The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part Four

This is Part Four of a story created by guest writer Beth Stoneman.  Part Three can be found here.

The journey to the monastery took months, and felt as though we'd traveled across the world to our destination—but at the end of the trip, it was not the monastery that amazed me. The monastery was nestled in a corner of a grand city the men called Onegas, the capitol city of the Vigilant Empire.

I'd never been to an Imperial city, and I remember wondering if they were all like this. It seemed to stretch on forever, in a never-ending sea of marketplaces, temples, and magnificent houses. There were stations at many corners that the brothers explained were 'teleportation stations', where you could purchase inner-city instant transportation, but we used none of them, my companions preferring to demonstrate as much of the massive city to me as possible. As a result, a third of the journey seemed to have consisted of merely navigating the city to the tucked-away corner in which the monastery sat.

The building was modest, but large enough to harbor a host of people training in unarmed combat. The men that recruited me told me about other monasteries and other ways of training, ways of life. The building before me was nothing like what they described, but it looked much more like something I could live with. They showed me to my room, where I set my belongings that I had carried with me from Alcarinore, and then gave me a tour. There were many fighting rooms, but equally many meditation rooms. Whole galleries were dedicated to leaders of the Order that had accomplished great feats, and others were dedicated to magical garb that were described as granting brilliant abilities to their wearers. I never saw a suit of armor in the whole place, and there were very few weapons. The only weapons I saw were strange weapons I'd never seen before – sharp disks that, when thrown, could pierce most anything, simple long sticks, curved blades, and other stranger weapons. The whole place was beautiful inside, though much of my awe was inspired by the novelty of it all.

After my tour, I went back to my room. It was austere, but much better than anything I'd ever lived with. The best part was the plush bed for me to sleep on – a luxury with which I'd never been endowed.

Training was rigorous, but I learned much that I would never before have had access to. I asked my teachers to help me learn to make peace with my suffering, and I had food every day. The food was the best part. It was delicious, and I had never felt more strong. The monks gave me enough to sustain me, which was more than ever. I remember marveling at the fact that, apparently, being fed this often was not odd to everyone else.

Years passed of happiness and hard work. I had little time for play, but this was the first time I'd felt like I had a family since my parents passed. I'd made friends in the slums, yes, but I never felt like I belonged there without my parents to guide me. Here was a place with comfortable accommodations and enough food that the familiar starving sensation was a thing of the past.

I did find time to myself, however, which I usually spent getting to know the other monks. There was one man I related to really well, Brother Alec, whom I spent the majority of my time with. He was kind, if a bit coarse, and a skilled fighter. He often fought upside-down, choosing to adapt some of the combat maneuvers we learned to a more risky style that looked more impressive and was harder to evade. I sparred with him and helped him with his adapted maneuvers—I still remember the week I had bruises all the way up one of my arms. He was gentle with me, however, only wishing to help condition my bones, never to actually harm me.

We spent most of our time together, wandering the grounds and enjoying the beauty of some of the gardens. I connected with him on a deeper, more profound level than I did with anyone else. Our connection was almost spiritual; therefore, when I finally admitted to myself that I'd fallen in love, I'm sure it would not have been a surprise to anyone that saw us together. Those were the best years of my life, even though we hid it from everyone. Alec made me happier than I had ever been. I'd never known such kindness except as a small child, but those days seemed long gone. He was everything to me at that time in my life, and sparring with him helped me further advance my training. He was both a lover and a best friend, when I'd never even had a friend before.

The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part Three

This is Part Three of a story created by guest writer Beth Stoneman.  Part Two can be found here.

In the coming days, I felt at peace. My revenge had been more satisfying than I ever dared dream, and I was praised as a hero in the slums where I grew up. However, something bothered me. I spent those days enjoying the meager hospitality my friends could offer, but I could not shake the inexplicable feeling that I was being followed. One day, as I sharpened Mother's sword in the small home where I'd spent my childhood, I heard a knock. Instantly I tensed, ready for combat, but when I walked out a host of about six humans stood there staring at me in wonder.

They were dressed strangely, although something about their dress seemed familiar. They wore no armor and carried no weapons, and nearly all had long hair tied back like my father always wore his. One of them, wearing a medallion, and apparently the leader, stepped forward and reached for my hand. Smiling, he said, “I am Brother Aric Wisehand. My brothers and I were in the crowd that watched as you defeated that man, and I must say, I have never seen such skill from someone of your age. Where do you study?”

His assumption that a half-breed would be allowed to study anywhere was nearly ridiculous, and I had to choke back a laugh. “That was all stuff I picked up from my parents,” I replied. “My mother was skilled with the sword, though I really saw my father fight the most. He was good with his hands and feet. They put up a good fight against their assailant, the man you saw me kill, and I decided that, in their honor, I should try to memorize all the things I'd seen them do. I practiced mostly the way I'd seen my father fight, because it seemed more resourceful and I'd seen so much more of it.”

I remember how nervous this mysterious traveler made me as he raised his eyebrows and stroked his chin, deep in thought over my answer. “You fought well,” he finally said. “I am astonished that you brought down an opponent of that size without formal training, and the way you used his weaknesses was quite impressive.”

“I only used my memories of the night my parents were killed and the areas I noticed him guarding.”

“That is wise,” he said, nodding. “We belong to a group of men and women who spend years practicing the many ways to fight skillfully and sensibly with the weapons we were born with, our fists, feet, elbows, knees. We are called the Order of the Flickering Flame. We are not your...conventional monks, sequestered away in some distant monastery, contemplating the meaning of life. Rather, we take an approach focused more on combat, and the perfection of your own skills. After seeing the raw prowess that you displayed, we decided we would like to help you hone your abilities. We'd like to extend an invitation for you to join us at our monastery in Onegas.”

I blinked, this earth-shattering invitation flooring me. It was something new and different, and there hadn't been anything left in Alcarinore for me in five years, since the death of my parents. Additionally, something seemed oddly familiar—almost comforting—about these men, bringing me to feel more at ease around them than I had with anyone in a long time.

Finally I found my tongue, and replied, “Your offer is gracious. I am honored that you thought so highly of the way I fought. How long will you be here? I may need to consider your offer.”

Brother Aric smiled again, and answered, “We will be here as long as you need us to be. We are traveling in order to find someone who will reinvigorate our desire as a brotherhood to achieve perfect harmony with ourselves, others, and our enemies. We've needed a new face in the monastery for a very long time, and your raw potential is something we have never seen.” He chuckled. “This city was not even a recruiting destination. It was more of a vacation spot to rejuvenate us and help us get on our way.”

I shuffled my feet meekly, something I never did, and said, “Thank you. I will come find you when I have my answer.” They gave me a slip of parchment telling me where they were staying, and departed.

Of course, I had made up my mind practically before they had even left, but I wanted to spend some time saying farewell to the friends I had in my home town. This was going to be the journey of a lifetime, and now that my parents' killer was taken care of, I decided that learning to fight like my father did would be the best way to honor them. I would never find where he had studied, but this was as close as I could get.

The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part Two

This is Part Two of the story written by guest writer Beth Stoneman.  Part One can be found here.

I lived without parents in the slums for several years, hiding during raids and staying with some of the families that survived the same raid in which my parents were killed. Through these years, the guardsmen of the city hunted the members of the cult that had raided our district, with a noticeable measure of success—despite the poor treatment of cross-racial marriages, there were still laws against what this cult did, and actions were being taken effectively and swiftly. Life was even harder than it had ever been, but hearing this news gave me hope that the man that killed my parents would pay for what he did.

With nothing better to do, I spent time emulating some of the things I had seen my father do. It was not much, but learning his fighting style helped me remember him and what he did, in addition to giving me a way to defend myself. I tried to did the same for my mother's swordfighting style, but I had seen her do substantially less fighting as a child, and I rarely seemed to make any real headway. I always kept my parents' weapons with me. Fathers' fistwraps were always wrapped around my own fists, and Mother's swords were always tied, however crudely, to my hip. I kept their most precious belongings in a sack. They may, perhaps, have fetched me a pretty coin with which to sustain myself, but that would be as awful as destroying a memory, which I simply couldn't do.

One day, as I was traveling about the city under my father's cloak, I was approached by a hulking figure, also under a cloak. He stared at my mother's magical sword,sheathed at my hip, then stared into my hood, which obscured my face. He nearly screamed at me, rage in his voice, demanding to know where I had gotten the sword. Staying silent, I turned my hip away, guarding the precious keepsake that my mother had so bravely wielded in the face of death.

In one swift motion, the massive elf threw off his cloak before tearing down my hood with such raw force that I staggered to keep my footing. He studied me, and I him. He was a monstrosity of an elf, not built like the others, with horribly butchered ears and scars marking nearly every bit of his oddly-toned skin I could see. His arms and legs were disfigured, perhaps from shattered bones that had never healed properly. He wore dark clothing that looked familiar to me, even though it was faded and worn.

While he stood there, dumbfounded, I slowly began to recognize him, and my eyes widened in shock. I had only seen him before as a whirling silhouette against the burning homes in the background, but I knew this man.

I knew him as the monster that had killed my parents.

When he reached for Mother's sword, I leapt back and screamed, “NO! No one may have this sword, least of all, you. You are a filthy monster, guilty of murder and near genocide. This is my mother's sword! I am the child whose parents you brutally murdered.”

After I said this, he snarled and lunged, knowing that he needed to finish the job he had unwittingly left incomplete. Imitating one of the attacks I'd seen my father do, I threw a kick to the side of his knee, unconsciously noting the sound of a crack as his weight shifted to his other side.

The ferocity he once had was now gone, no doubt drained by the fight that my parents put him through. He had no weapons, and was obviously weaker than last I had seen him. I dropped my belongings on the ground behind me, and gave this fight everything I had, using all the techniques I'd taught myself. As we fought in the middle of the city, a crowd formed around us, spectating as a half-breed in her teens faced off against a brute that dwarfed her. My kick had substantially weakened him, and I threw punches and kicks at his limbs where they seemed crooked. I took advantage of weak points, like the side he seemed to favor throughout the fight – no doubt another injury that my parents left for me to exploit – and after only a few attacks, he was staggering. I took out his other leg with a sweep I'd seen my father utilize many times, and he collapsed on the ground, wiping blood from his face. While he struggled to stand, I kicked him once in each shoulder, then grabbed his head and brought my knee up to his face.

My ceaseless barrage, driven by pain, anger, and a well-nursed desire for painful revenge brought so much suffering down on this pathetic excuse for an elf that he gave up on attempting to stand and curled up in a ball on the ground, mewling a feeble plea for mercy. Grimacing, I seethed, “I will say this slowly, so that your pathetic mind, so filled with hatred, can understand every word I say before I kill you. Did you have mercy on all the innocent people in the slums, torn from their homes and maimed? Did you have mercy on my mother when you sliced her head from her shoulders? Did you have mercy on my father when you cut him open like cattle at the slaughter?” I drew my mother's sword, slowly, with grim, unshakable purpose. “I know no mercy for the likes of you, monster.”

I raised my sword, intending to kill him the same way he killed both my parents, administering the same wounds that killed me inside, but he shrieked, “ WAIT! I never knew they had a child! I was...I was just following orders! I know how it feels to be a half-breed. I'm an abomination! My father was an orc, my mother an elf, I'm not even half human! I am a monster! I was hired by the Crimson Hand. Please spare me. I know your pain....”

“If all this is true, I only want to kill you more. A half-breed who works for a cult that murders half-breed and mixed families. You really are an abomination.” My free hand clenched itself into a fist as I continued, my voice issued behind teeth gritted with rage and malice, “You could never know the pain I felt that day as I WATCHED THEM DIE!” My mother's sword sliced ruthlessly across his torso, biting as deeply as possible, severing his twisted, revolting head from his crumpled body.

After his blood-curdling scream stopped reverberating, I raised my mother's sword, covered in her murderer's blood, high into the air and turned slowly to face every spectator that had seen me vanquish the monster that had haunted my dreams for six years. Authoritatively, I shouted, “This is what happens when you let bigotry and anger control your actions! I am half elf and half human and would not trade my troubled life for anything! My parents married because of a force stronger than politics or purity of blood! The married because, despite the torment they faced, they loved each other more than anything in the world! Before you murder a mixed couple, remember that your hatred will bring about your death! This abhorrent creature is an example of what will happen. All of you have been warned! I will forever be a champion of those who lose loved ones because they are a half-breed. Remember this face.” My eyes narrowed as my vision swept the crowd, staring at me in awe. “Remember this sword.”

Continue to Part Three 

The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part One

This story was created by Beth Stoneman, a player in the game I'm currently running, and the first of what I hope will be many guest writers on Cerebral Vomit.  'The Story of Lyra Swiftfist' is her character's backstory, and, in my humble opinion, is an excellent read.

When I was young, my life was fraught with nothing but hardship. The memories are so painful to recall, but I need to get them out there, so that they stop haunting me and swimming in my head.

Our family was treated poorly because my parents, who married out of love, were neither both human, nor both elf, and a union of such impurity was more than frowned upon in my home country of Darinus. My mother was an Elf, and formerly of high standing in Elven society. Named Ellyria Sageheart, she was one of the more wealthy Elves in Alcarinore, and the head of an Elven mercenary company, though she never did any mercenary work herself.

One day, a human man by the name of Davin Swiftfist, an adventurer who had been exploring woods near her home, came into town to stock up on supplies and get a few days' rest. He investigated her mercenary organization, looking to hire a scout to help navigate forests and support him in his travels. There, he met my mother. They always told me that the day they met, they felt a surge of magic that couldn't be learned by the most powerful magic users in all of EbonHurst. They fell in love the moment their eyes met, and my father decided not to hire a mercenary, instead taking an extended stay in town and subtly courting my mother under the radar. After a time, they decided to get married. He took her back to a human city, where people where moderately more accepting—though still wary of their union—and they married. After the wedding, they returned to the city where she had her home. When they returned together, word of their shameful union had reached the people, and she was stripped of her status and company, and forced to live in the slums reserved for mixed-race families.

Despite her ostracization, Mother told Father that living in the city that had treated them so poorly was important to her. She had deep emotional ties to the trees and animals that lived in Alcarinore, and couldn't bring herself to leave. He obliged, wishing only to make her happy, and they had me. I was born into destitution and bigotry, an unfit life for a small child, but my parents' love for each other and me made it more bearable. Sometimes there would be raids, but my father's combat prowess always kept us safe. For food, Father had to travel to the market under a cloak and keep his face hidden, because many stores would either increase their demands or sometimes deny service completely. The other families in this part of town were kind, and I played with the children there. We lived there for most of my childhood, until one night, tragedy struck.

During our slumber, we heard a great racket outside. An extremist cult, wishing to go against the council's laws, had grown to the point where they could wipe out the entire mixed-race slums, and they did. That night, the worst raid ever seen destroyed our way of life, and killed nearly every resident. One of the most ferocious members of the cult entered our house. Mother, having been trained with the sword, and father, being deft with his fists and feet, battled valiantly against this monster, while I watched from a secret room that Father built into our small house in case of raids like this one. They weakened him to near incapacitation before he felled both of them with his dual axes. My parents were mighty and skilled, but could not stand up to the attacker's ferocity, and I watched them both die right there in my own home. After weathering many smaller raids, I learned not to cry when my parents were injured, and only sat there, dumbfounded in my perfect hiding place. However, when their dark champion left, and the raid ended, I saw fit to cry, and did not stop crying for perhaps hours.

Pain still fills my entire being when I think of that day. I saw my parents, both bloodied and beaten on the floor. Mother's beautiful glowing elven swords that had once slain the greatest of foes still lay in her hands. Father's intricate, ornate, hand-sewn fistwraps that had always guided his attacks so seamlessly fell from his clenched fingers. All the weapons and furniture were soaked in blood, both from my parents and from their assailant. I had never seen what carnage was until that day, when it had been dropped without mercy upon my house. I cried ceaselessly and without abandon for days, eating little, and sleeping poorly.