Emaandra
07-06-2006, 06:01 PM
Emma stood beside her nightmare, Hope, and surveyed her front yard. Neatly trimmed bushes and well-tended flowers grew carefully close to the towering marble home she had built for her and Kuile. In the distance, a harpy’s screech sounded followed by the mind rattling squeal of a goat as it was made prey. For a moment or two she considered giving chase, making the hunter her prey but she dismissed the idea. Harpies were commonplace here on the southern outskirts of Trinsic. And such is the chain of life. A harpy, like other creatures, needs to eat, needs to feed its young. Today it would survive to do so.
Orcs were another matter.
Instantly, as they always did when orcs were a topic of discussion as they had been at Que’s tavern, her thoughts turned reflective and bitter. Memories of her mother, widowed and ill, aged far beyond her years had taken Emma’s face in her hands. She spoke with an authority and certainty that her frail body should not have been able to muster. “You will turn from this house, Child, and you will run and you will not stop or turn back.” The roar from the encroaching army of orcs had grown louder with each moment. Before she could voice a protest, the screams of those on the fringes of their small village went up, screams of agony, terror, and outrage.
And so the child that was Emaandra had run but defied her mother’s words and stopped atop a hill to turn and watch the black cloud of orcs engulf her village, her people, her life. Though the distance was great, she would still swear that her eyes met her mother’s vigilant gaze just before she was struck down. Ten-year-old Emaandra turned then, ran until her lungs seared, and never looked back.
Now again come orcs.
She thought back to the conversation at her table the night before at Que’s tavern and wondered if anyone had taken her silence for a lack of caring. They spoke of the deaths, the injuries, the attack on a child and Emma listened in icy silence.
There was no question from the start what she would do. Emaandra would never, could never, run again.
With a last check of her reagent pouch, Emma mounted the nightmare and spoke the arcane words that would carry her to Yew.
It was time to become the hunter.
Orcs were another matter.
Instantly, as they always did when orcs were a topic of discussion as they had been at Que’s tavern, her thoughts turned reflective and bitter. Memories of her mother, widowed and ill, aged far beyond her years had taken Emma’s face in her hands. She spoke with an authority and certainty that her frail body should not have been able to muster. “You will turn from this house, Child, and you will run and you will not stop or turn back.” The roar from the encroaching army of orcs had grown louder with each moment. Before she could voice a protest, the screams of those on the fringes of their small village went up, screams of agony, terror, and outrage.
And so the child that was Emaandra had run but defied her mother’s words and stopped atop a hill to turn and watch the black cloud of orcs engulf her village, her people, her life. Though the distance was great, she would still swear that her eyes met her mother’s vigilant gaze just before she was struck down. Ten-year-old Emaandra turned then, ran until her lungs seared, and never looked back.
Now again come orcs.
She thought back to the conversation at her table the night before at Que’s tavern and wondered if anyone had taken her silence for a lack of caring. They spoke of the deaths, the injuries, the attack on a child and Emma listened in icy silence.
There was no question from the start what she would do. Emaandra would never, could never, run again.
With a last check of her reagent pouch, Emma mounted the nightmare and spoke the arcane words that would carry her to Yew.
It was time to become the hunter.