Author's Ramblings: Blah blah blah I don't own anything except Kinthea. This is your average novelization of the original campaign, with two chapters thrown in at the beginning to elaborate on my character's history.
Enjoy.

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It was not uncommon at all for Esmerelle to leave West Harbor for months at a time. She had never struck any of the residents as the type who would settle down and live a quiet life. At times, her presence seemed almost feral and volatile, much like the wild elves Daeghun allegedly grew up with. No one knew exactly where she went on these journeys, and not many felt particularly inclined to ask.

Not until the day she returned with child.

Esmerelle was normally cryptic and hesitant when the subject of her adventures came up, though occasionally she would tell a little story or show off some of the strange objects she'd acquired. But through the seemingly endless rounds of questioning from the villagers, she refused to say a word about the father or even her travels. Her closest friends, Daeghun and Shayla, respected her silence and dared not ask about it or even mention the subject.

The child's name was Kinthea. From the day of her birth, it had been apparent that she was not entirely human. The girl had elven blood in her, most likely wood or wild elven; though it was hard to say exactly which. She had Esmerelle's mossy green eyes, as well as her untamed spirit; periodically wailing throughout the night was her favorite way of attracting attention. There were times when Esmerelle felt that she simply could not care for the child, that it was a curse thrust upon her life. Still, some part of her soul truly loved her daughter, and she requested that if anything should happen to her, Shayla would raise Kinthea as she would her own child.

Not long after she was born, the demons came.

Kinthea shrieked and bawled as her mother cradled her in bloodstained arms, whispering a gentle lullaby with her dying voice. The both of them were crippled by the pain, the explosion of silver still flashing in their eyes. Shayla lay motionless a mere few feet away, though her corpse was nigh unrecognizable now, and Daeghun was nowhere to be found...

In her last moments, Esmerelle murmured a prayer to the gods, lightly pressing her hand to the bloodless wound in Kinthea's chest.

-x-

Things were considerably quiet after the battle. Everything was focused on rebuilding, restoring, and renewing the land; that was the way of the Harbormen. You suffered, you survived, and you were ultimately stronger because of it. You moved on with life, didn't linger too long in past events, and went about your business.

Even so, there was no doubt about the fact that the battle had changed every survivor. There was a certain melancholy aura about the town, an almost perpetual gloom. They had never lost so much, had they?

But there was a note of hope, a small miracle. Even though her mother had perished, Kinthea yet lived. The injury she'd been discovered with was apparently of little consequence, and Daeghun had taken her as his foster child. No longer did she cry or scream in desperation for attention - in some way, the battle had also changed Kinthea. She was somber and quiet throughout her infancy, and even when she smiled, one could swear it wasn't genuine. This continued into her childhood, and she would often shut herself in her room for hours, to only think and brood about nothing at all.

-x-

In the darkest hour of the winter night, Daeghun was trapped in a restless slumber. He awoke from the dream slowly, disoriented and haunted. He couldn't even remember what he'd been dreaming about, but it left him with an unshakable sense of dread. He lay quietly in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to push himself back into sleep.

No sooner had he closed his eyes when he heard a strangled cry. Startled, he sat bolt upright, blinking rapidly. The sound was not human, but it was pained, and it had come from downstairs. Practically leaping out of bed, he pulled on a cloth robe for warmth and grabbed a crude dagger from the bedside table. Pushing open his bedroom door, Daeghun crept down the creaking wooden stairs, only to find the last thing he would have expected.

Lying in a pool of her own blood, skin and fur slashed hurriedly, was Tansy, Webb Mossfeld's beloved housecat. It was she who had cried out, in either terror or pain. Standing over the cat's corpse was Kinthea, eyes still bright with the spark of adrenaline. She trembled with either fear or rage, her tiny hands clutching the grips of two bloody knives. Looking up at her foster father, she recited her motive through clenched teeth.

"Wyl hurt Bevil... so I will hurt his brother."