The Heart of Mithril

[Acruied]

Mithrilia sat on the edge of the bed in a mostly spacious room alone, her hands pressed firmly on her knee with her shoulders slightly hunched. She appeared to be in deep contemplation involving a struggling thought she had yet an answer to. An open book lay bare on the bed beside her, along with a quill and yet to be opened bottle of ink resting on its ivory pages.


"Lost." She whispered the word with heavy tone reflecting a sense of frustration with a hand reaching up her temple to apply pressure on it.


The woman was frustrated, with the frustration being pointed mostly to herself. Mithrilia had been feeling 'lost', for lack of better expression, of directions and goals in her life. Ever since the absence of Hano, only did she realize she had been relying on him as a source of dependency for guidance, but also a reason to move forward from her once former life that was remembered as a ravaging mercenary. Now a member of a prestigious order known as the Triumvirate, she felt the lacking sense of direction and purpose in the life of stability and firmness, in contrast of the unpredictability of a violent mercenary's.


"Hano." She uttered the name, with sense of loss and heartache, lowering her hand onto her chest. Her defined stony facade earned from the public's perception crumbled into one of somber, the scars on her face bending into wrinkles.


As much as she loathe to admit, Hano had became the beacon of her life. A source of strength she could pour and seek out for. The lighted star in the somber night sky in the midst of storm to navigate out of her violent past into one of a more meaningful future. The moment Mithrilia had offered to join the Triumvirate, it was a solemn gesture in sworing to spend the rest of her life in fulfilling his dreams and vision of Sundren. To serve him faithfully without question, even if her love for him was never meant to be.


Now the Halls of the Triumvirate seemed empty to her, filled with people serving to a God she had yet to fully find the means to reconcile. Torm, the Fury one. The one who was the sole reason she became what she was, an entity she had been tempted to place the blames for the unspeakable losses in her life. Now by serving the Triumvirate without the reason that set her there in the first place, she had been feeling a sense of incapacitation. Useless. Without goals. A pointless existence.


The silver haired woman breath in deeply and straightened her hunched back and shoulders to make a move of regaining her composure and thoughts. Further reflections on this matter would only invite doubts and needless uncertainties, she thought. Mithrilia picked up the leatherbounded book on the bedside and rested it on her laps, with an ink bottle and quill on each free hand in preparedness. Flipping the page before the one present, she silently read the elegant hand quilled writing of her own on the first page as a reminder of the book's purpose.

Reflections of a Mithril heart.

The records of the marks, deeds and decisions for rememberence and reference of time and maturity.

For tis with purpose to find the universal truth free from faults in judgement.

The writer nodded firmly to herself once reminded of the present goal and focus she was meant to do with the book. The writings were no doubt dictations of Tyr's dogma, in her own terms. Stabbing the quill into the ink bottle, she began the write the thoughts she had been reflecting all earlier on into physical expression of words across the ivory pages of Mithrilia's journal.

Whilst writting, in the corner of her eye she noted a single word written on the next page. A reminder given herself of the next subject of contemplation she must dwell into that had been a focus of her present life.

Lauan

[Acruied]

Occupant Room 1 of the Four Lanterns Inn

It was past midnight, the time where many would find solace and respite when the day was unable to give. The gentle rapping of the drizzling rain against the window of the bedroom gave a resemblence of a gentle lullaby, normally its hypnotic sounds would reinforce the illusions of the dreams in those already asleep.

But not for Mithrilia, for she sat before the dressing table staring at her own reflection on the mirror. Her usually neatly clipped hair now presented itself like ruffled tail feathers and her eyes looking unusually wet. The undergarments worn for sleep earlier were now heavily wrinkled and moist from her sweat.

"Gods." She mummured the word with unhidden ire in the tone. "When I thought I had finally buried it." She pressed a a palm against her sweat and tear covered face as those words were uttered in reference to the nightmares she had been released from its bondage.

The still shakened woman leaned forward towards the basin of water on the table, allowing the coolness of the water's touch with every splash against her face as a source of invigoration. Mithrilia looked back up on the mirror to note her facade: The tears and sweat on her face now masked by the water, with only her reddened eyes betraying the lingering signs of her former vulnerable state. She gripped the edge of the table firmly, steadying her deep breathings until her usual composure returned.

The woman before the mirror presented herself in the age of mid-twenties. Her facial features were described as well-defined despite the dozens of faint scars on her face, with the exception of one distinct scar running down her left colorless lifeless eye. Mithrilia lifted a hand up towards the scarred eye, tracing a finger across the scar as she allowed herself to briefly reminiscience of its origins. Her bare body unshielded from the undergarments in view she noted, appeared to be surprisingly well-toned than that of a well-build musculine figure. There she was reminded she retained the figure of a woman, though carefully steering her thoughts away of the possibility of her wearing a dress. It had been a while since she wore one, during the days she was of a nobility with a distant lineage of royalty.

"Enough." She muttered to herself in a chastising tone. "The old self must be shelved. The new chapter had already begun." She picked herself up from the seat with a decision already made to have the time spent elsewhere useful instead of self-pitiness and pointless reminiscience. Mithrilia straightened her back and performed series of stretches with her arms as she scoured across her room with a vigilant cerulean eye with a purpose to find an activity to spend the rest of the night.

As noted previously, her room appeared mostly spacious but reasonably furnished. The room offered by the Four Lanterns Inn was considered a steal, in comparison to the one described by Lauan given by Mordin at the same price which was the total opposite of what Mithrilia had at the moment: Space. Clean. Rodent free. A window leading outside. Furnishings. Usable amenties left behind by previous owner left in hurry. Mithrilia allowed herself to express a faint chuckle of amusement at Lauan's ill-luck.


The room was redecorated at Mithrilia's own terms: An armor stand was added to house her suit of full plate near the study table. The table itself was turned into a make-shift weapon workshop for the purpose of maintaining her weapons and tools. A weapon rack was installed next to the armor stand to house larger weapons. Anyone entering her room would have an impression of its resemblence as an armory, aside of the curious out of place potted Scuttlebush seedling set on the window still.


She was getting distracted again, Mithrilia thought. Her musings on her own room would contribute to an unfruitful night. Her eyes kept wandering across the room for a personal chore she had yet to fulfill. Be it an armor piecemeal warranting attention to be polished or a blade needed to have a whetstone treatment.


Her gaze finally set onto the leatherbound book resting on top of the drawer table beside her bed. A quill and ink bottle close by its side, only used once thus far. Taking deliberate steps towards the said objects, she picked up the book and flipped through its mostly empty pages with a thoughtful expression.


"Lauan." Mithrilia mummured the name quietly as she noted the word written on the corner of an empty page. The silver haired woman now having found a goal to focus on, made herself comfortable on the edge of the bed with the book laid bared open on her laps. The ink bottle and quill held readied in her unmoving hands as the woman dwelled into the silence of her thoughts, reflecting deeply on the next subject she had reproached all these times in fear of the truths she must face.


"No longer." She whispered with decisiveness. The quill made its way into the ink bottle with the guidance of her hand, the stage now set and ready for it to begin its elegant dance across the pages of a journal.