Llysa is short for a Cimmerian, barely reaching shoulder height to most males. Her hair is brown and straight as an arrow, with a few braids gathered together at the back to keep her eyes clear. Her eyes are a bright green, like emeralds under water. Her face is marked with two large red swath's, which she applies every morning in a ritual in honor and remembrance of her past life. Her arms are thick with muscles, and she wields her great hammer with both hands, ready to crush the skulls of any who stand in her way.
Some call her the Oracle, she seems to be all-knowing. But she has no ego, and is willing to share her information with any that ask. Proud, but with a shy streak, she walks with her head held high and her shoulders back.
By the wavery reflection of a pool of water, I smear the thick red dye across my face in its familiar pattern, and as always, my mind and heart wander away. Rushed memories flicker through, and my eyes glaze over as I delve into them.
The arrow buried to the crude feathers.
The smell of tarnished copper and warmth of sticky blood as it flows through my fingers.
The flutter of life fading under my hands.
The anguished cry heard farther into the forest.
The sickening crunch of bone on rock.
The sobs racking her body.
The slaps of her hands as I try to hold her.
The scream... the awful scream that I can never, ever forget.
Tears leak down my face, and I brush them away impatiently. They'll only make this daily ritual harder. I go back to smearing the paint across my face, two thick red patches around my eyes. So I never forget what I saw that day. One streak for my father, who died in my hands, one for my brother, who had rushed off to rescue him, and lost his own life on the rocks. The words of my mother still ringing in my ears as I stare at my watery reflection. "There is nothing you can do, Llysa, you rush off to your death for nothing. Stay here with me. I need you. I am dying." And die she did. Her heart had been broken that day, and I stayed with her until her final breath, as was her wish. But I never forgot. And every day I apply this warpaint as a reminder of why I continue to live.
I searched my soul, and found there a new life. I uncovered the strength of spirit, and harnessed it and wield it with ease now. I carry my great hammer, strapped to my back but ever eager to split open the skulls of those who stand in my way. The shamanistic spirit is strong in me, and with it I can change the very life force of friend and foe alike.
In spite of my short life as a slave, rescued from my sinking slave ship by Kalanthas, my name is known now, in this small village of Conarch, and they know me as "the healer." They don't know what it took for me to do this, they look at me with adoration, and I hate it. I heal those in need, but it never quenches the fire in me that was lit that day as my fathers blood poured over my hands and imbued them with his spirit.
Standing up, I stroke my great hammer lightly, smiling at the cool gleam of the metal in the weak sunlight of early morning. Sending up a scream of mingled fury and fire, I throw it as if it were a stick, and hit a nearby tree, nearly felling it. Laughing in spite of myself, I rescue my poor hammer and once again strap it to my back. Lifting my pack, I shoulder it and walk away from the cool pool, searching, as always, for my destiny.