Lyrium
The magic in my skin is palpable to anyone with any little bit of magical power. The siren call of the lyrium in me sings to any mage nearby. When I'm angry or excited or feeling any intense emotion, I feel its subtle burn all over my body.
Some days I look at the lines on my skin and simply accept them there, like they were the most normal thing in the world.
Other times I hate the look of them, staining my skin, setting me apart from everybody else, making me a freak.
I sometimes wonder what it was about me in particular that allowed me to survive the ritual that put the lyrium there. Was it my strength? Was it some kind of concentration trick, now lost to me? Or maybe, when I feel particularly self-loathing, I wonder if I had been a mage before the ritual. Would that have made the lyrium adhere and not kill me outright?
Meeting my sister Varania brought all these old questions back. My own sister is a mage! Would she have performed the same ritual on me? Would she have helped Danarius torture me with the poisonous liquid now branded in my flesh? If I had been a mage, would I have done the same?
While I may resent the markings on my skin, I use them all the same. They have saved my life countless times. I have incorporated them so fully into my swordplay, that I can't imagine fighting without them.
I have a complicated relationship with the lyrium. Without it, I would not be me. However, because of it, I am what I am. Somehow, I can never decide which is good and which is bad.