I was born in the area known as the Ghostlands, long before the fall of the Sunwell. My parents were simple folk, traders by occupation, who kept to themselves. Neither of them had particularly lofty aspirations for their seventh child and first daughter. Not that they didn't love me-they had just prepared themselves for the worst life could throw at us. I grew up in Suncrown village, a medium sized hamlet on the the river that separates the Ghostlands from Eversong. My earliest memory is of sunlight glinting off the crystal smooth water of the river.
My childhood was a happy, if uneventful one. I was particularly close to my twin sister, Destris. She was always a crafty one, roping me into be the distraction for schemes to steal confections, or to sneak out of the village. I got into no end of trouble on her behalf, making sure that no harm ever came to her. We drifted as we grew up though. She was good at playing 'the game', at seeming perfectly respectable and demure, conforming with all of society's norms. I wasn't as good an actress as her, and I had a sharper temper to boot. She moved up, I moved along.
Bitterness drove a rift between us.
I found myself devoid of purpose as a child. My entire life was ahead of me, yet I had no idea of what to do with it. My mother wanted me to become a seamstress, and as such spent tireless hours teaching me to make, mend, and modify clothes with needle and thread. I hated sewing, how intricate and finicky it was, hated even more how seamstresses were treated. The upperclass would breeze into my parent's little store and demand a new dress or robe. The level of contempt they had for us worker drones was overwhelmingly infuriating to me.
One day, a customer acted particularly vile towards me, regarding me as little more than a slave to bow and scrape to their every demand. My mother and father were in a separate room, running errands, and as such weren't there to remind me of 'the virtue of restraint'. He kicked me to the floor after I wasn't quick enough in crossing the room for his taste, and I lost my temper. I lashed out at the bastard, untrimmed fingers scoring across his perfectly made up face. The look of shock and outrage on his face was one of the most satisfying visions I'd ever seen.
What was less satisfying was when he summoned the guards to arrest me.
I was thirteen at the time, a gangly, scrawny youth, but I spent the night in the Tranquillien lockup he same as all the other rabble rousers, thieves, and attempted murderers. The 'wounded' client had enough influence and wealth to have had me put away for the rest of my life-I think he was part of the Royal Guard, so he easily could have pinned the charge of sedition on me.
Destris, crafty as ever, managed to convince the bailiff that I was out of my mind at the time. Since attacking an honor guard is insane, then therefore I must have been too. She added a fair amount of sycophancy to her case, and a few pilfered silvers no doubt. If there's anything the high elf elite enjoy, it's having the lower classes tell them how great and benevolent they are. As a result, I spent two years in a mental institution as a victim rather than twenty years in prison as a criminal. I was bitter for a while after, but I could never really stay mad at my only sister. We laughed about it after, but in a nervous, reserved way.
After this, my parents decided to introduce me to something less social:alchemy. Making cheap little potions out of silverleaf and peacebloom grown in our back garden wasn't very lucrative, but there was never a short market for it. Unfortunately, this too proved to be a fruitless exercise, as the delicate preparation of all the leaves and flasks wasn't to my taste, and I had to be so very careful not to break anything in my anger, lest I set my already impoverished family back several silvers.
By this point, things were starting to look bleak for my future. The end of my teenage years were fast approaching, and I still had no idea what profession to go into. If I didn't choose in a hurry, my only avenue for success would be to sell myself off to some noble brat-whether it be through marriage or prostitution, both options seemed despicable to me. Even my conformist parents agreed that no-one could benefit from tying me to a man I didn't want.
I tried my hand at cooking, fishing, even inscription, and enchanting. Not a single one I had the patience or will for. Then, one day, we decided to try leatherworking. There was just one issue-the shipment of leather my parents had ordered from me was attacked on the road by a rogue band of scourge.I had to go out into the woods and gather the skins myself. My doting parents protested vehemently-no way would they risk getting their beloved daughter killed by some feral lynx.
I wheedled and pleaded and bargained and threatened, and eventually I was able to convince them to let me go. In retrospect, I'm unsure of why I was so desperate. I suppose it was the intrigue, the mystery of the big world beyond my tiny village. I was sent out with a bow and bundles of bandages. The atmosphere in the house that day was akin to that of a funeral. I was buzzing with anticipation on the other hand, counting the hours until my departure.
That first kill….I still smile to think back on it. There have been better hunts since then, bigger ones, cleaner ones, more thrilling ones. But the first time is always special. Isn't that what they say about sex? For me, it was more true of the hunt. I remember it with perfect clarity, while my first lover's face is long forgotten to me. The fear, the thrill of shadowing the lynx through the woods. The secret delight and besting the creature at its own game. The anticipation tingling on my tongue as I readied myself to strike. The victory as I felt its heart still beneath my palm.
I skinned the creature haphazardly, but it mattered little to me. I was so proud of my grisly trophy, and it was then that I decided my fate. I would become a huntress, a Farstrider. Chasing down the high of the kill for the rest of my life, always on the edge of life and death.
When I came home, buoyed on the lust of victory, I declared my intentions to my weeping parents. They stared at me, utter shock and disbelief on their faces for a long moment. Then, my mother burst into tears again, thick, wracking sobs that pulled her to the floor in her despair. A darkness came over my normally stoic father's face. That was the first time I saw him raise his hand to anyone. He bellowed at me as I lay, shell-shocked and confused on the floor. He was trying to scare me away from the path I had chosen-if I wouldn't fear the path itself, he would make me fear him.
My sister stood on the sidelines, watching onwards. She scurried to my side, helped me up off the floor, and whispered how difficult my job would be. She had full faith that I could cope with animals, scourge, and enemies of the high elves. It was my own peers she was scared of. The elite, who sneered down at us 'commoners', and who would stop at nothing to prevent me from muddying the Farstrider's blood.
If Destris had been trying to dissuade me, she had said the wrong thing.
Forgot notes in the last chapter-derp.
Blizzard does not belong to me etc. Some artistic license taken on the lore, as I'm unfamiliar with it. Don't like, don't read.