Dawn broke in pinks and purples, gathering into bands that climbed above a horizon of tree-tops. Here and there it was broken by the tops and shoulders of mountains, their snowy peaks reflecting the splendor of the morning. Songbirds colored the silence with cheerful chirps and songs that bounced between branches and melded with the babbling of thin forest brooks.
Aileen took in this serenity from her bedroll. In her polished steel shield her reflection’s elven eyes gleamed with the dawn’s light. They flashed when she rocked back and rose to her feet, stretching the whole way. Brushing her auburn curls out of her face, she continued her morning routine. A small fire was built from the branches and twigs she had collected. Closing her eyes, she imagined it burning. Not just the dancing reds and oranges of the flame, but the snap of sap bursting free, and the glow of the light on the rocky ground. The way its peaty smell would fill her hill-side camp. The feeling of its warmth against her skin, how it would contrast with the chilly spring morning. When she had it focused in her mind, she gathered her mind and pushed.
There was a loud snap from the cone of wood and brush as a tiny flame burst into dance in its heart. Using her magic to light fires used to be a struggle, but a life of trauma and strife had tempered her willpower into steel. Half-Elven, her birth was a tragedy, not a joy. The marauding Elves of The Twilight Star had lived in hateful solitude for centuries, reaching out to the other Folkish races only to assault and enslave. They held all other races in contempt for they were the Firstborn, and saw the others as perversions of their form. In this way they justified prolonged war against every nation on Kyranta.
Aileen’s mother was human, but had given her up at a sanctuary to Tain. The word of the monks there was her only confirmation that her mother was out there, somewhere. The austere sanctuary gave her nothing but her own imagination to play with, and this inturn gifted her a powerful creativity with which to shape her magic. Tain chose her from among the monks, and gave her the path of cleric. She accepted.
Over a century later she wandered south in service of someone else. A dwarf with silver eyes and a gaze that pierced employed her on an errand of exploration. Murdoc talked like a Folk who knew more than he let on, and Aileen was compelled by her own curiosity to accept this quest. She was enroute to Ogroth, the jungle city of Orcs. Why Murdoc wanted to meet her there, she did not know.
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It took her over a month to work her way south. Several detours had slowed her, but at last she was within a day of Ogroth. The cleric was hesitant. The monks rarely had positive stories about Orcs, and described them as hulking warmongers. For this reason, she had started wearing her armor on the march.
Aileen slapped a strip of salted pork onto the hot pan, and carved a slice off her stale loaf of Turgish Rye. Leaving it balanced on a rock to fry, she picked up her chain-mail shirt and put it on. A gambeson over top and a steel helmet completed the set, but she left them for now. Thanks to a wandering deserter she had encountered, she now also had battered plate sabatons for her boots. The bandit had been quite surprised to find her armed and armored, more than a match for a starving vagrant with shiny shoes.
Aileen savored the smell of her breakfast as she checked over her equipment. A canvas bag that was filled with stale bread and a bundle of salted pork, a bulging waterskin, and strapped with a rope. She ran out of soap a day ago, but figured that wouldn’t matter much in an Orcish city. Her steel shield was polished to a shine. It deserved the care, as it was her most expensive piece of kit. Dwarven-made and perfectly circular, it had cost her a small fortune in Turgandy, and served her well in her flight from the city when the guards caught her pickpocketing to make up the cost. It took a few nights of apologizing in prayer before she got her powers back. Tain did not condone thieving.
With a sprinkle of pepper, her breakfast was finally complete. Her chainmail clinked slightly as she ate straight from the pan, it too shined with polish. It didn’t need to, she just liked the way it looked. It was heavy, but decade upon decade of strength training and dense monk-food left her bulging with muscle. Hers was not the tightly-wound Elven body of her father, she hulked at 200 pounds of human power. The chain shirt’s bulk was barely a hindrance to eating.
After cleaning her pan in a gurgling spring and washing her face as well, she finished armoring herself, and at last picked up her mace. This was a gift from a paladin in Fortitude, the archipelago nation. It was a mastercraft with bronzed flanges and a satisfying weight. Tain rarely required violence from her clerics, but It did not ban the use of force. In a world as viscous as Kyranta, with drakes and Elves and things stranger than the undead, force was in constant need. She used it as she needed.
Fire stomped to ash and backpack fully loaded, Aileen set out with a lively step. The pinks and purples of dawn had faded into an even blue as Ankirat rose above the horizon, but the chill had faded with them. Aileen looked relaxed taking in the fresh air, but her eyes never stopped moving, and her mace was always just within reach.