Legends of Belariath
Midnyte
Midnyte is storm given life, molded into a night black figure kissed by moonlight and dusted by snow. Her first breath was inhaled thunder. As a small child she was tempest on two small feet, trouble followed her everywhere. Insatiable curiosity led her into one scrape after another. Quick tempered and clever witted she managed to bring the wrath of both the adults and other children of her tribe down on her head without effort. And she relished it.
As she grew older she found comfort in solitude, leaving the normal social graces of her tribe to others. She sought wind's caress more often than the company of her own ilk. It seemed, somehow, inborn in her. She turned into an almost voluptuous beauty with windswept curves and storm chased eyes. Pure white snow capped the black velvet of her ears, ice kissed brows highlighting the high boned features of her face. She was a study in contrast, a shadow black body ripped asunder by one jagged white blaze from collar bone to groin. That beauty was filled with fury, though, and she never seemed quite able to fit in. None dared the lightening and rain to grow close to her.
And so, at 21, after the quiet celebration of spirit binding to body, an event that seemed to only increase the raging storm of her personality she left the fetters of tribal life. Led from her home by visionary dreams she set forth with only a few meager possessions, content to live off the land and the White Lady's graces. Every storm that brewed over the land she welcomed, and many nights could find her running pellmell in whatever direction the wind blew, eyes closed and head tipped back to greet the first cracks of thunder.
Thus was she found by a barbaric, nomadic tribe of humans. She was easily caught, mostly defenseless, and no matter how much she blustered, growled and hissed it only brought laughter from those cruel enough to steal her. The nature of her race turned against her she was given her first welcome into the life of a slave. A brutal life, where there was no kind word, no free action. They kept her bound, wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle, never giving her the freedom she had become so accustomed to. She plunged into a dark and silent well filled with only raging anger and pain. Pain that brought the first promise of dark desire to fill her shadowed body. It was beneath their brutal whip, beneath the kiss of their knives that she learned to relish pain. Beneath their harsh words she discovered the delight of drawing anger and wrath down on her own head. She turned her back on kindness then, left love to others, molded forever by the long year spent in captivity.
One dark night a raging storm began to brew over their camp. As so many times before in her life, thunder and lightening were portents for change. As that tempest broke loose she found freedom, managed escape through the complacency of the ones who had trapped her. She ran as fast as she could, blown by a howling wind that would not give her rest until she came upon the outskirts of a small ramshackle town called Nanthalion. Visionary dreams graced her sleep and she knew here was the place she could learn to control the storm within, if she put in enough effort. But after only a few short months she was blown off course, the need for solitude so great she spent the better part of a year in the wilds of the empire.
Only to return, however, drawn by purpose imbedded in her from birth and an insatiable thirst for darker pleasure. Forsaking the first in pursuit of the second she fell into a collar. Fire forced her to flee from that, left her cold and shaken until another, darker force swept up that storm, pulled the shadow into his wake and returned to her confidence.