Legends of Belariath

Rilkhea

She had left her city in shame, her family exiled during a politically motivated purge of 'deviant practices'. As a member of a Noble House, she was not subject to the same trials and persecution the peasantry was...but this was bad enough. The lands surrounding her city are infested with barbarians whom her city had waged war on for many generations. To be exiled was to be thrown to the wolves, literally in some cases, as these tribes often used wolves for hunting. Her grandfather, the patriarch of the family, had decided that Rilkhea was to blame for their exile, so she was exiled from her family as well, sent packing with only the barest of essentials.

She knew not what happened to her family after she left their camp, but she knew well that a lone traveler attracts less attention than a cadre. She moved quickly, traveling light, and hunting sparingly, being sure to only set camp in hidden way stops. Her travel was miserable for one who knew she deserved much better, but misery was preferable to death, so she endured. In the cold she would whisper to herself, warming her heart with the flames of promised revenge.

She traveled for weeks, finally escaping the territory of the barbarians, and making her way into more civilized lands. Her travels took her far, but she had little in the way of money, so she bartered away her finery, her weapons and armor (though it galled her to do so). Many a time she had to remind herself that survival trumps comfort, and so she made do with what she had. Days rolled into weeks, weeks into months, and her travels continued, stopping at major cities along the way, but flitting through them with disinterest, the faceless and suspicious humans inhabiting these cities of no real concern to her. Months extended into years (two to be exact), and it seemed an age since she had last seen one of her own race...until she arrived in Nanthalion. An odd little Empire, it seemed to attract the sorts she felt more at home with, and lived on the edge of decadence and ruin. More importantly, it seemed to hold a small nation of her own people, as well as no small number of exotic races...it caught her eye and she resolved to stay.

Nevertheless, for one on the outside of much, it could be a boring existence still. She had her pick of pleasures, each at her very whim...but she had bartered away perhaps too much, and lacked the coin to insinuate herself well into the echelons of power. Still, amusement could be had with her lessers, and she indulged herself, and began learning a trade, an outlet for herself besides the art of war. She learned to adorn the flesh of others with markings, though generally it was some petty design of theirs.

She was occupied with mundanity, and she was a sort of content. Her blood was dormant, though occasionally it would burn for more, and she would slake her need on some poor fleshling. It was a temporary fix at best, and fate had more for her. It found her, in the dark of night, in the form of nightmares, in the form of perversions and corruptions of family legend. In the form of a slender moriel male who seemed to desire her, and then would betray her. Each morning she woke in a cold sweat, a scream dying upon her lips as she realized the fiction of her vision...but it was unsettling and seductive nonetheless.

In truth she had come late to the game, for others had been fighting this moriel, had been opposed to this, "Carsi", before she had even arrived. They knew his game more than she, but their lips were closed on the matter. Trust was a horded commodity, and rightly so, and she had not yet earned the keys to the vault. Still, they too had experienced the dreams, different in content, but similar in nature, and so she joined them in their attempt to thwart the moriel.

The journey was one of danger, and confirmed Rilkhea's suspicion. Carsi wished for Rilkhea's heart, and though many had pursued such, this time it was different, he wanted the organ, and the soul seated within. She was loathe to disclose this, though, but others knew of her import through their own possessions, each of which Carsi was trying to capture, each of which had the power to unravel his schemes.

She was captured by Carsi's agents, and brought before him. Like the villains of old, he explained what he was after. He spoke the archaic name for her house, T'Lith, and spoke obscure legends, Rilkhea had thought known only to her family, and even then only to the heirs (which she once was). He spoke of the Elven girl Lillia, who became corrupted by Kirva and ascended to be her Handmaiden. He spoke of Rilkhea's blood, of the hint of divinity that sparked within, almost too dilute for him to use. Almost. Her soul was ripped from her body, and she knew true loss for the first time. One by one each of the items were taken, and the ritual began, Carsi intended to steal the Godhead of Sophaughidrin, using items associated with the goddess' power, and the power contained within the blood of her scion.

Their struggle was great, but Rilkhea remembers none of it, she knows, however, what happened before and after. She remembers the betrayal of Zaira Slade, knows well her lineage, and carries with her a Ceremonial Dagger of the House of T'Lith. She has gone quiet as of late, letting herself fade back into the background that she might learn the secrets of her blood and magic. That others might lose interest in her, so that she might once more set in motion her plot for power.

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