1st of Winter, 514
The beauty of the city at dawn still had the power to steal her breath, even after twenty six winters in the world. Thin strands of light had started to caress the buildings, lifting the colours out of the muted palette of the twilight. Lyrial knew that if she sat long enough she could watch the sparkling waters of the main canal come to vibrant life, enjoy the steadily growing hum as the streets that fed into the plaza became more populated, a dance of organised chaos played out by the crowds that had business in the heart of the city. But today was the first of the season, which meant her gaze was drawn inexorably to the exquisite beauty of the temple; it was considered a quaint custom by some now, the attendance of the first service on the first day of each season, but for Lyrial it held the comfort of familiarity. She could be found in the worship chamber far more often than once a season, but she always looked forward to the first day, her private ritual of arriving at the temple at dawn for prayer before attending the service a bell later woven into the fabric of her life.
The pure water of the canal lapped gently at the sides of the ravosala she sat in, propelled forward in smooth surges with every push. She had cursed silently when she’d realised she’d drawn a particularly talkative oarman, in no mood to feign interest in the drivel he was undoubtedly spouting, but thankfully it seemed he required very little in the way of response. She’d limited herself to the occasional hum of agreement, never knowing if they were given at the appropriate moment, having tuned out the barrage of sound at the beginning of the journey. Instead her attention was on the temple, deep blue eyes drinking in the carvings and spires that adorned the structure. Somehow each time she visited she managed to find some new detail in the exquisite marble façade that continued to fascinate her. Her favourite were the statues of two twisted gargoyles, crouched menacingly at the base of one of the smaller spires; from such a height their grotesque visages should have been indistinguishable, but to Lyrial their air of menace was palpable as the ravosala glided beneath the arches at the temples base. Pressing a few coins into the man’s hand as soon as they reached the safety of the docks, she ascended the wide steps in a steady stride, her heeled boots finding easy purchase against the stone.
Though long dark lashes had swept down to veil her eyes, her attention was on the two men that stood in front of each of the iron doors. Both members of the Stryfe, their penetrating gazes swept over each person ascending the steps, clearly assessing everyone for potential problems. As fitted those in service to Rhysol, she knew any such problems would be dealt with swiftly and brutally; her memory presenting her with the image of the same steps she now walked on slicked with blood, rivulets sliding slowly down the stone from the shallow pool underneath the prone figure of a man. She’d never known what crime the man had committed, whether he’d been banned from the temple or stupid enough to threaten the paladin in some fashion, but the scene of the aftermath had stayed with her. Even as a youth of thirteen she’d instinctively approved of the scene, somehow the disordered scene had seemed a fitting tribute to the benevolence that Rhysol showered upon the city. To Lyrial’s mind it was only the very foolish that failed to show the proper respect to their lord.
Passing through the doors with several other early morning worshippers, she quietly slipped into one of the vacant pews. Kneeling on the polished floor, waves of long ebony hair fell forward to surround her face as she inclined her head in reverence, soft syllables falling from her lips as she spoke the short prayer that began her worship. Many chimes passed before she raised her gaze to the shard that dominated the centre of the chamber, slender hands tucking the waves behind her ears to give her an unencumbered view of not only the shard but the intricate mural that adorned the dome. It seemed mere moments later that one of the temples accolytes entered to begin the service, lost as she was in studying the figure of Rhysol. The service itself seemed to pass too quickly, the devotions falling from every lip in fervent thanks for Rhysol’s protection and care, the chaotic blend of voices filling the cavernous space.
As she left the temple Lyrial’s mind had already moved onto what she needed to accomplish that day, her intention to next head to the docks. Tucked away on one of the smaller platforms was a shop she used to acquire most of her supplies. Whilst day to day she needed little more than a piece of parchment and a vial of ink, she had started to stretch her skills, and that required some additions to her growing collection of writing equipment.
“Well I don’t have all day, where to?” The deep voice snapped her out of her reverie, not realising she’d been standing blankly next to a ravosala.
“Oh, the docks, Odds and Ends” Instinctively her hand shot out to point in its general direction, the habit of talking with her hands one she’d never been able to control, though several times she’d come perilously close to striking anyone who had the misfortune to stand too close when she was at her most animated. His brusque tone had raised her hackles, so she didn’t bother with any of the social niceties as she folded her long legs into the vessel.
As they slipped silently through the waterways the fingers of her right hand beat a staccato rhythm against the wood, her internal frustration finding the only route out that it could. She knew why she was acting this way, small annoyances grating against her nerves with greater frequency each day, when usually she’d have let them pass by. The knowing however did little to help her, her pragmatic mind acknowledging that what she needed was a turning point, an opportunity to change her small life into something more.
The pure water of the canal lapped gently at the sides of the ravosala she sat in, propelled forward in smooth surges with every push. She had cursed silently when she’d realised she’d drawn a particularly talkative oarman, in no mood to feign interest in the drivel he was undoubtedly spouting, but thankfully it seemed he required very little in the way of response. She’d limited herself to the occasional hum of agreement, never knowing if they were given at the appropriate moment, having tuned out the barrage of sound at the beginning of the journey. Instead her attention was on the temple, deep blue eyes drinking in the carvings and spires that adorned the structure. Somehow each time she visited she managed to find some new detail in the exquisite marble façade that continued to fascinate her. Her favourite were the statues of two twisted gargoyles, crouched menacingly at the base of one of the smaller spires; from such a height their grotesque visages should have been indistinguishable, but to Lyrial their air of menace was palpable as the ravosala glided beneath the arches at the temples base. Pressing a few coins into the man’s hand as soon as they reached the safety of the docks, she ascended the wide steps in a steady stride, her heeled boots finding easy purchase against the stone.
Though long dark lashes had swept down to veil her eyes, her attention was on the two men that stood in front of each of the iron doors. Both members of the Stryfe, their penetrating gazes swept over each person ascending the steps, clearly assessing everyone for potential problems. As fitted those in service to Rhysol, she knew any such problems would be dealt with swiftly and brutally; her memory presenting her with the image of the same steps she now walked on slicked with blood, rivulets sliding slowly down the stone from the shallow pool underneath the prone figure of a man. She’d never known what crime the man had committed, whether he’d been banned from the temple or stupid enough to threaten the paladin in some fashion, but the scene of the aftermath had stayed with her. Even as a youth of thirteen she’d instinctively approved of the scene, somehow the disordered scene had seemed a fitting tribute to the benevolence that Rhysol showered upon the city. To Lyrial’s mind it was only the very foolish that failed to show the proper respect to their lord.
Passing through the doors with several other early morning worshippers, she quietly slipped into one of the vacant pews. Kneeling on the polished floor, waves of long ebony hair fell forward to surround her face as she inclined her head in reverence, soft syllables falling from her lips as she spoke the short prayer that began her worship. Many chimes passed before she raised her gaze to the shard that dominated the centre of the chamber, slender hands tucking the waves behind her ears to give her an unencumbered view of not only the shard but the intricate mural that adorned the dome. It seemed mere moments later that one of the temples accolytes entered to begin the service, lost as she was in studying the figure of Rhysol. The service itself seemed to pass too quickly, the devotions falling from every lip in fervent thanks for Rhysol’s protection and care, the chaotic blend of voices filling the cavernous space.
As she left the temple Lyrial’s mind had already moved onto what she needed to accomplish that day, her intention to next head to the docks. Tucked away on one of the smaller platforms was a shop she used to acquire most of her supplies. Whilst day to day she needed little more than a piece of parchment and a vial of ink, she had started to stretch her skills, and that required some additions to her growing collection of writing equipment.
“Well I don’t have all day, where to?” The deep voice snapped her out of her reverie, not realising she’d been standing blankly next to a ravosala.
“Oh, the docks, Odds and Ends” Instinctively her hand shot out to point in its general direction, the habit of talking with her hands one she’d never been able to control, though several times she’d come perilously close to striking anyone who had the misfortune to stand too close when she was at her most animated. His brusque tone had raised her hackles, so she didn’t bother with any of the social niceties as she folded her long legs into the vessel.
As they slipped silently through the waterways the fingers of her right hand beat a staccato rhythm against the wood, her internal frustration finding the only route out that it could. She knew why she was acting this way, small annoyances grating against her nerves with greater frequency each day, when usually she’d have let them pass by. The knowing however did little to help her, her pragmatic mind acknowledging that what she needed was a turning point, an opportunity to change her small life into something more.
