The metal boot made a loud thunk as it clattered against the wooden floor. She lifted her other leg and started to pull the other boot off. It was a soothing ritual she performed almost every night, freeing herself from her black metal armor. Her skin and scales breathed in the cool night air. The absence of the constant pressure of her armor was itself a strange pleasure, one which she allowed herself to indulge in for just a moment.
It took several more minutes of effort to remove her gloves, her armor coat, and the softer leather underneath it. The black armor lay in a pile on the floor, looking more ridiculous than imposing in its current state there. Left only in a thin white undershirt and pants, she started to gather her armor, and put it away for the night. It would hopefully remain in the armoire for the rest of the night, where she would not have to see it.
The night was cool and calm, and she considered opening the windows for a moment, to allow the breeze off the sea water to flow into her room. She walked to the window, but eventually decided against it. The quiet of the room gave rise to louder voices, voices that incessantly questioned.
The past few days had not been easy for her. Her mind was in turmoil, her thoughts chaotic and uncollected. With a sigh, she glanced down, her eyes catching on her neglected journal. Two weeks had passed since that night. With but a scant few pages written, she had pushed the book to the side, and had not gathered the courage to write in it again. The previous session had been far too painful.
She needed a distraction. She needed something to pull her mind away from her endless questioning, something to focus her thoughts. With a faint smile, she found herself pulling out the chair to the desk.
The journal was still new, its pages fresh, patiently waiting for her pen. She turned the pages, one at a time, until she found the first blank page that had not been graced with her handwriting. Her pen in hand, she began to write once more.
Chapter Two
The Lost Child
She found herself smiling a little as she wrote the name of the chapter. That smile quickly faded. She had avoided the particular details of her darkest day in the previous chapter, and she knew she could not afford to leave them out. Despite what she wrote previously, there is not a single detail of that day she did not remember vividly. This time, her hand was steady.
  The day Garlemald found my tribe began the same as any other day. There was no mark of superstition that indicated that evil was about to befall me and my family. No raven was perched over my bed, no black coeurl crossed my path. The day began the same as any other, with breakfast.
  My mother had dutifully begun teaching me how to cook by having me assist her in preparing meals a few years ago. Although I did not have her expertise, I was a competent assistant for her. My sisters did not have any interest in learning how to cook, much to my mother's frustration, but she stopped complaining about that when I began to show interest. Cooking breakfast was a morning ritual for my mother and me.
  My eldest sister was almost old enough to be wed, and so the mornings were inevitably filled with the embarrassing talk of her potential love life. My mother was especially enthusiastic about her finding a proper match. My father and brother, as always, showed intense disinterest in the topic, and chose to silently nod their heads in response to my mother as they ate. While I always remember my father as being a pillar of strength, it was my mother who seemed to command the household. My siblings knew better than to speak up against her.
  My father and mother left after breakfast to pursue some matter with the chieftain, leaving me with my brother and sisters for the day. The morning was filled with playful talk, as my brother prepared his tools to go out hunting. Gathering food was an important task, one which he was old and skilled enough to do on his own. He was quickly earning his place in the village, and in truth, my sisters and I looked up to him.
  My sisters turned their attention to me, and decided to spend the day teaching me more about weaving. They were both exceptionally skilled at it, while I struggled with the craft. The two of them were insistent that I learn, however, and I was not one to say no to them. At the very least I was beyond the point of pricking my own fingers constantly with the needle.
  The morning continued in this way for several hours uneventfully, until midday, when my brother returned prematurely from his hunt. There was a panicked look on his face, unlike any I had ever seen before. I remember my brother as always confident and proud, as if the world was his birthright. It was an endearing form of arrogance. This was the first time I had ever seen it shattered.
  He merely spoke two words, and my sisters understood. “They're coming.â€
  I was blissfully unaware of the reasons why my sisters suddenly became panicked as well. Whatever worries they now shared with my brother they had kept secret from me, perhaps because they did not feel I was ready to know. They immediately dropped the cloth we were weaving together, and ushered me to my feet, and out of the large tent into the open air.
  I had rarely seen the Malqir camp so lively. Everyone was out of their tents, many of them already packed and leaving the camp in all different directions. Our family was woefully behind their pace. My brother directed us to pack up the tent as quickly as we could, and we went to work. It was no simple task, especially without the helping hands of my father there.
  It was then that I heard that cracking sound, like a brief burst of thunder, for the first time. It was quickly followed by a cacophony of noise, rumbling and cracking repeatedly. The earth began to tremble faintly under my feet. I looked at my siblings worriedly, and asked them where mother and father were. My brother simply told us to run.
  My brother ushered me and my sisters away, running behind us while he constantly looked over his shoulder. In the distance I saw a great cloud of dust, with large, dark shapes silhouetted within. I remember thinking that some horrible monster was descending on the clan. In truth, monsters would have been a mercy in comparison.
  We could not outrun them. The great machines of magic and metal broke through the dust and ran us down. They did not shout, nor did they ask for our surrender. They merely fired. My sisters threw me behind them, as they and my brother shielded me. I remember watching their bodies shake as the loud cracking noises caused blood to splash out from them.
  Whether they collapsed atop me by their own will or by coincidence, I shall never know, although I like to believe that it was their last act to protect me. I remember wanting to scream, yet for some reason I did not. Instead, I laid beneath the three of them, the blood from their wounds pouring out over me. I dared not move or make a sound, as I heard the rumbling of the great metal machines all around me, matched by the sound of leather boots against the sand.
  For the rest of the day and most of the night, that was all I heard, the constant sounds of those infernal machines and the men who marched with them. I huddled in fear for those many hours, the warmth leaving the bodies of my brother and sisters, their blood drying on my skin and hair. Eventually, the fear began to subside, replaced by pure anguish. And then, even that too began to subside, replaced with something else entirely.
  I had never known hatred in my life until then. True hatred is an all consuming emotion, it fills your entire being. I desperately wanted to emerge from the embrace of my siblings, to claw at and kill the nearest one of these devils that I could find. It was a desire more intense than anything I had ever felt, yet for some reason, I chose to stay in the embrace of my family for at least a little longer.
  Night had fallen and began to break into morning again by the time the noises had finally gone for good. It was then that I finally emerged from the arms of my family. I stood there on the desert sands for a while, completely covered, from head to toe, in blood, surveying the corpses I had taken refuge under.
  After a time, I merely stepped away, and began to wander back to the camp. There was little left, save a few more corpses. What little hope I had of finding any family, and of recovering into something resembling a normal life, was dashed when I found the corpses of my father and mother as well. I was alone, truly alone, with only an ever growing fire burning with me to keep me company.
  I mindlessly followed the tracks that lead away from the camp, intent on visiting some form of revenge on these monsters who had hurt me so. I cannot recall how long I followed their tracks, never catching sight or sound of them, but I know it was many days, with no food or water. I felt the ache in my legs, the desperate pain in my stomach, and the unwashed blood on my skin, but I did not care. I continued my endless march towards what would assuredly had been my death.
  Eventually I came to an oasis. In my anguished state, I would have ignored the life-saving water, save for the presence of a stranger there. There was a small tent erected next to the oasis, and sitting next to it, near the water, was a man the likes of which I did not recognize. He was tall, nearly as tall as my father, yet he had no horns or scales, instead having strange, pointed ears where his horns should have been. To my addled mind, he seemed the same as the men who had murdered my family.
  I limped into his camp, ragged and blood covered, with what must have been a look of intense hatred. I remember jumping at him, reaching for his eyes to try and claw them out, but to no avail. He overpowered me easily, and held me pinned to the ground. For whatever reason, he showed me mercy, and let me live.
  He spoke in a tongue I could not understand, and then switched to a rough version of my own language when it became apparent I did not understand him. He asked my name, and I spat in his face with what little saliva I had left in me. I remember feeling him tie the ropes around my hands and feet, binding me helplessly.
  He offered me a cup of water. I tried to refuse him, but he pressed a dagger to my throat, and ordered me to drink. I did not refuse. For the next day, he fed me and made me drink, forcing me to recover some of my strength. After every meal, he asked me my name, and I remained silent. It was only after two more days of this that I finally chose to answer him.
  I remember his smile when I finally did, and I shall never forget the moment he offered his name in return.
  "I am Lorick,†he said.
She lifted her pen from the page, choosing to end the chapter there. With her pen put aside, she wiped away some of the tears now staining her cheek. She was proud of herself. These were memories that she, more often than not, wished she could forget. It was a cathartic release for her, as if she had spilled herself onto those pages.
The next chapter would be easier, she knew, as would every chapter that followed.
Her mind turned towards more recent events, events which had pushed her into writing this latest chapter. The question still burned at her. She did not know if she could ever truly rejoin her kin. Part of her missed the Malqir Clan dearly. To be among them again, to become a part of the clan once more was an opportunity that she knew she could not miss.
Yet it was not the Clan that lived in her memory the most. It was her family, and they were not something she could ever bring back into her life. To live among her Clan again without her family would be far too bitter, and far too cold.
Perhaps Lady Ironleaf was right, and she was afraid of change. It played no small part in her apprehensions. But writing tonight confirmed what she had previously surmised. She was not ready to return to the Clan. Not yet.
She glanced back to her journal, which waited patiently for her to fill the next pages. She would not leave it neglected for so long ever again. Ser Lorick deserved that much, at the very least.
It took several more minutes of effort to remove her gloves, her armor coat, and the softer leather underneath it. The black armor lay in a pile on the floor, looking more ridiculous than imposing in its current state there. Left only in a thin white undershirt and pants, she started to gather her armor, and put it away for the night. It would hopefully remain in the armoire for the rest of the night, where she would not have to see it.
The night was cool and calm, and she considered opening the windows for a moment, to allow the breeze off the sea water to flow into her room. She walked to the window, but eventually decided against it. The quiet of the room gave rise to louder voices, voices that incessantly questioned.
The past few days had not been easy for her. Her mind was in turmoil, her thoughts chaotic and uncollected. With a sigh, she glanced down, her eyes catching on her neglected journal. Two weeks had passed since that night. With but a scant few pages written, she had pushed the book to the side, and had not gathered the courage to write in it again. The previous session had been far too painful.
She needed a distraction. She needed something to pull her mind away from her endless questioning, something to focus her thoughts. With a faint smile, she found herself pulling out the chair to the desk.
The journal was still new, its pages fresh, patiently waiting for her pen. She turned the pages, one at a time, until she found the first blank page that had not been graced with her handwriting. Her pen in hand, she began to write once more.
Chapter Two
The Lost Child
She found herself smiling a little as she wrote the name of the chapter. That smile quickly faded. She had avoided the particular details of her darkest day in the previous chapter, and she knew she could not afford to leave them out. Despite what she wrote previously, there is not a single detail of that day she did not remember vividly. This time, her hand was steady.
  The day Garlemald found my tribe began the same as any other day. There was no mark of superstition that indicated that evil was about to befall me and my family. No raven was perched over my bed, no black coeurl crossed my path. The day began the same as any other, with breakfast.
  My mother had dutifully begun teaching me how to cook by having me assist her in preparing meals a few years ago. Although I did not have her expertise, I was a competent assistant for her. My sisters did not have any interest in learning how to cook, much to my mother's frustration, but she stopped complaining about that when I began to show interest. Cooking breakfast was a morning ritual for my mother and me.
  My eldest sister was almost old enough to be wed, and so the mornings were inevitably filled with the embarrassing talk of her potential love life. My mother was especially enthusiastic about her finding a proper match. My father and brother, as always, showed intense disinterest in the topic, and chose to silently nod their heads in response to my mother as they ate. While I always remember my father as being a pillar of strength, it was my mother who seemed to command the household. My siblings knew better than to speak up against her.
  My father and mother left after breakfast to pursue some matter with the chieftain, leaving me with my brother and sisters for the day. The morning was filled with playful talk, as my brother prepared his tools to go out hunting. Gathering food was an important task, one which he was old and skilled enough to do on his own. He was quickly earning his place in the village, and in truth, my sisters and I looked up to him.
  My sisters turned their attention to me, and decided to spend the day teaching me more about weaving. They were both exceptionally skilled at it, while I struggled with the craft. The two of them were insistent that I learn, however, and I was not one to say no to them. At the very least I was beyond the point of pricking my own fingers constantly with the needle.
  The morning continued in this way for several hours uneventfully, until midday, when my brother returned prematurely from his hunt. There was a panicked look on his face, unlike any I had ever seen before. I remember my brother as always confident and proud, as if the world was his birthright. It was an endearing form of arrogance. This was the first time I had ever seen it shattered.
  He merely spoke two words, and my sisters understood. “They're coming.â€
  I was blissfully unaware of the reasons why my sisters suddenly became panicked as well. Whatever worries they now shared with my brother they had kept secret from me, perhaps because they did not feel I was ready to know. They immediately dropped the cloth we were weaving together, and ushered me to my feet, and out of the large tent into the open air.
  I had rarely seen the Malqir camp so lively. Everyone was out of their tents, many of them already packed and leaving the camp in all different directions. Our family was woefully behind their pace. My brother directed us to pack up the tent as quickly as we could, and we went to work. It was no simple task, especially without the helping hands of my father there.
  It was then that I heard that cracking sound, like a brief burst of thunder, for the first time. It was quickly followed by a cacophony of noise, rumbling and cracking repeatedly. The earth began to tremble faintly under my feet. I looked at my siblings worriedly, and asked them where mother and father were. My brother simply told us to run.
  My brother ushered me and my sisters away, running behind us while he constantly looked over his shoulder. In the distance I saw a great cloud of dust, with large, dark shapes silhouetted within. I remember thinking that some horrible monster was descending on the clan. In truth, monsters would have been a mercy in comparison.
  We could not outrun them. The great machines of magic and metal broke through the dust and ran us down. They did not shout, nor did they ask for our surrender. They merely fired. My sisters threw me behind them, as they and my brother shielded me. I remember watching their bodies shake as the loud cracking noises caused blood to splash out from them.
  Whether they collapsed atop me by their own will or by coincidence, I shall never know, although I like to believe that it was their last act to protect me. I remember wanting to scream, yet for some reason I did not. Instead, I laid beneath the three of them, the blood from their wounds pouring out over me. I dared not move or make a sound, as I heard the rumbling of the great metal machines all around me, matched by the sound of leather boots against the sand.
  For the rest of the day and most of the night, that was all I heard, the constant sounds of those infernal machines and the men who marched with them. I huddled in fear for those many hours, the warmth leaving the bodies of my brother and sisters, their blood drying on my skin and hair. Eventually, the fear began to subside, replaced by pure anguish. And then, even that too began to subside, replaced with something else entirely.
  I had never known hatred in my life until then. True hatred is an all consuming emotion, it fills your entire being. I desperately wanted to emerge from the embrace of my siblings, to claw at and kill the nearest one of these devils that I could find. It was a desire more intense than anything I had ever felt, yet for some reason, I chose to stay in the embrace of my family for at least a little longer.
  Night had fallen and began to break into morning again by the time the noises had finally gone for good. It was then that I finally emerged from the arms of my family. I stood there on the desert sands for a while, completely covered, from head to toe, in blood, surveying the corpses I had taken refuge under.
  After a time, I merely stepped away, and began to wander back to the camp. There was little left, save a few more corpses. What little hope I had of finding any family, and of recovering into something resembling a normal life, was dashed when I found the corpses of my father and mother as well. I was alone, truly alone, with only an ever growing fire burning with me to keep me company.
  I mindlessly followed the tracks that lead away from the camp, intent on visiting some form of revenge on these monsters who had hurt me so. I cannot recall how long I followed their tracks, never catching sight or sound of them, but I know it was many days, with no food or water. I felt the ache in my legs, the desperate pain in my stomach, and the unwashed blood on my skin, but I did not care. I continued my endless march towards what would assuredly had been my death.
  Eventually I came to an oasis. In my anguished state, I would have ignored the life-saving water, save for the presence of a stranger there. There was a small tent erected next to the oasis, and sitting next to it, near the water, was a man the likes of which I did not recognize. He was tall, nearly as tall as my father, yet he had no horns or scales, instead having strange, pointed ears where his horns should have been. To my addled mind, he seemed the same as the men who had murdered my family.
  I limped into his camp, ragged and blood covered, with what must have been a look of intense hatred. I remember jumping at him, reaching for his eyes to try and claw them out, but to no avail. He overpowered me easily, and held me pinned to the ground. For whatever reason, he showed me mercy, and let me live.
  He spoke in a tongue I could not understand, and then switched to a rough version of my own language when it became apparent I did not understand him. He asked my name, and I spat in his face with what little saliva I had left in me. I remember feeling him tie the ropes around my hands and feet, binding me helplessly.
  He offered me a cup of water. I tried to refuse him, but he pressed a dagger to my throat, and ordered me to drink. I did not refuse. For the next day, he fed me and made me drink, forcing me to recover some of my strength. After every meal, he asked me my name, and I remained silent. It was only after two more days of this that I finally chose to answer him.
  I remember his smile when I finally did, and I shall never forget the moment he offered his name in return.
  "I am Lorick,†he said.
She lifted her pen from the page, choosing to end the chapter there. With her pen put aside, she wiped away some of the tears now staining her cheek. She was proud of herself. These were memories that she, more often than not, wished she could forget. It was a cathartic release for her, as if she had spilled herself onto those pages.
The next chapter would be easier, she knew, as would every chapter that followed.
Her mind turned towards more recent events, events which had pushed her into writing this latest chapter. The question still burned at her. She did not know if she could ever truly rejoin her kin. Part of her missed the Malqir Clan dearly. To be among them again, to become a part of the clan once more was an opportunity that she knew she could not miss.
Yet it was not the Clan that lived in her memory the most. It was her family, and they were not something she could ever bring back into her life. To live among her Clan again without her family would be far too bitter, and far too cold.
Perhaps Lady Ironleaf was right, and she was afraid of change. It played no small part in her apprehensions. But writing tonight confirmed what she had previously surmised. She was not ready to return to the Clan. Not yet.
She glanced back to her journal, which waited patiently for her to fill the next pages. She would not leave it neglected for so long ever again. Ser Lorick deserved that much, at the very least.