Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Cora'sol Tyrtlarn - an introduction

AKA "Legendary Memory" or "Mistress of Memories"

3195 years old. At 6 foot 4 inches tall, she is willowy and carelessly graceful. Poetry in motion, every move she makes is done with effortless and beautiful elegance. She is constantly shrouded in gauzy robes, and very rarely shows her face at all. The only visible feature are her eyes, which are a starling deep blue against the flash of pale sylvan skin, and fathomless with age and knowledge of things long past.

As a desert ranger, she lives in the heart of the desert and is wary of cities and enclosed population centers. A master archer, she relies on her bow and arrows for hunting and for deadly defense, preferring to keep at a distance rather than risk injury.

She wears an oddly shaped pendant on a leather thong around her neck, on the outside of her robes and gauzes, but will not talk about what it is or what it may mean.

They call me the Mistress of Memories and Immortal.
I have seen the world trees and soul forges. I remember coming across the land, through ice and fire. My homeland is now a long-forgotten world of eldritch forests and great energies.  Times before civilizations that have now been dust for aeons. I remember old forests where the trees knew your name. Peoples and races come and go, and yet I remain.

I recall that I had a great family at one time; and I remember that we were happy. It makes me sad to know that I can no longer recall the faces of my children. The recollection now only brings me melancholy, as it also recalls the tragedy that took them from me. Strange that I can recall, quite clearly, the smells - fire, smoke, and the terrible scent of death.
I have no memory of how - or why- I survived, only that I did.

The pain of that loss drove me away from all that I knew. Drove me to lose myself in solitude, to try and find peace among the circadian rhythms of the world.

I tried living in cities for a time. I found them to be too much. Too odious, to cacophonous, too chaotic. Oddly enough, though from forests I come, it is from the ever shifting sands of the great burning wastes that I find the most peace. The sighs of the winds among the sands is an echo of my inner thoughts, and I keep up hope that I might, one day, find something that interests me once more. I find myself occasionally envious of the fleeting lives of the creatures and other humanoid races here. Short and brutal, but they still find time for grace and laughter.

Occasionally people will seek me out. Adventurers in search of stories, Younglings in search of knowledge, or novelty, or whatever sentiment. There is always some reason, some entreaty to accompany them on whatever treasure they seek, or name they choose to make for themselves.

A few times I have chosen to help these travelers.. these supplicants.. if their story is unique enough, or if I'm tired enough of my solitude.

Life as a nomad means that I have no real need of significant material possessions. Money is meaningless to the sands. I get what I need through bartering with other nomads, tribes, or by the adventures that I choose to participate in.

It's been several hundred - I lose count - years since I've ventured out of the desert. Part of me wonders how much of the world outside has changed in my absence. I was approached not too long ago by Shalev Ben Barak in search of knowledge, and his story piqued my interest enough; stirred my wander-lust enough; that I chose to end my seclusion and adventure once again into the wilds.

Mayhaps it's time again for me to see what the world holds in store for me?

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