She peers into the water with a hint of trepidation. She blinks and her reflection mirrors her.
A thin, muscled woman with red hair and scarlet-brown eyes. Tattoos ring her eyes and arc over her brow, the color standing out against her dark skin.
Almain, a warrior people.
She remembers little of her life before her rebirth in the Well of Souls. What she remembers is mostly from childhood, of days wandering with her family. A mercenary band, tales of battles past told around a campfire, laughter and family all around.
The other memories are not so pleasant.
Blood splattering her blade, a cold and cruel voice, always demanding and taking…
She shivers, staring into the pool and she sees for a moment who she was, what she was.
A wide grin of malice, blades raised high that come slashing down, blood splashing across her face, fear in her enemies eyes, the desire for power, always more, always moving, a greater goal in the distance, prismere burning bright—
She tears her gaze away, fearful of what she might remember and when she looks back again, she sees only the person she is now.
She rises, clasping her pack back around her waist. Her faeblades are a familiar weight across her shoulders, her chakram clasped at her hip.
She is not the woman she was before. Of that she is certain.