The palace court yard was barren, a part from a lone warrior, training behind the barracks, where there had been practice targets placed all along the perimeter of the private training grounds.

This figure was the definition of skill, finesse, grace, elegance and focus. In turn, deadly. They hacked precisely and effectively at each practice dummy, without mercy, causing the wooden beams that created the target to splinter and snap a little more with each hit. This character favoured the short blade and bow over anything else, preferring stealth and precision over brute force and clumsiness.

At this time, they sported two daggers, each with a slight curve in their structure, allowing short swift movements as they danced through the air by their masters command. They span and flurried in complete harmony, before coming down onto the nearest dummy within sight, and tearing through it's once carefully placed chest plate. A fatal blow, if ever to be apon a soldier of her fathers.

This figure, in disdain, was a young woman. Her long hair, black as sin, tied in a now messy and loose braid, cascading all the way down her slenderly curved back. Eyes, a piercing azure specked with a bright emerald and ivory. Her flawless skin was an extremely pale colour, though not ill looking. Simply, pure. However, momentarily, this is not true, as her forehead showed signs of sweat and her cheeks burned a flowery rouge color. Her small frame and yet strong, curvatious build was hidden beneath a layer of thick leather armor. In which she had stolen from her fathers armoury, and tailored it to fit snugly over her womanly curves. Never commonly was it heard of that a woman would bare arms at all, let alone effectively...

However, even in this state of carefully calculated rage and insane power, she was still the stunningly beautiful lady Cousland, daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland. Yes. This young woman I had described as a warrior is, in fact, nobility. Because of her fascination with battle and swordplay, she is looked apon with disdain, by all her kin, but a few. This is why she tries to keep her true passion hidden, as to not disgrace her family. And so, here she is. Taking out her newly found frustration on these poor, unfortunate dummies, in her secluded part of the courtyard behind the soldiersbarracks. This was her sanctuary, be it sun or snow, she would come here to train, to vent, to feel...something...

Just as she stopped her partly-mindless rage, daggers sunken deeply into the metal, hay and wood of her pulverized target, she took a slow, heaving breath. Trying to slow her heart rate, before noticing her grip on the daggers. Her knuckles, white from the amount of strength in her grip, bled, now reminding her of the physical state of pain she was in. The dark warm liquid slivered down her tensed arm, the starting droplet disappearing under her armor. At that moment, the young flower tasted salt on her now split lip. Noticing the substance was leaking from her eyes, her legs gave way and she dropped to the dusty ground, among the remains of the dummy she just bested almost effortlessly, then had gone further to obliterate it out of anger and frustration. An unwelcome sob left her body. The blades were now forgotten in their place, and left as the young woman struggled to her feet.

"Ar nuvenin na'din!" The woman spat angrily in the dalish tongue."My own mother!..." She silenced herself as she fell to the dirt once more. "father..." She whispered under her breath, biting back the barrage of tears that threatened to escape once more. She simply stayed there a while, trying to compose herself before she went on a genocidal rampage. 'That would be in vain...' She thought to herself finally seeing sense. 'It would only worsen your situation...' She inwardly sighed, tears now at bay and under control. Her childish temper simmered down to a low hiss under her fare skin.

The reason for her anguish was her mothers recent and openly discussed opinion of her daughters current social situation, as well as relationship status, or lack there of. The wise, and equally as beautiful woman had been secretly discussing this matter with her husband and had both come to the conclusion that their daughter should 'forget about those knives and swordplay and settle down to become a wife and mother.' The young flower had shuddered in disgust at the thought. 'marriage?' 'give up swordplay?' These things she had never thought to ever do, or would be forced to do.

And now, on the day of her 19th birthday, she had just received word from her mother that she be married by next moon or to have at least picked a suitable, well, suitor . At this news, the emerald in the young woman's eyes lit up brightly, showing her anger openly towards her mother, whom usually only wished what was best for her family . She had always loved her daughter, and she knew this. Even if she had spoke to her on subjects of this matter or at least insinuated otherwise. She had already chosen a new suitor to follow all of the others for her daughter, and all before that 19th birthday.

The young, angry flower spat and cursed with deep disgust. She had known about these 'suitors' for a while, but kept the information hidden from her mother and her opinion to herself, as to keep from hurting her mother further...

Now, what is this young and broken flowers name? it is a strange name in these lands she lives apon, and yet, she cares little. For it reminds her of her hidden strength, and helps will her to endure hardships so that she may live on. Her name is-

"E'lyra!"

Startled by the cry of her name, E'lyra stood, trying in vain to wipe away her tears with bloody knuckles. As you can imagine, this did not fool the very tall warrior now standing, towering beside her, arms crossed over his chest plate. He wore steel plated armor, carried a great sword on his back and from the worried glint in his eyes, she could tell it was the more lenient one of the soldiers under her fathers banner, in despite of the fact that his face has covered by his helm-guard.

"My lady...You know your mother disapproves of this..."

"Yes, that I do, Frederick..." She spoke boldly, emitting confidence, dusting off her leather breeches with her hands. "As do many others 'disapprove' of my hobby." Speaking the truth, she gave a humorous smile to lighten her own mood.

"And yet, you persist..." He sighed shaking his head, though, she could tell he was smiling.

"I suggest you go and get washed up, my lady... Before both of us get it in the neck."

"Alright, alright, I yield." E'lyra lifted her hands in a sign of mock surrender. "However, do not blame me if the halls of the palace run red with blood." She pointed her finger at him childishly before turning to leave. She left the daggers there, though she did so reluctantly. A weapon should be cared for as you care for yourself, if not, better. 'Look after your weapon, and your weapon will look after you...'

The words of her mother echoed in E'lyra's mind, reminding her of her mothers own past, and how she gave up swordsmanship in search of a husband...