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Prologue Edit

The midday sunlight shines across a thick canopy of trees on a small island off the coast of Quel'Danas. Hidden beneath the boughs lies a small settlement. The few stray beams of light breaking through the overgrown forest barely illuminate the ground below. Instead, the area is aglow with several small bonfires, some with large spears of meat resting on makeshift roasting spits, the seared skin crackling and hissing. A young satyr walks up to one of the fires. He quickly removes the cooked roast, mumbling to himself in demonic tongue. He must hurry, or his lordship will be upset. He remembers what he is like when upset, his free hand rubbing across the broken horn protruding from his skull. Another of his peers, Faestin, joins him in preparing the meal by filling a rather large jug of wine. He looks at the younger one. “Melok, why does he keep that wench?”, the wine bearer states abruptly. “He pollutes our clan with such filth. May he soon grow bored and dispose of it.” Melok nods and spats at the ground.

They gather the rest of the food and a tray of dry bread, and head towards the nearby ruins. Large mossy stones lay scattered along the forest floor, some laying where they have for centuries since the day they first crumbled to the earth below. There amongst the ruins sits a large satyr, clad in leather and furs. His face and chest are marked with black runes and sigils. At his feet lay a young elven girl. She is clad in a long robe, tattered and worn from exposure to the elements. Her arms show through the partial sleeves revealing similar demonic markings. Her skin is pale from lack of sunlight, her blond locks falling loose and unkempt. The smell of food wafts across her nose. Like a hungry dog, she looks up at the lord with wanting eyes. He snarls to the duo, “You took to long! Don't you see my daughter is hungry!” Melok bows his head and says, “Apologies Lord Baelim. The meat was still cooking and...”, but he is quickly interrupted by Faestin elbowing him in the gut. “What he means is, we wouldn't want you or your err... daughter falling ill m'lord.” Faestin chimes in. The young elf scowls at the two as they step forward with her dinner.


After serving Baelim, they set some food on a large flat stone near his daughter. She crawls quickly up to the rocks and grabs a large haunch of meat. She bites into it, but stops and glares at the two servants. The meat is bloody and raw in the center. She knew this was not an accident as it happened frequently. Resting her hands over top of the food, she closes her eyes and begins chanting softly. Suddenly, her hands burst into fel flame, torching the grasped meat. After a few moments, she opens her eyes and the flames subside, leaving her dinner seared and cooked to the bone. Baelim bursts into uproarious laughter and exclaims, “Very good Hokaru! You are learning quickly. Next time one of those oafs tries something like that, aim the flame a little higher.” He motions to Melok and Faestin, making a throat slitting action with his clawed hand, a sly grin across his face. “Teach them a lesson they will remember...”


Chapter 1 - Retribution Edit

On one balmy autumn eve, Hokaru sat alone near the fire.  This was no normal day, but was the anniversary of her birth. There was no festivity, no gathering of friends.  She had no friends.  Her only peers shunned her for their differences.  They would never accept a half blood amongst them.  On several occasions, they have gone as far as to attempt her murder. As she sat at the fire, one such time came to her mind.  A devious grin crossed her face as she remembered the feeling of vindication when she killed the satyr, Faestin, who plotted her demise.  The poison he used was strong, but she was not some imbecile demon, and her elven intelligence shown through her fragile-looking exterior.  Faestin never suspected she has switched the glasses.  He would have never thought she had it in her to kill, after all she was a mere half-blood.  Perhaps he reconsidered that thought as his eyes glazed over in the last few moments of his life, blood spewing from his mouth and eyes as the strong neurotoxins took hold of him.

They thought his death the act of another, one of his cohorts, Melok.  Hokaru saw to that as well, planting the empty vials she found in Faestin's tent in Melok's tattered leather vest.  Her victory felt more sublime when her father impaled Melok upon a long spear, an example “to keep the order of things”.  These thoughts brought a smile to her face as she reminisced on the past years.  Now a young woman, she was no longer a delicate creature.  Her horns had grown, although not as long as her father's, or any other satyr by any means.  They were about 3 inches from base to tip, partially hidden under the white-blond hair flowing down her back.  The fel magicks she used as a child as simple tricks have been honed into a fine art of fire and shadow.  No longer was she thought the innocent girl kept for their amusement, but instead was feared.  She enjoyed the notoriety, as it was the closest to respect she would ever get within her clan.  Even her own father, her lord, kept a close eye on her actions.  He knew that she could easily usurp his throne if she tried, but ruling a small clan of satyrs meant nothing to her.  She would happily see them all rot in hell if it meant her freedom from this forsaken island.


As she sat in the firelight, her thoughts turned to a more solemn matter.  As today was her birthday, it also marked the day of her mother's death.  She died shortly after giving birth to her.  As she closes her eyes, she can almost see her face and hear her cries. She shuts her eyes tight trying to block out the memories. Her mother was taken captive by Lord Baelim when she was quite young. Her conception was one through countless nights of rape and abuse.  Some days she wished her mother had never been forced to deal with such atrocities, even though it meant her non-existence.  She would get her revenge soon enough.  She too sensed her powers had grown beyond her father's.  The old satyrri lord's days were numbered. She would wait until the moment was just right for her to strike...

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