Description
Moving with a fair amount of elegance, though stumbling slightly on occasion,
and possessed of an air of ease and warmth, this elf-maiden has an air of
nobility, but seems an average figure. Her long, limbs sweep fairly
gracefully with each motion, whether it her slow, decidedly unfeminine walk,
her gentle gesticulations during conversation, or her desperate dance behind
the heavy shields she often carries. From her worn, but polished armor to the
limp blonde curls spilling from 'neath her helm, each feature adds up to a
common sort of beauty. It is that of a warrior, or a crusader: especially the
eyes. A cloudy bluish-gray, they hold not fire but an elemental fierceness, a
stormy intensity roiling within their slanted gaze. They dominate her long,
lean face, and are the most striking features in an otherwise plain visage.
Role
The Blooming
Added Mon Feb 26 18:52:14 2007 at level 51:
Mendecirith rose, thanked Sokde and Theroc for the audience and chance to
tell the story of her Lady Rayihn, and left the cozy seat and warm fire of
the Inn, and hiked back to the Fortress. Her heart was light for the first
time in many days: the example of her Goddess was the direction she had been
searching for.
Did Rayihn hesitate to pull her love through the Veil? Did she cower before
Nyastren? Didn't she protect Daevryn from the fiend? There was no second
thought, no hesitation. Her heart began to uncurl and open, blooming in the
quiet assurance that comes with great love and purpose.
She loved Zephon, she understood that now. She would remain a woman: her life
as a man seemed very distant now. She loved Thera, and the people. They
needed Rayihn's healing, they needed true love. They needed Mendecirith to
give these gifts to them, to defend them. After all, her gift was love: it
ever was given freely to her, even after the card of Temperance. True love
did not see the beauty of the face, the strength of the body, or the
sharpness of the mind: it sees only the heart.
Here is her plan: to love the people, and continue defending them. She will
minister to them more, a duty she has neglected. The statue of Rayihn will
stand in Voralian City's cathedral, and perhaps she will be able to persuade
the Order to charge the innocent and good-hearted less for healing prayers.
She missed Enarn terribly. And Zorson and Dahltu, and so many others. But it
was her duty, as Mersiliat had reminded her, to carry on for them.
She will not disappoint.
Determination, Even Against Fate
Added Wed Feb 7 01:52:39 2007 at level 51:
As she drew the Card of Temperance... the change couldn't be described, save
for heartbreaking, utterly horrifying. Having the best parts of yourself
lessened by innocent curiosity, by capricious fate. Not even her sweet luck
had saved her. However... was she not one of the Chosen of Rayihn? Was she
not, even still, beautiful, talented, resourceful and strong? Of course! All
things may be healed, given the right effort applied in the right way. Her
Goddess said that she did not meddle in the affairs of Fate, so Mendecirith
would have to find a way to alter her own Fate to restore herself to her
former glory, her former ability.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she noted with her now-foggier memory that
she *was* less beautiful, though still radiant. Her mind wasn't sharp as the
lightning-crack, anymore, her insight less precise. Surely the Cardinal of
the Golden Sun needed all the wisdom she could muster!
So she formulated a plan: shore up her abilities with magical equipment for
the time being, and take Baerinika up on her offer of restoration... perhaps
not only would her original gender be restored... but perhaps a way could be
found to restore the lost parts of herself, as well. The way shall
undoubtedly be impossibly hard, and test her to the point of breaking, she
was prepared for the challenge. After all, it couldn't be as hard as being
one of the brightest lights, one of the best hopes of Thera, now, could it?
Penitence
Added Mon Jan 29 23:15:06 2007 at level 51:
The Seaport never sleeps, even in the dead of night: sailors still prowled
and caroused, traders, thieves, brawlers, courtesans, and adventurers all
dealt, brawled, loved, murdered, thieved and hustled. A lady paladin rested
on the edge of the dock, gazing out at the Dragon Sea, and at the stars.
She gazed down at her wrist, at a small golden charm bracelet, and at the
beautiful silver sword in her hand and wept. Far away, beneath the earth, the
svirfnebli mourned the death of their King: but at whose hands?
Was she even worthy of this sword? Or of her Lady's love, power, and mark? To
even be named a priest, a paladin? The guilt was black and crushing as the
lower depths, the dark places of the ocean. It closed about her heart with
unbearable pressure.
Why had she gone along, without so much as a second thought? Why didn't she
say anything? Why such greed for magical items? Her heart cracked slightly
beneath the pressure.
She knew only faith and penance could cure this. She prayed for her Lady's
blessing, and walked back toward the lights of the desert city. There was
still work to do, especially within herself.
With the Soul of a Man
Added Sat Jan 27 20:37:13 2007 at level 50:
Mendecirith remembered the first batch of grapes he'd eaten. He remembers the
bizarre, burning pain, the involuntary scream. But life had gone on as
normal: defending, fighting, guiding, healing. What he didn't realize,
however, was that he had been fundamentally changed by the grapes he'd found
in the Bracelet of Charms taken from the Imperial High Priestess. She had not
realized at all...
Maethron and Imam, her old thief friends, had told her on Mount Calandaryl,
in the midst of the roving undead. They had thought she'd known, that it was
a matter of fact. Mendecirith was simply in shock. She had barely been able
to guide them through the Mount, and her sword and shield-arm were failing
when she was felled by Halistanis, the Harbinger.
One woman slaying another.
She looked in the mirror, seated at a small table behind a vanity screen at a
childhood friend's home in Darsylon. She patted her new cheeks, new lips,
which trembled as her eyes shone with tears. She had no idea how to do this,
what this meant, what a woman truly was, and thought, and felt inside. She
needed to speak with Rayihn *immediately*. And she needed to start growing
her hair out for the first time since she was an adolescent boy. She pursed
her lips, and screwed her stormy eyes shut, except for a small crack,
allowing a blurry, shadowy vision. She stood up, still tall, still beautiful
in the candlelight, before the mirror, and hesitantly, fingers trembling
fitfully, remove the first straps on her vambraces and breastplate...
Reflection, Rejuvenation, Refocus
Added Thu Jan 25 17:23:50 2007 at level 40:
The paladin plodded past the altar of The Bathhouse toward the steaming pools
within. Each movement spoke of weariness, his eyes whispered of disquiet. He
let the mace, still spattered slightly with blood, and shield fall with a
resounding thunk and clang. He slowly, methodically removed his armor as a
dull sigh trudged past his fair lips. The once-shining armor fell in a
clanking pile at the water's edge, and the beautiful, naked elf lowered
himself gingerly, soundlessly into the healing waters.
He lay back and floated, his hair streaming behind him, as he had so many
times before, but the peace did not come. The disquiet stayed. The aches had
become worse, and they resisted the healing warmth of the waters. He felt
old, for the first time in his life. He was a young elf, though, not yet 250
years old!
The fight had taken it's toll on him. Many days of being surrounded by a
teeming mob of the wicked wasn't what he had bargained for, it wasn't what he
had expected. Who knew that this cancer had eaten so far into Thera? How can
the Light stand against these dark tides?
He took a deep breath, and steadied himself. The doubt and fear are
illusions. The Light will stand because of those like we in the Fortress, it
will stand because of men and women like me, with the pure love in their
hearts. How will the Light stand? It will be carried by me, and my brothers
and sisters likewise. It was obviously his time to rise, he realized, in time
to intersect, stand against, and help drive back the dark.
This comforted him. The unease lessened a bit. It had been very hard, he had
not felt the pure love for quite a while: the days and nights of fighting,
little sleep, and only bread and water had hardened him. He was glad for the
strength, but was now uncentered. His heart was in turmoil, weary of the
fright and strain of battle. He stayed in those pools for many hours, and for
days alternated between meditating and practicing his swordplay upon the
rocks and cliffs about Seantryn Bay, and resting, healing, reflecting in the
pools of his Lady.
He was a follower of Lady Rayihn. He was beautiful and great. That had not
changed. He effortlessly earned the love of all he met: his gift. He was an
Acolyte, oathed to protect Thera and all her children. He was refocused. His
path was clear: his beauty and strength required that he use himself as a
gift (by using his own unique gifts) to Thera of love(liness!), hope, and
healing.
His heart was calmed. His true beauty radiated like the sunset on the sea,
the zeal and passion welled in his eyes like the churning storm. His heart
was open. Spring thaw had come. Thus came Mendecirith Ieayasu'olas truly into
his own, blossoming as radiant as the un-self conscious lotus in the stillest
secret pool.
Grief
Added Thu Jan 18 01:10:21 2007 at level 35:
Today... I lost a dear, dear friend. The elf, dressed in shining armor
spattered with blood, mace and shield fallen by his sides sat dejectedly on a
snowy rock, face in his hands, speaking forlornly to the ghostly Maran
Tara'bal. I lost Treimer as I fought Waserax, that bizzare, cruel hunter
Taelin murdered him. And then he was lost to me forever. I could have left
Waserax. I could have saved him, or healed him at the least. I could have
taken the ranger first...
He bursts into fresh sobs, his thin shoulders heaving terribly, tears
dripping through the fingers shielding his face from this new, harsh reality.
The Maran's ghostly eyes, those pinpoints of light, waver, just a moment,
over at the young paladin, and soften a moment.
Losing friends is hard. Losing loved ones is harder.
Mendecirith has sworn vengeance against the senselessly predating felar
ranger, and resolves that no more of his friends should fall without him
pouring the love and power of his soul, and of Lady Rayihn into them.
The Toils and Victories.
Added Sun Jan 14 03:39:25 2007 at level 28:
Much, indeed, has happened, the young elf, with a few more scars now,
murmured to the mermaid attendant in the splendor of Lady Rayihn's divine
Bathhouse. There've been many battles... many victories as well. My
stout-hearted companions have proven fine allies... Shupples, Treimer and
others. We have made a start in cleansing Thera, and making it safer for the
innocents. My newly-bolstered faith has buoyed me through many dark times...
when all my gear was stolen or destroyed... when I fell so many times to so
many different assailants... I was forced to take a step back, retreat to
Moudrilar's Monestary and spend some time in deep meditation, prayer, and
fasting, to test myself, to determine my true path, and I am resolved: I walk
it even now. It flows before me so beautifully, this life of sacrifice,
protection, and retribution against the wicked. Though I cannot say why, I
love Thera. The "lesser" races (though their many strengths and differences
are so apparent, amazing and lovely to me now), my kin, and the very stuff of
it. I love it, and will continue to give my life to preserve it, give my life
that I may truly possess it, through the Lady's love...
He chuckles and slips back into the pool. He breathes deeply, and gives a
slight cough. The hot water soothes his wounds, new and old, and comforts the
weariness that he'd never felt before life as a paladin.
The Taking Love
Added Thu Dec 28 23:15:35 2006 at level 18:
Mother always swore I was born... or was it conceived? under Ahalanephros,
the Star of Love. My lucky star. Not that elves usually believe in lucky
stars...
Thus I was born, and so I grew. My parents always softly insisted, with a not
insignificant amount of pride, that I was the only child they needed or
wanted, that they couldn't possibly conceive any creature better than I. It
was always a lot to bear, I see that now.
I was, and remain, talented at most anything I put my hand or mind to. A
level of physical coordination and grace unusual even among my kin, a mind
sharp as one of our seasoned sages, and all my kind always, either
reverently, lustily, or jealously, praised my "inspiring beauty". Strange to
have unknowns proclaim so fiercely, so insistently, and name you beautiful.
That also, is a weighty burden, which now I rightly perceive.
***
Mendecirith suffered all his life from being heaped with praise, admired,
desired, envied, and expected to perform and create the greatest of fates.
Nothing could hold the boy's interest, though. It seemed to him that all
anybody saw were the accomplishments and feats that came so boringly easy to
him, his supposedly beautiful form, which to him seemed so very much in kind
and type like any other elf's, or his quiet wisdom and concise intellect. He
could see right through them, right past their clothes, gaudy or expensive or
poor, through their skin and flesh and bone right to their heart of hearts.
He always saw that they never were able to see back, to see him. Some saw a
light that they might have a piece of, to light their darkness. Some saw the
strengths they'd given up hope ever posessing long, long ago. Others saw
beauty that could, were it to value them, confer the worth and loveliness
they'd always lived without. But never him, never the quiet, lonely, confused
boy and man he actually was. He was somehow the canvas for their hopes and
dreams and deepest wishes. And it was destroying him.
Not to say he did not inspire well some, or give hope and happiness to others
as well, but he could find no reflection, but lost his identity in the
maelstrom of dreams and hopes that assailed him whenever he locked eyes with
another. Was this their love? Could he survive such a thing?
It shocked everyone when he announced his entry into the guild. Not an
ignoble calling, by any means, but usually reserved for legacies, for scions
of holy families, or for the devotion of the otherwise untalented. It was an
honorable choice, but many felt he'd wasted much of his potential. That was
acceptable to him. He could find true meaning, true love from the divine that
could look into his soul, understand, and appreciate him as he was.
Such a love could change him. The visions of other's hearts could inspire him
to help him, to teach him many secrets of the world, to give that love would
bring him back all the pieces of himself.
Desire and Abnegation
Added Wed Dec 27 00:53:58 2006 at level 1:
A sunny spring breeze blew through and past the paths, boles, and avenues of
Darsylon, as did a sunny, blonde elf-maiden heartily run: honey-gold locks
flying free as her hood fell back, long, shapely legs glimpsed ever higher,
ever more thigh glimpsed as her robes were hiked slowly up by her graceful,
but hearty, cant. She was running to the boy (to the man?) she loved (or so
she thought). She was a woman grown, 128 years in fact. She felt mature in a
very new way with this season, another intoxicating, ephemeral spring. She
was nearly a full healer, only a decade or so of studies and prayers and
fasting and tests and trials away from the blessing of the Church and the
Healers guild. Her soul and heart were clear and strong, her body yearning,
and she wanted him with her soul. It couldn't be wrong.
(Children of less noble families usually have much less supervision, thus,
making life much easier in every area that doesn't have to do with your
elders or tradition. Which is pretty much every aspect of life, in Darsylon,
anyway )
She found him clad cloth breeches and a blindfold, practicing his forms. The
way he moved... dancing not behind, but with his shield, the rivulets and
beads of sweat slick on his muscles, the fluid strikes and sweeps of his
swordarm mesmerized her. She grinned, gripped her staff with both hands, and
began to circle silently around the clearing, watching the half-naked man's
movements intently. She saw the opening: she leaped, swinging for his head
with a mighty downward strike.
He sidestepped, and continued the form.
After landing unceremoniously on the forest floor, robes in disarray, the
young cleric grinned and with a quick sweep, sent the man crashing down onto
his shield. She scuttled over and straddled him before he caught his breath,
and kissed him passionately, full on the lips. They both stirred with
passion, there on the ground, in the warm light of the waning afternoon.
He knew what was happening. He could feel, touch, smell, and taste her. He
knew what he wanted. He could feel that there was no other cloth under her
robe. He knew what another part of him wanted, too. He also knew what he had
to do. So he did it.
A quick wriggle and a gentle shove with his knees he had flipped her off,
kipupped, pulled her to her feet and held her waist, her hips close to his.
They listened to each other breathe. He could hear and feel the heat, the
rising anger, frustration, and sadness of rejection welling up from her
navel, past her breasts, pooling in her throat, ready to burst in a deluge of
tears. He took her hand in his, and with it pulled his blindfold off. He let
it drop, and placed her hand against his cheek, and took her face in his
hands. He studied her. She was comely and lovely and sweet for true. A very
picture of young love and life and lust and loveliness. He kissed her four
times, once on each cheekbone, her little nose, and smooth forehead.
He looked at her again. He hoped she understood. He clasped her in a tight
embrace, then released, then picked up his sword and shield, then, perhaps
with one eye brimming, left his glade of practice and testing.