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The damaran winters were cold and harsh. Some of the coldest winters in decades came during her childhood, during the peaks of the Lich King’s war. There was some solace in the knowledge that even the monsters of his army were hampered by the cold. During the coldest weeks she and her siblings played in the streets with very little worry, a taste of a normal life that she remembered fondly. It was one of few.
She remembers standing in the window of the upper floor gazing out over a city covered in white, a blanket of snow so thick that even the outlines of buildings vanished. A few times it had snowed so heavily that they had had to climb out that window to get outside at all.
She had heard some merchants refer to the city as ”end of the line.” She knew there was no city further north, but for her there was nothing finite about it. It was home. Its streets and sounds and people were familiar. Even the fear of war that hung in the air was familiar. But the coldest days provided a respite. For some hours the children could pretend there was no war.
The voices of her family called her from her vantage point and she shivered, always seeming more suceptible to cold than them. She vaguely remembers running downstairs and flinging herself in her mother’s or father’s arms, screaming with joy. No matter how dark circles were under her parents’ eyes they always had smiles to go around and always managed to set food on the table. She still remembers vividly the scent of the drying herbs on the mantlepiece and of cooking food. They were not rich, but the people’s thanks for their services meant they never starved. The symbol of Ilmater’s bleeding wrists hung like a crown over the fireplace and both parents took a deep, humble pride in their work as His healers.
They never knew exactly what year she was born. When they eventually deemed her mature enough to discuss with her the details of how they found her, they said she had seemed to be around the same age as their youngest son. However, he had outgrown her so fast it seemed that they were years apart by the time he reached puberty. At the supposed age of ten, when she had been with them for over five years, she still had a difficult time forming some words and still enjoyed even the simplest of children’s games.
The muffled sounds of the sanctuary in Port Avanthyr drifted up through the floorboards. Her gaze was locked unseeing on warehouses and alleys visible through one of the windows. She was so far from the home she had grown up in, and further still from the memories of her younger childhood, before she lost her elven parents.. memories she couldn’t reach. Their faces were nothing she remembered. At the very best she had at times felt a vague rememberance of soft voices, scents, darkness between trees, and the feeling of safety and comfort.
The home her foster parents gave her was very different. From an airy, dark outdoors with dancing lights and soft voices she was indoors with stale air, flickering fire and warmth and dancing laughter and screams of children. There had been much physical contact, a lot of hugs and playing and they had all slept on top of each other. Five siblings, two parents, two rooms in their house, the common room downstairs and half-height sleeping quarters upstairs; it was a crowded, welcoming and loving existence. Her heart ached at the memory. She had lived through it while all her siblings had not, and she had even seen some of their children born and raised in the very same house. Life had, eventually, moved on after the war. Her siblings had aged, but she had not.
With a deep sigh and a shake of her head she wiped the dust-covered windowsill with her finger. Her heart ached. It distracted the clarity of the memories and they became vague, tinged with loss and longing. She would have to remember them in detail another time.
Work always grounded her. No matter how many hardships she saw it was always worth it. Every day it re-affirmed that she had made the right choices. The happiness of her siblings’ childhood laughter echoed in her memory and caused a smile to linger on her face for a long while after she went downstairs, despite the feeling of loss. Life always moved on.
She remembers standing in the window of the upper floor gazing out over a city covered in white, a blanket of snow so thick that even the outlines of buildings vanished. A few times it had snowed so heavily that they had had to climb out that window to get outside at all.
She had heard some merchants refer to the city as ”end of the line.” She knew there was no city further north, but for her there was nothing finite about it. It was home. Its streets and sounds and people were familiar. Even the fear of war that hung in the air was familiar. But the coldest days provided a respite. For some hours the children could pretend there was no war.
The voices of her family called her from her vantage point and she shivered, always seeming more suceptible to cold than them. She vaguely remembers running downstairs and flinging herself in her mother’s or father’s arms, screaming with joy. No matter how dark circles were under her parents’ eyes they always had smiles to go around and always managed to set food on the table. She still remembers vividly the scent of the drying herbs on the mantlepiece and of cooking food. They were not rich, but the people’s thanks for their services meant they never starved. The symbol of Ilmater’s bleeding wrists hung like a crown over the fireplace and both parents took a deep, humble pride in their work as His healers.
They never knew exactly what year she was born. When they eventually deemed her mature enough to discuss with her the details of how they found her, they said she had seemed to be around the same age as their youngest son. However, he had outgrown her so fast it seemed that they were years apart by the time he reached puberty. At the supposed age of ten, when she had been with them for over five years, she still had a difficult time forming some words and still enjoyed even the simplest of children’s games.
The muffled sounds of the sanctuary in Port Avanthyr drifted up through the floorboards. Her gaze was locked unseeing on warehouses and alleys visible through one of the windows. She was so far from the home she had grown up in, and further still from the memories of her younger childhood, before she lost her elven parents.. memories she couldn’t reach. Their faces were nothing she remembered. At the very best she had at times felt a vague rememberance of soft voices, scents, darkness between trees, and the feeling of safety and comfort.
The home her foster parents gave her was very different. From an airy, dark outdoors with dancing lights and soft voices she was indoors with stale air, flickering fire and warmth and dancing laughter and screams of children. There had been much physical contact, a lot of hugs and playing and they had all slept on top of each other. Five siblings, two parents, two rooms in their house, the common room downstairs and half-height sleeping quarters upstairs; it was a crowded, welcoming and loving existence. Her heart ached at the memory. She had lived through it while all her siblings had not, and she had even seen some of their children born and raised in the very same house. Life had, eventually, moved on after the war. Her siblings had aged, but she had not.
With a deep sigh and a shake of her head she wiped the dust-covered windowsill with her finger. Her heart ached. It distracted the clarity of the memories and they became vague, tinged with loss and longing. She would have to remember them in detail another time.
Work always grounded her. No matter how many hardships she saw it was always worth it. Every day it re-affirmed that she had made the right choices. The happiness of her siblings’ childhood laughter echoed in her memory and caused a smile to linger on her face for a long while after she went downstairs, despite the feeling of loss. Life always moved on.