Alfsvarta swam slowly back to consciousness. Every nerve in her body felt as if acid was eating down the fibers. Her arrogant pride, however, forced her to
swallow the pain, and instead of crying out she could feel the rage inside her begin to grow.
The anger was comforting. It swelled and filled the emptiness inside her. No matter how much rage she poured into that void, she remained so empty, and so cold. She had tried to understand and learn about the fiery passions of Erollisi, yet her ilharess Sigrdrífa, her patroness and teacher in the ways of the paladin, refused payment in Erollisi's coin.
The young warrior well understood valor, and courage, though. And honor. But not sympathy for the weak, or understanding for the ignorant. Qeynos galled her, wearing like a slave's shackles. She had thought she had known rage long ago when she left Freeport, her anger fueled then by the whining of her own people about past glories with no drive to reclaim them in the present. But that was as a candle to the roaring bonfire of anger within her each time the self-professed "good" and "holy" Qeynosians handed out slurs insulting her loyalties, her race, her skin color.
The pain called something within her that she'd tried to forget. Called on the desires for vengeance, retribution on those who had scorned her, failed her, called upon her to rip the mocking voices out of her, dripping blood.
The Teir'Dal staggered to her feet. The house was quiet, and she limped down the stairs and slipped out the door. Every time her resolve wavered, the pain fanned the fires of her anger, and she was driven forward. She craved, no needed to kill, to feel the drops of splattered blood running down her face, the hot salt taste of it on her lips after battle.
Step by painful step Alfsvarta made her way to her small apartment. The ilharess had insisted each of her wards have their own place. Alfsvarta's tiny room contained little... a stack of books, some weapons, her armor. Hands trembling with the burning fire of her injuries, the dark elf strapped on her armor plate by plate, settling the harness around her. Each place a strap lay or the weight of the metal pressed burned savagely. And that in turn gave her strength.
Using her spear as a crutch, she limped out and caught a ferry to the city harbor. She had to get out of the city, away from the smug self-complacency of the people. As she stood a moment in the plaza, trying to make her brain work, the cha'kohkev statue of Antonia started spewing forth its empty propaganda. Just like the damned statues of the Overlord in Freeport. Qeynos wasn't better. It wasn't even different. The two cities simply shrouded their lies in different colors.
She stood there, knuckles paling even against her dark skin as she gripped the spear-shaft in a death-like clench, grinding her teeth. Then she heard the voice, hissing, "Over here!"
Slowly she turned, seeing no one near. Then a ratlike figure beckoned from the shadows behind a vendor's stall, and slowly she smiled. The ratonga had called his death to him, Alfsvarta thought. Pain pounded her head viciously - each beat of her heart caused the pulse in her head to smite her brain like a thousand spiked hammers. And the pounding matched her paces as she stalked towards her victim-to-be.
But no sooner had she stepped into the shadows than the rat waved his paws and a scintillating blinding light stunned her motionless. "Yous won't needs to be movin'!" the ratonga hissed. "Yous just listens to mes! I sees you, I sees you hating! You want outta heres? I tells you how..."
The anger was comforting. It swelled and filled the emptiness inside her. No matter how much rage she poured into that void, she remained so empty, and so cold. She had tried to understand and learn about the fiery passions of Erollisi, yet her ilharess Sigrdrífa, her patroness and teacher in the ways of the paladin, refused payment in Erollisi's coin.
The young warrior well understood valor, and courage, though. And honor. But not sympathy for the weak, or understanding for the ignorant. Qeynos galled her, wearing like a slave's shackles. She had thought she had known rage long ago when she left Freeport, her anger fueled then by the whining of her own people about past glories with no drive to reclaim them in the present. But that was as a candle to the roaring bonfire of anger within her each time the self-professed "good" and "holy" Qeynosians handed out slurs insulting her loyalties, her race, her skin color.
The pain called something within her that she'd tried to forget. Called on the desires for vengeance, retribution on those who had scorned her, failed her, called upon her to rip the mocking voices out of her, dripping blood.
The Teir'Dal staggered to her feet. The house was quiet, and she limped down the stairs and slipped out the door. Every time her resolve wavered, the pain fanned the fires of her anger, and she was driven forward. She craved, no needed to kill, to feel the drops of splattered blood running down her face, the hot salt taste of it on her lips after battle.
Step by painful step Alfsvarta made her way to her small apartment. The ilharess had insisted each of her wards have their own place. Alfsvarta's tiny room contained little... a stack of books, some weapons, her armor. Hands trembling with the burning fire of her injuries, the dark elf strapped on her armor plate by plate, settling the harness around her. Each place a strap lay or the weight of the metal pressed burned savagely. And that in turn gave her strength.
Using her spear as a crutch, she limped out and caught a ferry to the city harbor. She had to get out of the city, away from the smug self-complacency of the people. As she stood a moment in the plaza, trying to make her brain work, the cha'kohkev statue of Antonia started spewing forth its empty propaganda. Just like the damned statues of the Overlord in Freeport. Qeynos wasn't better. It wasn't even different. The two cities simply shrouded their lies in different colors.
She stood there, knuckles paling even against her dark skin as she gripped the spear-shaft in a death-like clench, grinding her teeth. Then she heard the voice, hissing, "Over here!"
Slowly she turned, seeing no one near. Then a ratlike figure beckoned from the shadows behind a vendor's stall, and slowly she smiled. The ratonga had called his death to him, Alfsvarta thought. Pain pounded her head viciously - each beat of her heart caused the pulse in her head to smite her brain like a thousand spiked hammers. And the pounding matched her paces as she stalked towards her victim-to-be.
But no sooner had she stepped into the shadows than the rat waved his paws and a scintillating blinding light stunned her motionless. "Yous won't needs to be movin'!" the ratonga hissed. "Yous just listens to mes! I sees you, I sees you hating! You want outta heres? I tells you how..."
