Today’s snippet, titled “Rhiallis”, is a piece I wrote about my PC in Mark’s new (Good) Pathfinder Campaign.
      Be forewarned, there are mature themes and naughty language below.
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Name: Rhiallis-Ondrash Corwier
Age: 60 (~22)
DoB: Lamashan 6 (October), 4653
Height: 6’2”
Weight: 150 lbs.
Hair: Pale, pale gold; wavy and mid-back length
Eye: Glowing burnished gold; true yellow-gold
Features: An otherworldly beauty; refined features, rosebud lips. A glowing golden-tan complexion that seems to radiate health.
Build: 36b-24-34
Clothes: Heavily armored, serviceable but not stylish gear. Road-weary boots of tan leather, utilitarian trousers of dark brown leather, plain unbleached shirt, navy blue vest, brown rucksack, a battered steel shield bearing the sunburst & longsword of Iomedae, and a longsword in a plain blue-leather scabbard.
Favorite Color: Emerald, Greens
Hobbies: Herb-lore, embroidery, swordplay, chirurgery, learning new games of chance.

Note: Image from http://Sharandula.DeviantArt.com

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      The summer of 4653 was long and hot and dry as a desert sand. Smallfolk in the large village of Ninyas (NEEN-yahs), a day’s journey from the Mendevian capital, of Nerosyan, suffered beneath the searing sun. Harvest-tide proved to be heavily affected by the terrible weather – crops yielded poorly, late rains caused mold to develop before some things were collected from the fields, and the fear of widespread starvation became a stark possibility.
      The Second Crusade had ended in failure, despite the achievement of the Wardstones, and with each passing year talk grew increasingly grim when it concerned the future of the nation (and the world) and the probable damnation of every soul on the planet. Each year, a few demons managed to penetrate the defenses, slipping past (or killing) the Iomedaen forces, and terrorize the people inland from the Wound.
      Rarely, very rarely, demonic hordes reached as far south-east as Ninyas, for the strongest line of protection was along that edge. Thus, it was privation, poverty, and sickness that worried the smallfolk. The elders prayed a thousand prayers, the children cried for more and received still less, and as for the rest, they simply waited.
      Lamashan 6th began, as usual, at midnight and with it came the cries of of new mother, bringing her first child into this brutal, dirty world.
      At one minute to noon, a raven-haired female slid from between her legs, perfect and whole. Two minutes later, a second child emerged – this one sporting wispy, pale blonde curls. Twins, not identical, yet incredibly similar, and beautiful from their first breath.
      The Elders believed a single Aasimar, born to any woman, was a blessing. To have two, females at that, born on the anniversary of Iomedae’s Ascension, was surely a Gift beyond measure. People came from miles away, as the first weeks of their lives passed, gifting the family with trinkets and tokens and coin. They honored the two infants as symbols that the Gods had not forgotten them and that with the turning of a season, so too would their fortunes.
      The girls grew strong and healthy – the blonde one perhaps a bit quieter, the raven one stronger and more physical. Each was remarkably beautiful, some would say “angelic”, well-spoken, and intelligent enough, but whatever miracles the Elders had predicted that they would one day perform, had not manifested yet.
      Then, in the Autumn of 4665, with the incursion of Baphomet and the call for a Third Crusade, the two girls, now just weeks shy of twelve, were more or less forgotten as “special”. They played as other children, with other children, and when the school-aged youths took a beautiful Rova afternoon trip to get in one last summer swim at the waterfall by Helen’s Folly, so too, went Navara & Rhiallis.
      A spark of some magic erupted from one of the children – sending a cascade of ruby sparks from the bonfire arching over the swimming hole like fireworks. Even as they oohed and aahed, the adult chaperones looked askance at the twins. Naturally, as none of the other children had shown any magical aptitude, all responsibility fell on their thin, young shoulders.
      The spontaneous burst of arcane power somehow attracted the attention of a small horde of fiends. .
      Two weeks passed, almost without exception, all those wounded by the demons died horrible, painful deaths. All those, except Navara & Rhiallis, who lingered on the very brink for a fortnight before – in eerie unison, both sets of eyes popped open.
      Once celebrated, the twins woke to find themselves hated – reviled – and their very presence seemed to elicit disgust in their neighbors. The smallfolk blamed them, irrationally, for the attack and all the deaths (which totaled twenty-two), for every diseased cow, every dying plant, every sick person – all the bad things that had happened since their birth, conveniently forgetting all the good ones.
      As it happened, neither Navara nor Rhiallis were naive to the change of atmosphere and as the very air in the village started to coalesce with malevolent emotion, the twins gathered their meagre belongings, stole the coin their mother had secreted away – all that remained of the many gifts they were given at their birth, and fled Ninyas in the night.
      Their twelfth birthday saw them napping at high noon beneath an outcropping of stone; huddled and alone – save for each other. That was to be the pattern of their lives.
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Note: Image is “King Jagiello Statue Central” by (Mulligand) from SXC.hu; edited by me