Bound By Blood
Part I
Clear crisp water dripped from the young girl's face, waking her up on this bright early morning. She stared out the window of her tree-house home, looking around at the other tree-homes that had been connected by hemp rope bridges and ladders. Not the typical place to find a tiefling. She was the only "Red Horn" in the native elven village. Today was a very important day for Atka. Her 20th birthday, today she gains the Right of Free-Crossing. All members of the clan are bound to the land which they live until the 20th year of birth. After that milestone members may travel, and come and go with the clan as they please. Of course, Atka did not know her true day of birth, this date is just an assumed marking she gave when asked.
She loved the clan with every ounce of her soul, but felt ready to see the world. Especially the cities. The Shaman and Matron of the Loftheart Clan, Lythia, knew Atka was eager for this day. Lythia would constantly warn her of the dangers of the outside. She did not fear that Atka would end up bloodied roadside, but she worried she'd lose her path from the honest ways of the forest elves. Atka spent years of rigorous training to prepare herself for the monsters that crawled outside the safety of the treetops, but was stubborn. She refused to believe the city folk were corrupt, and that the elves were just bias because she was a tiefling.
The ceremony was going to begin soon. Atka threw her sword over her back, and secured her half-steel half-leather armor to her chest and legs. The gauntlets she bore were razor-edged on the top of her wrist, good for combat when your opponent disarms your sword half way across the room. Her boots were knee high black leather, made from the tanned hide of the wild boars that wondered the woods, the tusks of the boar dangled from her belt. They clanked together as she walked out the door and slid down the ladder, her gloved preventing rope burn. She landed on a thick branch walkway, intertwined with other tree limbs, providing support. Atka's brothers and sisters smiled and waved as she ran through the trees, racing to the Matron's Reside. The ceremony was only between the Matron and the one gaining the Right.
"Mother Lythia!" Atka pounded her fist against her door excitedly, "It's-"
The door whirled open, the Matron stood tall in the frame, "Atka Loftheart!" A bright smile drew back unto her face, and her arms flung up and wrapped around the red-skinned girl. To Lythia, Atka was like a daughter, a real sister of the natives. "My daughter, are you ready?" She took a step back and lead her inside by her wrist.
"You know how I feel about today." Atka grinned, grabbing the hilt of her sword, "I could not be more ready if I had trained in the nine hells itself." The two friend's laughed together, seating themselves near the indoor fire pit. The stump stools they sat on were carved with ancient elven script, which translated into "Last to ride, but first to rise, the Champions are sure to find, and slay the man who brings the binds. Keep today as one in hand, never suggest an early end." This was one of Atka's favorite passages of the Four Scripts. Each of the elven sub-races had their own script. The Elves of the Forbidden Forest, the Drow of the Underdark, the Eladrin of the Feywilds, and the Lythari Wolf Elves all have their own Script that they follow as a people, and are sworn to protect it's resting place. All Four Scripts are hidden away in a secret temple, only the four Matrons know it's location.
The fire burned a clear purple flame, with a navy blue murky center. Lythia and the rest of the Loftheart clan were Lythari, wolf-elves. They could transform into dire wolves at any time, day or night. And though Atka could not mimic their racial abilities, she adapted herself as a known alpha figure in the clan, and so, her parting gift for her Right of Free-Crossing Lythia would tattoo her own Mark. The elf slowly placed her hand in the fire, using her magic to absorb it in her veins. She pulled her hand back and turned Atka around, pulling her shirt up exposing her back. With her magically charged hand she began to trace the Mark. It was a wolf head, it's jaw opened slightly biting down into a lamb's heart. The crude magic burned into her skin and she screamed in pain, she had heard from others that receiving their Mark was the most painful thing you'd face in the world. But she could never have imagined in her right mind the searing burn would leave such an incredible sting. Blood ran off her spine and pooled on the floor. Typically the burn-tattoo would be black "ink" on an Lythari's skin, but her scarlet skin the burn was a plum purple.
Crowds huddled around the house, eagerly awaiting the tiefling's return. They all wondered what Mark she was destined to have. The chatter was hushed, from time to time hearing from children, "I bet her's is the Mark of The Winged!" or "No, she's got to have the Mark of The Sun, she's a Red-Skin!"
Finally, the wooden door of the hovel swung open. The crowd hushed and even the rudest and chattiest children held their tongues awaiting Atka. The long-legged girl, strutted from the darkness that lurked behind the rotting door, her lengthy blonde hair swishing back and fourth behind her strung back in a pony-tail. Atka's eyes glowed a fierce scarlet, flushed with pain. She was topless and smoke rose from her shoulders as the last of the burn cooled off. The quiet crowd murmured to one another, then untroubled once more as Atka turned around and exposed her back. The uncovering was like unveiling a masterpiece at the heart of a museum, hushed gasps and whispers twirled around the elves lips.
"The Mark of the Heart." Lythia spoke from the shadows, stepping into the light of the forest. She rested her hand atop of Atka's shoulder, the tiefling's back still facing the crowd, "Atka, is no Lythari, that is for certain. But she has been with us for some time now... yes, quite some time." Lythia's eyes scanned the crowd, some of which had taken their wolf forms now.
"And she has grown among the people, learned our ways," She continued, "And so at the heart of this girl, underneath the rusty red veil that is her skin, lies the beat of our drums."