Name: Kierra (pronounced key-ara) HanaHeight: 5'8"
Weight: 135lbs
Age: 27
Hair: Long, sun gold blonde
Eyes: Aquamarine
So ye desire a tale? What sort of tale? Of a poor, peasant maid whom steals the heart of a Noble Knight? Or mayhaps a tale of the Handsome Hero whom saves an impoverish beauty from the lecherous hand of her wicked Stepfather? Aye, I think ye desire a tale of wooing, of happy endings and everything that makes of a good tale.
Then mayhaps ye best turn thine ears from the tale I am about to weave, for there shall be no Handsome Hero, no tale of woo or happy endings. But there is a maid, poor and beauteous
My tale begins on the cool eve of the Spring Equinox. Take thyself there, a small fishing village on the shore of the Kervallian Ocean. A soft breeze is gently blowing, the smell of the salt sea on the night air mixing with the scents of the oncoming spring, the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs.
A maiden lays in her cottage, attended to by the women of the village, her toddler son watching from the corner of the room. A difficult pregnancy it has been, and the labour has been already too long. The maiden has lost much blood in the birthing, she would not survive if the child did not enter Othala soon. But praise the gods, both mother and child live. The joy of the womenfolk of the village is grand, for what better news to welcome the sea faring men then that of a new-born child - one borne the very eve they were to return.
And return they do, though this is where my heart warming tale ends. For on the soft, sea breeze, is the stench of death.
The maiden's man, a strong and proud sailor, had returned to the sea. Washed overboard during a sudden storm that claimed the lives of a score of men. He would never hold his new-born daughter, and she would never know her father.
Let me move the wheels of time ahead a few sais.
The maiden has wed again, a man kind and generous to children - if ye be a son or of his own flesh. A daughter was borne of the maid and her new man, a little girl that was the gem of her father's eye. Gifts of fine dresses and dolls and everything a maiden of Teshwan could ever dream of was bestowed upon the little girl - forever overlooking the daughter of the fallen sailor.
The son, eldest of the three, did his Stepfather proud. He was strong, able body, willing to toil as any man of Teshwan, yet in secret he betrayed that heritage.
He alone adored the middle child of the family, the daughter that never knew a father's love. Her elder brother cared for her like no other, not even her mother, and taught her many things he should not. Sword, spear, knife, shield, all the ways of men and of war. " I shall not ever be nigh to protect thee, dear sister, so thou must protest thyself." He had seen the wandering glances of his Stepfather as his sister began to mature into a maiden fair, and he would die before he saw his sister harmed in any way.
Let us once again speed up the hands of time, seventeen sais have passed since the Spring Equinox that welcome a child to Othala and took her father from her. The family feast has ended and they prepare for the festivities of the Spring Festival. Only one has remembered what this night also signified.
Torell - a strapping young man of nineteen winters - has a gift for his sister. As the rest of the family departs he takes her aside, into the homestead barn where they had spent many a night training and sparring with their make-believe swords and spears. But there is to be no make-believe this night.
Commissioned by the blacksmith, he bestows to his sister a sword of gleaming metal with a pearl encrusted pommel. The finest craftsmanship, he had saved for many sais to be able to grant his sister this one pleasure, and with the tears of gratitude and love staining her cheeks they faced off against one another. She with her newly gifted sword, he with the blade that had belonged to their father.
But the fates, they are cruel beings, and the twists of the fates are not for the understanding of mortals.
Beneath the noise of their sparring, the could not hear the approaching footsteps nor the door of the barn open. But Torell was the first to see him standing there. With an expression of the deepest rage, their Stepfather stood in the frame of the door. But she could not see, and only too late did she realize her brother was not moving to parry her incoming strike.
The perfectly crafted blade tore through her brother's chest.
Her heart was shattered as surely as Torell's that night.
Murder has but one punishment, and though there was witness to the accident, the cold heart of her Stepfather was all to eager to see his remaining burden gone from his life. But not before he claimed what he had coveted for many sais.
When he was spent, she ran, taking with her only the clothing on her back, the sword she had been given and the memory of the death of her own brother at her hands.
No bard am I, gentle Sirs and Ladies, but that is the tale which I have to offer thee.
Mayhaps there is more but, alas, my throat is parched after such a long winded tale. Still, if thou woudst buy me an ale, my tongue may loosen and I may tell ye some more...