 Posted:
Sun Apr 01, 2007 3:59 pm |
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It is said in the lands from whence I hail that there are those who walk the line between life and death, treading carefully and silently and cloaked in shadow. It is said they pick and choose which side of the line all others are to stand on, pausing only slightly in their dance of blood and shadows as they point out their next prey with the tips of their daggers. They say these dancers of death are watched over by one who was once a woman... a woman who wrapped herself in shadows and bathed in her victims' blood in life, and who became greater than life in death. A woman named Ahandora, now goddess of the assassins which I now lead.
My name is Tarris. I have no surname, which seems to be at odds with the customs of the place I now find myself in. During my childhood I imagined myself to be many things... the lost and desperately loved child of an elvish princess; the offspring of a sea nymph and a pirate lost at sea; the daughter of wizards and his sorceress, bound for greatness in a destiny full of adventure and glamorous fame. In truth, I have no idea where I was born or the nature of the woman who evicted me from her womb. I may be an orphan, I may not be. It all ceased to matter long ago. Now, all I am is Tarris, and this is the beginning of my tale.
My earliest memories bear the stink of sour ale-soaked breath and toothless grins. I was raised in a brothel, traded by slavers who took me when I was barely weaned in exchange for... well. Anyone who has stepped foot in a brothel would know what I was traded for. My first duties were menial, cleaning chamberpots and scrubbing stains out of linens, although once I became of age I became yet another body for sale. I was beaten regularly, fed less so, and lived in a state of black resignation and with the hope that I would be one of the lucky ones who died of disease while still young, rather than being allowed to become old and gaunt and haggard, for I would no longer serve a purpose and would be made to die slowly upon the streets, dying of cold and hunger as the rats ripped away at my flesh.
And yet, even the lowest form of life has a desperate survival instinct when death turns her cold black gaze upon them. I was given to a patron of our brothel for a night's entertainment... his breath reeked of stale liquor and his bloodshot eyes bore the gleam of violent insanity. I remember boils on his flesh and chipped teeth the color of rotting wood. He almost killed me that night, his dirt-covered hands tight on my neck as his foul sweat poured down on me. In a moment of desperation I killed him; my searching hands found his blade next to my pallet and I sunk it deep into the side of his neck. Bathed in blood, gasping for air, I clutched his knife tightly in my hand and ran into the night.
I was, by the closest estimate, no more than 10 years of age. I lived the next three years of my life in a state of primordial survival, and then went on to a life of excess and depraved luxury... but that is a tale for another time. |
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Anonymous
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