Post by gossamerhope on Mar 12, 2014 20:39:17 GMT -5
"Too late." She muttered to her self in her tribes language, through a mead induced grin. The plaited platinum blonde clad for comfort in a simple dark brown gauzy tunic and leather britches was perched on a stool at the old bar lost in her own thoughts. Reminiscing, yet faintly aware there was bar brawl about to break out behind her at one of the tables. Someone was angry a fellow was late with his payment of some sort. It wasn't going to end peacefully. She smirked to herself and took another drink. It would have been a fair enough fight, nothing that warranted her attention really. Leaving her mind free to wander.
This moment a recent query echoed in her mind. Of which tribe do you hail from? If only she could recall. She knew details of a few tribes her father was a bit of a drifter though. An exile, Baulder would say, for being to familiar with a chiefs woman. The North is a harsh place for a drifter let alone one carrying the burden of a wild haired young child. Not a son, he hoped for many sons but he would only have a daughter.
She did not even bear his last name. That gift he would not leave with her when he brought her to the Abbey of the Sword with great potential. Instead, he left her with a First-sword with an account of her mother. Mercy, or Eir in the language of her father, which was irony, because the Shield-maiden rarely showed any.
There was a raid on their village, which was probably retaliatory, from which Shield-maiden Eir fell in honorable battle defending her home. 'THe battle was not over yet so, I carved the babe from the gut of my wife. That she may lay eyes upon it before her last breath'. Battle-born the First-sword called her and would not turn her away. Baulder explained the girl-child was so strong she survived a particularly rough weather phenomena the following days and so he called her Aella or whirlwind.
Baulder raised her strong, as if she were indeed a son. She could weild a small mace when she learned to walk and each year he would teach her a new weapon as they happened upon them. His mind though, an exile is not the life for a daughter despite how resilient she proved to be. Few children would last so long, he owed it to her he decided to bring her to Battledale. They gave her a new last name Bothildr(Battle to her fathers people).
"Tempus does not win battles, he helps the deserving warrior win battles. War is fair in that it oppresses and aids all equally and that in any given battle, a mortal may be slain or become a great leader among his or her companions. It should not be feared, but seen as a natural force, a human force, the storm that civilization brings by its very existence. Arm all for whom battle is needful, even foes. Retreat from hopeless fights but never avoid battle. Slay one foe decisively and halt a battle quickly rather than rely upon slow attrition or the senseless dragging on of hostilities. Remember the dead that fell before you. Defend what you believe in, lest it be swept away. Disparage no foe and respect all, for valor blazes in all regardless of age, sex, or race. Tempus looks with favor upon those that acquit themselves honorably in battle without resorting to such craven tricks as destroying homes, family, or livestock when a foe is away or attacking from the rear (except when such an attack is launched by a small band against foes of vastly superior numbers). Consider the consequences of the violence of war, and do not wage war recklessly. The smooth-tongued and fleet of feet that avoid all strife and never defend their beliefs wreak more harm than the most energetic tyrant, raider, or horde leader."
So she was raised from youth to adulthood in the Sword of the Abbey, served in quite a few skirmishes as an Acolyte, training as a medic. Then as she became a priestess she was sent to Cormyr. For there was word of war and battles against Sembia. Only she arrived.. to late.
A firm thump on her shoulder brought her out of her reminisce mid-drink causing her to slurp a bit as she turned to see the culprit with a "huh?".
She could have forgiven the punch that glanced off her chin if it hadn't have spilled her drink. If she wasn't a little drunk she might have recognized that chin graze as a feint. When a second punch doubled her over and expelled the last bit of choked air from her belly.
It was a helluva shot. Outside of having the wind knocked from her, which she really hated Aella noticed a fair amount of pain with the gut-shot. Something with her muscle tight tummy wasn't used to. A hit to the face, yeah, or even a kidney.. but the gut should not have been much more than a discomfort, if that for her.
Fortunately she was pretty used to it all. Training, and she was no stranger to a bar fight. Even being a bit out of air was something she knew how to deal with. She slid off her bar-stool and righted herself, and adjusted her tunic while staring the fellow down.. well figuratively as she was a bit short.
1) Be Fearless.
2)Never turn away from a fight.
3)Obey the rules of war.
"Oh, oh, sorry lass" the massive fellow, towered over her at least six foot and at least twice her size, staggered with his hands up and palms out. He was already seeing double and probably just one of the many caught up in the bar brawl not even realizing why he was fighting.
His apology though, was too late.
Her tankard was already in motion a swing straight for his temple "Kudsr spilled" and backhand follow up "my" catching each side of his head. Then a knee to the nethers "drink!" just to bring him down to size. A double over for a double over.
She leans back against the bar setting her mug back down on it. "Uh oh, someone forgot his cod-piece" almost sympathetically she watches him with mocking doe-eyed expression and a bat of her lashes. "Oh.. oh.. sorry sir" the words matched his with only a hint of truth behind them as she guided him to the stool to sit. Then looked to the bartender, two steak and spiced potato dinners, an ale for him and mead for me. That and a room was the last of her lions.
"What now?"
This moment a recent query echoed in her mind. Of which tribe do you hail from? If only she could recall. She knew details of a few tribes her father was a bit of a drifter though. An exile, Baulder would say, for being to familiar with a chiefs woman. The North is a harsh place for a drifter let alone one carrying the burden of a wild haired young child. Not a son, he hoped for many sons but he would only have a daughter.
She did not even bear his last name. That gift he would not leave with her when he brought her to the Abbey of the Sword with great potential. Instead, he left her with a First-sword with an account of her mother. Mercy, or Eir in the language of her father, which was irony, because the Shield-maiden rarely showed any.
There was a raid on their village, which was probably retaliatory, from which Shield-maiden Eir fell in honorable battle defending her home. 'THe battle was not over yet so, I carved the babe from the gut of my wife. That she may lay eyes upon it before her last breath'. Battle-born the First-sword called her and would not turn her away. Baulder explained the girl-child was so strong she survived a particularly rough weather phenomena the following days and so he called her Aella or whirlwind.
Baulder raised her strong, as if she were indeed a son. She could weild a small mace when she learned to walk and each year he would teach her a new weapon as they happened upon them. His mind though, an exile is not the life for a daughter despite how resilient she proved to be. Few children would last so long, he owed it to her he decided to bring her to Battledale. They gave her a new last name Bothildr(Battle to her fathers people).
"Tempus does not win battles, he helps the deserving warrior win battles. War is fair in that it oppresses and aids all equally and that in any given battle, a mortal may be slain or become a great leader among his or her companions. It should not be feared, but seen as a natural force, a human force, the storm that civilization brings by its very existence. Arm all for whom battle is needful, even foes. Retreat from hopeless fights but never avoid battle. Slay one foe decisively and halt a battle quickly rather than rely upon slow attrition or the senseless dragging on of hostilities. Remember the dead that fell before you. Defend what you believe in, lest it be swept away. Disparage no foe and respect all, for valor blazes in all regardless of age, sex, or race. Tempus looks with favor upon those that acquit themselves honorably in battle without resorting to such craven tricks as destroying homes, family, or livestock when a foe is away or attacking from the rear (except when such an attack is launched by a small band against foes of vastly superior numbers). Consider the consequences of the violence of war, and do not wage war recklessly. The smooth-tongued and fleet of feet that avoid all strife and never defend their beliefs wreak more harm than the most energetic tyrant, raider, or horde leader."
So she was raised from youth to adulthood in the Sword of the Abbey, served in quite a few skirmishes as an Acolyte, training as a medic. Then as she became a priestess she was sent to Cormyr. For there was word of war and battles against Sembia. Only she arrived.. to late.
A firm thump on her shoulder brought her out of her reminisce mid-drink causing her to slurp a bit as she turned to see the culprit with a "huh?".
She could have forgiven the punch that glanced off her chin if it hadn't have spilled her drink. If she wasn't a little drunk she might have recognized that chin graze as a feint. When a second punch doubled her over and expelled the last bit of choked air from her belly.
It was a helluva shot. Outside of having the wind knocked from her, which she really hated Aella noticed a fair amount of pain with the gut-shot. Something with her muscle tight tummy wasn't used to. A hit to the face, yeah, or even a kidney.. but the gut should not have been much more than a discomfort, if that for her.
Fortunately she was pretty used to it all. Training, and she was no stranger to a bar fight. Even being a bit out of air was something she knew how to deal with. She slid off her bar-stool and righted herself, and adjusted her tunic while staring the fellow down.. well figuratively as she was a bit short.
1) Be Fearless.
2)Never turn away from a fight.
3)Obey the rules of war.
"Oh, oh, sorry lass" the massive fellow, towered over her at least six foot and at least twice her size, staggered with his hands up and palms out. He was already seeing double and probably just one of the many caught up in the bar brawl not even realizing why he was fighting.
His apology though, was too late.
Her tankard was already in motion a swing straight for his temple "Kudsr spilled" and backhand follow up "my" catching each side of his head. Then a knee to the nethers "drink!" just to bring him down to size. A double over for a double over.
She leans back against the bar setting her mug back down on it. "Uh oh, someone forgot his cod-piece" almost sympathetically she watches him with mocking doe-eyed expression and a bat of her lashes. "Oh.. oh.. sorry sir" the words matched his with only a hint of truth behind them as she guided him to the stool to sit. Then looked to the bartender, two steak and spiced potato dinners, an ale for him and mead for me. That and a room was the last of her lions.
"What now?"