Agathilea (prime)
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Appearance
You see Legionnaire Agathilea Rassine Vaalor the Defender. She appears to be an Elf. She is average height. She appears to be very young. She has amethyst eyes and sun-kissed, unblemished skin. She has waist-length, cascading caramel brown hair twisted into a high, neat bun and held in place with a sprinkling of gold-tinged sunstones arranged in a spiral design. She has a well-defined, heart-shaped face and a tiny, dark brown mole on one side of her nose. Petite, slightly curved ears sweep upwards to a gentle point, perfectly framing her face. She is in good shape. She is wearing a red silk winged wyvern emblem, a polished spiked mithril buckler slung over her shoulder, a gold-clasped sturdy leather pack, an ivory cameo-pinned madder red satin chiton torso-wrapped in gold cording, a gilded rigid cerise corset laced with plaited silk cording, some shoulder-spiked ornate vultite full plate, an intricate gold vambrace in the shape of a wyvern, a polished vaalin ring, a crimson leather axe frog bound in gold, a small black leather kit, some crimson silk pants fastened with five dragon's-tear diamond buttons, a soft leather thigh-sheath, and some tall dark leather boots with wyvern-shaped eahnor clasps.
Vignettes
My Home by Agathilea Rassine Vaalor
You will find the Rassine home west of the foothills outside Ta’ Vaalor nestled in a quiet secluded valley. A looming stone structure with cedar trim captures the eye as soon as one begins the descent of the eastern hills. As one draws closer the carefully tended gardens and fields capture the eye, as well as the quality of the fenced enclosures housing beautiful livestock. An old but sturdy dark-maned stallion keeps a watchful eye from his vast pasture as you draw near. At the entrance of the home an ancient crest is secured above the door, it’s entertwined gold and silver frame glinting in the morning sun. The name “Rassine” is beautifully etched on the arch. Its crimson field bears a brilliant golden wyvern with eyes of crimson blazestar beautifully crafted in a manner to appear ready to take flight. Emblazoned on the vale are the words: “For honor, pride, and glory.” Just below the crest, you notice a badly charred faded crimson banner bearing the words:” Tactical Division-Barbed Phoenix”. Dragonstalk, violets, and a beautiful red hibiscus adorn the front to the right and overflowing herb gardens filled with every herb imaginable run to the left all the way to the edge of the vast outer wall. Carefully placed stones form a quaint walkway up to the massive iron reinforced doors, where you find a wyvern etched iron doorknocker. Further to the west you see vast fields of grain, enough to sustain a farm of this size and more. A small apple orchard borders the fields to the south, and a dark forest is barely visible just to the south of the orchard. To the north a line of hills and valleys continues, faint streams of smoke from other farms barely visible in the morning air.
Behind the home, several huge barns dot the valley, one of which is a lighter colored barn, smaller in size, but just as elegant as the other sturdy structures. The badly repaired crest to the upper left side of the barn is tarnished and unreadable, although the wyvern is still visible. Jagged edges capture your eye as you realize that this crest is still missing pieces of the arch and vale, but somehow with the repairs it remains symbolic in some way. Inside the barn you catch a glimpse of an elevated floor of wood, worn smooth by time. Racks of weapons carefully oiled and polished adorn one wall, and armor and shields the other. Sturdy mannequins of straw lied nestled in one corner, and battering rams are secured against another corner. A whimsical scoreboard of sorts is in the last corner—"Agathilea” marked in chalk at the top, and the word “Opponent” at the bottom. The last recorded scores to the right of each name are boldened to show that the opponent did not fare so well. A gleaming gold silk ribbon hangs askance across the scoreboard, dangling a myriad of wyvern, griffin, and hibiscus charms crudely fashioned from gemstones.
The Coming of Age The morning sun blinded her briefly as she strolled out of the forest and toward the orchard. Her brother’s death was a fresh wound to her heart, and she kept her pace as slow as possible, yet steady so as not to draw the family’s ire at her absence. Quietly she cut through a corner of the grain fields headed to the shelter of the herb garden for a jolt of fragrance that usually lifted her spirits. Above the quiet breeze and singsong of the field lark, she heard raised voices. “She must know!” That was her grandmother’s husky but firm tone. The thundering reply from her father seemingly quelled even the breeze outside. “I forbid it!”. Pausing only to assess further what she heard, Agathilea decided enough was enough. Grief had assuaged this family and seemed to hold them in a stifling grip. She burst through the kitchen door and strode into the family room. Nodding briefly to her grandmother, she turned to her father and said quietly, “What do you argue about, Father?” Her father’s angry demeanor changed in an instant. Regarding his daughter with a gentle smile, he replied, “I have lost patience with your grandmother’s worried questions once more, and I apologize.” Her grandmother stifled a slight cough quickly and interjected, “I perhaps am too hasty sometimes.” Eyeing both with a cautious grin, Agathilea said, “Whatever it is that the two of you are concealing from me, I wish you would truly consider just spitting it out. The truth can only free one, after all.” Turning sharply, she headed up the stairs to her tiny corner room and began to organize her travel chest. She hummed an old battle tune as she worked, taking care to fold each item carefully. She would not return home for a great while, as her duties to the Crimson Legion were starting, and she had much to learn. Her thoughts sprinted as she packed, first her brother’s untimely death-a hunting accident in which he failed to secure the wild boar he shot with his bow only to be tusked fatally. By the time her father found him, it was too late; his life’s blood splashed across the ground in a macabre crimson river. In his stead, she vowed to the family to go into service. She was more inclined to soldier than her brother. He much preferred tinkering, carving gemstones, and repairing items. A quick question of what her father and grandmother were arguing about touched her mind, but she quickly banished it. She would do well to rest and leave. The family emotions ran high these days, and she had little use for them. Freeing her hair from its tight bindings, she quickly undressed and snuffed the lantern, climbing in between the cool sheets with a satisfied smile. At once, she drifted to sleep, the strong scent of lavender and mint filling her senses from the gardens below. Screams. The bloody screams. Raw images of dark shapes and clammy blasts of air assaulted her as she fought to wake. Something was holding her, piercing her skin with a talon; Agathilea sat up, eyes wide. Her fingers clenched around the dagger she kept under her pillow. She sat frozen, barely allowing her breath to escape. There in the darkness, the images replayed in her mind. She had to have been just 3 or 4 years old. Memories filled her head like swirling eddies of water. Her mother, scooping her up in her blanket and running to the barn, her father waiting in full armor the horses tacked and ready. She was lifted high into the air for a moment, the smell of burnt leather and vultite filling her nose. She was passed back to her mother, who told her to hold on. The feel of the horse under her in a full gallop. The sound of her father’s stallion pounding just ahead of them, snorting as he gained speed. Glimpses of the trees in the forest, looming overhead, as the wind rushed past her ears. Her mother’s heartbeat was steady, then faster as they cleared the edge of the dark woods.
Leaning back against her pillows, she allowed her mind to reveal the memories. Her mother’s sharp command, “Aga, close your eyes.” The strange rush of heat and wind, the smell of burning wood and flesh as her eyes flew open on their own. The sight of bodies, burning where they lay, elves, animals, children, with the structures all around them crumbling to charred remains. Here and there, other landowners, their faces familiar, strode, weapons drawn, searching the blackness. Her father calmly gave orders to move and cover the bodies. The cleric, murmuring over the dead, his face drawn, taught with grim resolve. She remembered the time, how it crawled as she fought to keep still in her mother’s arms. Groups formed and rode off to the south and west, searching for survivors, answers, and supposed reinforcements. Whispers flooded her mind. Although she hadn’t recalled them before, she noted them in the darkness now. “Attacks, hiding, magic, demons, unprepared.” Agathilea sat straight up. She thought, “demons?” How could she not remember this until now? Suddenly a wave of nausea overcame her as the thought assaulted her whole being. Standing, she crept out of her room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Drawing a cup of water from the cistern, she savored the cool water as she fought back the bile erupting from her stomach. Softly in the distance, a lone nightingale reminded her of the here and now. She listened to the delicate song for a moment, then quietly returned to her room. A quick prayer to Kai resolved to uncover the memories fully. She tossed and turned yet slept through the night devoid of dreams. In the dew-laden morning air, she smirked as she entered the barn. No amount of stealth could keep the old stallion from noticing a change in the surroundings. A quiet whinny greeted her ears. Smiling, she leaned against the door to the stall, tossing the apple lightly in her hand. Another second, and the familiar soft nostrils were against her cheek. She whispered to him as he munched the apple, recounting the night, asking what he thought, grateful for his continued friendship. Dark eyes encountered her before the familiar snort and departure from sight. A stallion of few words, as usual, she cheerfully thought. Her mother’s voice pierced the air. “Good morning, daughter.” Turning, she smiled and greeted her mother. “Good morning, Mother.” Her mother quietly observed her a moment, a thin line of disapproval flitting across her face as she settled her gaze on Agathilea’s hair. “Might there be a hint of pride in wearing your hair more fittingly? Agathilea fought the retort that threatened to escape her lips. “Yes, Mother, I will arrange it before I come down for our morning meal.” With a gentle smile, Agathilea’s mother gathered her skirts in a most courtly fashion and gingerly stepped over the sturdy threshold of the barn. “That’s my girl, see you then.” came the soft reply.
At the edge of the forest, she quickly removed the petticoats and voluminous skirts with a snort of exasperation. Her mother's tears and dramatic sighs had imposed the wretched garments on her. She sarcastically thought, "wonder if the orcs are impressed by attire." Sliding into her fitted black pants, she breathed a sigh of relief. Off came the heeled boots, replaced with some sturdy leather ones. Pulling the carefully placed tiara off her head, she shook her hair out, gathered it into a simple ponytail, and tucked her hibiscus flower behind one ear. She thought, "much better." Straightening her shoulders and re-arranging her gear, she strode toward the fortress. The monks at the monastery showed her to a small guest room and quietly served her a light evening meal. Grateful for their hospitality, she wandered to the courtyard and looked up into the star-filled night. Turning to her thoughts, she began to contemplate the lessons offered at Voln. She would find her way to the Legion soon enough. A little training with the monks would help, as well as catch her up on the current events of the fortress, for the monks were eager to share all the latest news (and sometimes opinion) with someone new. Several weeks later, she strode into King's Court and met Squire Legionnaire Krystalena and her husband, Orssus. Orssus immediately gave his help at the Warrior guild, thoroughly informing her about training and promotion. Suddenly, First Legionnaire Aureliano politely introduced himself, and her surroundings faded away as she listened, attentive to every word, every inflection to the strong warrior's informative summary of the Legion, service, and defense of the fortress. He took her hand as they visited the ballistae, where patiently he instructed her on loading, aiming, and firing. Then he guided her to the Drake and patiently explained each step, the team effort involved, and the intricacies of building the ammunition for the Drake. Several lessons ensured that she would not forget the routine. Several days later, she swore her allegiance to the Sovereign, the Fortress, and the Legion. At first, the Drills took concentration. Within a few weeks, she felt as if she had been doing them all her life. Tonight, kneeling at the statue of Kai, she noticed a sense of peace within. She looked up at the big eyes staring down at her and gratefully whispered to him of things to come, her dedication to him and the fortress, and her desire to be half the warrior towering over her. The wind rumpled her hair suddenly, and she realized that not once had she dreamed since arriving in Ta' Vaalor. Smiling, she touched the statue in quiet homage and headed out to practice berserk.