The Rhel Saga
Human Divine/Psionic Leader
Favors: Polearms, long walks in the graveyard, and farmer’s tans.
Dislikes: Undead, apples, and the smell of fear.
such eyes that twinkle in the dead of night are as a river running through my head. Pushing at the banks of memory, often washing away thought in an instant.
I will always remember the day I first felt her, my soul pressed to her bosom, my first day. Many things they could have called me that day: battle-born, bastard, cursed, stillborn. That is, were they alive to see my silenced birth. Betimes, I wonder what I would be had their deaths not come before mine, before I knew her and in knowing my heart learning to beat once more.
Peace. A perfect calm without memory of suffering or question of existence, this purest, unclouded freedom I felt in her marble arms. I dream of that moment often and I know I will return to her sweet embrace again, though torment as it is to long after lover’s embrace so close yet far.
I’ve heard stories of that day when they found me, Pelor’s crusaders arrived upon the scene too late to save anyone. The dirt had melted into gore, embers spat gloating into the night, and a small, pale babe slept soundly in a jet, black mask. “A miracle!” They proclaimed to the massacre about them, “Truly the presence of Pelor’s healing light piercing even the blackest of nights.” Blind to truth: so fixated on the sun they failed to see the blessing my mistress betokened the family and friends I would have had. She gave freely the release from which Pelor was too late to prevent.
I do not disdain the gift of life at all, merely reflect in the ultimate beauty all life will come to know eventually and work to preserve its elegance. Clearly my Queen has returned the blessing of life to me, there must be purpose and closure in death that is at its heart.
These crusaders, warriors of the light, could only see entrails and evidence but they could not feel the pain, confusion, and fear that I can. They are noble but naive, like children, it is not their fault they couldn’t truly grasp the pains of life beyond their own and not my benefit. I still do not know much of my “hometown” save those emotions branded upon me during my birth, dark twisted things kept closer still to the heart the better they rot it speckled with fading lights of hope, happy memories of the silly things one thinks about in one’s last moments. Never since have I ever been struck with such intensity, though I was small then and new to the concept of life.
A life in which these knights saw fit to guide me as one of their own. To teach me the ways of light: the arts of healing, path of justice, and strangely enough the heft of a god’s weapon. Zoey was the one whom took it upon herself to love me, she even gave me a name once. A compassionate and endearing love but not peaceful nor absolutely free. Distracted they knew me as, misguided in my focus if genuine in my pursuit.
Living with easy calm and fierce temper all at once.
My mistress always has a reason, ones sweet Zoey could never give me. Why am I? This mask I still carry is my only physical connection to that question. It feels as though a part of me, fit perfectly since the first day Zoey returned it to my hands. I have yet to take it off. I cannot help but feel her silent calm in it whereas tumult rules and uncertainty governs the hearts of all others I encounter. At least I cannot smell their fear through this mask, I wonder what she smells like… Mmmm, why did she raise my form and take the others? Goddess, oh how I ache for your answers! Your peace.
To be Continued…