take this innocent to the Church, so she may see the Light. I put myself forward as her father. I shall raise her as my own blood. In doing so, I take all responsibility upon my own head. She shall know the hardships of the farm, and the faith of our lord. But she will know love, companionship, valour, honour, and every virtue we can bestow.”
The others remained silent. But then Sir William himself sheathed his sword, and belt to one knee. All those standing did the same, and the tears I wept were of joy. Surrounded by death and darkness, my daughter, you were born in the Light.”