Lightseeker || Liespeaker

Someone said, "Make a thread for Lys's history and development!" and for some reason I said, "Okay!" - Currently only 3 entries made, with 2 more planned and 4 more in the concept stages. Look forward to when it is updated with art. Enjoy the adventures of my terrible daughter.

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Warning: Descriptions of child abuse
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For as far as Lysarra's memory reached, her life had always belonged to someone else, always pushed around and sought to be controlled. In one hand, she held her hopes and dreams, falling through her fingers and scattering in the wind - and in the other was her father's inescapable grasp, holding tightly to her wrist and dragging her behind him as he followed his own path, no matter how she kicked and screamed and pulled towards freedom. At times he would turn and ask her, with a sneer on his lips, "What path would you take, then, you fool of a child? You know nothing of this world, and I know it best! Your father knows what's best for you!" She never had an answer. To a degree, he'd always been right. But she knew it was only because he'd controlled her life so restrictively to ensure that it was so.

He tried so hard to mold her in the image of her mother, who died when bringing their daughter into the world. They shared a name, shared a face, shared their laughter and smile - but they weren't the same person. Lysarra had ambition and anger, and her mother showed patience and mercy. Lysarra was cold in all the places where her mother was kind. At first, she didn't understand why this shook her father so deeply - she'd never been close to her father, but they hadn't always been at odds - but as time went on, she was repulsed by what she realized. He didn't want a daughter. He wanted a doll. He wanted her mother again, back from the dead, and he used his living child in an effort to cling to a dead woman's fleeting image. To him, Lysarra was simply her mother reborn. And the constant disappointment and anger he held against her came from the failure of that unspoken expectation.

Lysarra hated her father.

For years, he forced her to learn her mother's hobbies, from cooking to tailoring to some smatterings of first aid. He taught her to follow the path of the Light, which ironically led to her rejection of this imposed faith. When she learned that he was arranging a place for her in the Church to one day become a paladin - just like her mother before her - she shattered his plans by publicly denouncing the Light, effectively disqualifying her from ever receiving the Church's teachings. Her father was furious, of course, but she didn't care. Lysarra resolved to make her own path. But, now that she'd burned the only bridge that seemed certain to bear her towards any kind of future, she needed to figure out where her new path started.

Since the day she steeled herself against her father's will, she was a wild and unruly child - but more than that, she was cunning and clever. Much to her father's vexation. He learned quickly how unwise it was for him to leave her alone with his colleagues, as he'd return to wary gazes and expressions of disgust. Sometimes, he would introduce friends to her, and after one look at them, she would simply scream and scream and make a scene that only bruises from beatings would silence. It wasn't long before he stopped inviting people to his home, and forced his daughter into isolation in hopes that she would either learn the error of her ways, or fear him enough to end this play of rebelliousness. He never seemed to understand one thing about his daughter: She hated him far more than she could ever fear him. As he pulled her down his path, she pulled away all the same - but it only caused his grip to tighten, and his pace to quicken, dragging his daughter down towards a prison he only saw as her salvation.

Under the weight of her father's chains, it was a long time before Lysarra managed to find something to hope and strive towards. But in time, she did. Magic always came naturally to High Elves, but the Lightseeker family had always pushed past its call in favor of the Light. In fact, her father, as if forseeing her foolishness, did his very best to dismiss and deny her any knowledge of the arcane arts. But he was a busy man, and a high ranking paladin in his order, and his work often called him far from the walls of Silvermoon. Despite his best efforts, Lysarra was too clever to remain caged forever. And her cleverness was noticed and noted by local mages, who encouraged her to study and hone her skills. With a little guidance, and a page out of some novice tomes here and there, she quickly learned that she had a gift. Conjuring candlelight with a snap of her fingers, freezing puddles and ponds with a gentle breath, in all ways it came rather naturally to her, even in comparison to other elves.

When her father caught her, he was furious. Not because he was opposed or against magic and mages as an establishment, but because he saw her deviation from his memory of her mother as an inexcusable insult to her name. He did everything he could to violently suffocate this budding passion, burning all her possessions, magical or not, and locking her in her room for days on end. But once she was started on this new path, there was nothing he could do to stop her. He could take away what she owned, but she could never strip her from what she'd learned. Lysarra continued to pursue her interest in secret, perfecting what little she knew, and experimenting to discover more. She prepared for the day where she would at last be allowed to break free, and spread her wings.

It was apparent to them both that their house would be torn apart by this endless war.

But it seemed the Scourge would have their way with it first.

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How many days since the gates had fallen?

Lysarra had been at home when it happened, as she usually was. She may have missed the evacuation calls, but the shouting and screaming pierced through the city and echoed down the streets. She didn't know what was happening, but she knew she had to escape it. She knew if she stayed still, she would not survive. Stowing away what provisions she could carry, she moved out into the chaos that had taken her city, in search of safer, sturdier walls to hold her.

But there existed no walls that could hold back the tireless march of the Scourge. They spilled onto the streets, leaving nothing but death and rot and the stench of decay in their wake. The corpses they made lay still for a time, but soon simply got up and followed after them. Silvermoon had fallen. Quel'Thalas was dead.

How many days, alone and afraid?

How many days more?

-

Almost a month, or so she thought. Lysarra had lost count of the days. The time she'd spent alone, locked up in her room, had permanently damaged her sense of time and space. In waiting for her ruler's rescue, had it been a month, or a year? In seeking new shelter, had she traveled a block, or ten miles?

Until this point, she held out inside a guardhouse that yet stood in Farstriders' Square, protected by a few trainees, a captain, and a frail young mother who had nowhere else to go. It was fine at first - though inexperienced, these Guardians of Silvermoon were ever vigilent and devoted to their people - but they were only 5 people, holding steady in the face of an army. When the undead came pounding on their barricade, Lysarra didn't stay to watch them fall.

She thought she saw one of the guards, later. It was difficult to tell, with the face so mangled.

It had been a few days since she lost that shelter, and things looked so very grim. Weak and weary from days with nothing but cheese and stale bread to sustain her, scavenged from what were once stores and inns, and desperately fleeing whenever the undead caught the scent of her still-living flesh, Lysarra seemed as though she were at the brink of death. She was worn down from it all, without having slept for nearly a week, and without having spoken to another living creature. She was exhausted. But she didn't make it this far to die.

The Shepherd's Gate. The last gate of Silvermoon that yet stood after the Scourge tore down its walls. The city belonged to the dead now. That's where she had to aim.

As usual, she hadn't slept. Even after clearing out the corpses from this small home and eagerly putting together all its soft, warm pillows and blankets in a pile, she sat by the barricaded door and she watched, waiting for any sign of trouble. Sleep was a luxury she couldn't afford. Arcane flames danced at her fingertips, as she used her power to distract and entertain herself. A moment of calm, in a world rent apart by darkness. But, soon the sun would rise...

Literally, that is - Lysarra didn't harbor any sort of hope for the figurative sense. Dawn approached, and once the first rays of light hit the cobblestones of Augur's row, she would be gone from this place. Absently watching the skyline, she bit down on an old, tough hunk of bread, and waited. And watched. And listened. And waited.

And in her listening, she heard a curious thing - something she hadn't heard in what felt like an eternity. It sounded so foreign to her, she had to sit still and silent and strain her ears to pick up what whispers the wind brought to her. But she found there was no mistaking it.

Thalassian words, from Thalassian lips, and a living, breathing, Thalassian man.

In an instant, Lysarra's aversion to the twilight was forgotten, and she tore down the barricade and lept out into the empty street. Not far, a man stood, muttering and mumbling to himself so low she could not make out its meaning. But she didn't care. She wasn't alone out here. She wasn't alone! Surely, they could escape this hell together!

"Hail, quel'dorei!"

The man stopped and spun around, and Lysarra could see the glint of his dagger, even in the dim light the sky offered her. A Scourge corpse was at his feet, giving Lysarra hope that he would make a fine companion in her plans to escape. But he didn't return her greeting. He just stared.

"I thought I was alone out here," Lysarra told him, walking towards the stranger with outstretched arms. "I thought I... was the last living elf in all of Silvermoon!" The desperation in her heart choked the breath from her words, but still she pressed forward.

"...Such a pretty corpse."

Her tracks stopped, and she stood frozen in place. Now that she was closer, she could see something was not quite right with this man. He had a look in his eye that made her feel... afraid. But she was already so scared, and so alone, that she ignored her apprehension, and simply offered him a smile. "Y-you think I'm pretty?" she laughed lightly, hoping humor would dispell her troubled heart.

She was about to ask if anything was wrong, but was quickly silenced as his low chattering resumed. "City's so full with pretty corpses, pretty children making pretty corpses... Are you a monster too?"

"Monster...? Sir, no, I'm--"

"Nothing but monsters in this city now. Have you seen them? None of them are as pretty as you are." He took a few large steps towards her, and she shuddered, taking one step back. He had a wild look in his eye. She had to wonder what he'd seen. And how long it had been since he saw someone still living. "You're a prettier one than the others... The prettiest monster I've seen."

"Sir, please," she begged, trying to get him to listen. "I'm trying to get to the Shepherd's Gate. It's not far! We can escape from here if we go together!"

Her words fell on deaf ears. The man was clearly mad. Yet the young mage closed her eyes to it, clinging to a hope that didn't exist. "I can take the monster from you," he promised her, babbling over her pleas and steadily closing the gap between them. "They can't take your prettiness. They make it blacken, make it rot. But me? I will cherish you forever..."

Lys stopped his hand just as he took his dagger and stabbed at her. She was weakened by sleeplessness and starvation, but evidently so was he. She pushed back, trying to either get him off balance or get him away, but his free hand snatched her pretty golden hair and yanked back, forcing her to shriek in pain. The distraction it afforded him was all he needed to out-push her grasp, and slip the knife into her belly.

It didn't go far, at first. Despite the pain and weariness, Lysarra still had enough strength to hold back his arm from gutting her all the way through. Over her screams, the blade dragged across her skin and cut through her flesh, as Lysarra desperately tried to force it away from any vital areas, if there truly was nothing else she could do to save herself. The blinding pain finally proved too much to fight through. Her arms gave in, and she could feel every sensation that came with a dagger stabbing through her body, and coming through at the other end.

But it was rage, not blood, that filled her body then.

Her screams seemed to soothe the mad stranger, who held her close and pet her hair while she shrieked in pain. Like a twisted father, consoling a crying child. Slowly, her hands reached up to feel his face, and she pushed away enough to look into his eyes. She wanted to see him. She wanted to see the look on his face, as her hands both lit aflame, and burned away his skin. Now they were both screaming, in an almost comedic scene of torment and pain. He kicked her away to clutch and claw at his face, blinded by the magic she used to mutilate him. Freed from his grasp, Lysarra at last took the chance to pull out the bloody dagger that still stuck out from her waist, and held one burning hand against the wound it left behind.

She wasn't screaming anymore.

She lunged at the man with a feral battle cry, eyes wide with more fury than fear. When his own dagger sunk into his chest, and his own blood choked out his breath, Lysarra witnessed it all with a cold, furious silence. Her attacker fell to the floor in a lifeless heap, and she watched his final twitches with a dark glare, and a livid scowl. Her breath, still ragged and heavy from the encounter, slowly began to even out and calm, even if the rage that the attack called forth inside her had yet to subside. The smell of her own flesh burning at her touch might have made her vomit, if it weren't for her stomach being too empty and weak to force the reaction.

She survived.

She "won."

Ordinarily, this was where she would burn the corpse. But as far as she cared, the Scourge could have this one. She had to be away from this place, before the noise of their struggle attracted any unwelcome witnesses. As the first light of dawn touched the cobblestone streets of Augur's Row, Lysarra had turned away, and slowly staggered towards her salvation.

She wouldn't get far.

Now a song togo along while I read this bibble page XD

(Watch me slowly add art to all these posts over the course of the next 20 years)

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If she'd known how many undead soldiers scoured the streets near the Shepherd's Gate, Lysarra would have killed herself about a half mile back. Why waste time, right? It seemed like no matter what, a grave was where she was headed.

She made it far, all things considered. Well, in truth, not very far at all, but far enough to instill a morbid sense of pride in herself. Still burnt, still bleeding, still haggard and reeling, she limped her way down the street, tossing a few fireballs around to keep the corpses at bay. But now, the situation was too great and grim for her meager use of magic to remedy.

She found herself perched upon a very tall tree. The Scourge completely surrounded her, clawing and snapping at her toes as they dangled from her branch. There must have been over a hundred of them, standing between her and the distant gate.

'I wonder why there's so many here,' she thought absently, gently swaying her legs to keep them from being caught. Like a kid sitting on a bridge over a riverbank, kicking at the fish flitting about below the water.

Well, these fish had teeth. And a pungent odor.

More serious as she returned to the real world, Lysarra wondered to herself, 'I wonder how I'll get away.' Morbidity aside, Lysarra had only one thought towards her dire situation, and it was the only thing that kept her going after all these weeks and weeks of hardship: "I did not come this far to die here."

She winced and clutched her side - which only made her wince harder. Some time between the Row and the tree, she wisely took some time to bandage herself, and assess her limitations. Her hands had slightly burnt in the fire - sometimes an unintended consequence, when a pyromancer loses control of their flame - but the real damage, of course, lay in the cut she'd cauterized. Or, well, sort of cauterized. As best as she could, for the moment.

It came as a great irony to her that her first aid skills would be what saved her life today. Especially since, of all the lessons her father forced her to take, those were the ones she most vehemently opposed.

'I wonder if he's dead. Oh, I sure hope so. Maybe at least something good can come out of this mess.'

Focus. She needed to focus, and work out a plan. She knew the undead could run surprisingly fast, despite their bodies looking as though they were about to fall apart. With her wound still fresh, she knew it was unwise to test their speed. And, sure, she could burn the ten or so that gathered around her tree, but that might attract the attention of the other hundred walking corpses. Magic was the only thing that would save her now. With wry laughter, it came to her that it would be her father's fault if she died, since he so vehemently opposed her magical education. That seemed rather fitting for his role in her life. But, focus. What could she do? She could freeze the floor, she could blast their bodies apart, she could burn them to their very bones...

She could Blink.

Well, in theory, she could Blink. She'd seen mages to it all the time, but she never had the opportunity to try it out for herself. So, in truth, she didn't know how to Blink. But rarely did a silly thing like that ever hold her back from her hubris. Like always, she had a fatal, foolish thought. One that had proved, time and again, to be her undoing.

"I'm a smart girl. How hard could it be?"

Her plan was then decided. She might not be able to outrun them, but she could certainly out-think them. Snickering as she carefully stood and steadied herself on the tree branch, Lysarra looked out for a good spot to warp to. Far enough away from the horde that troubled her below, and distant enough for any other wandering dangers to give her enough time to shake off the dizziness (Blinking caused dizziness, didn't it?) and head for the Gate. Or, if worst came to worst, another tree. The Scourge didn't seem as good at climbing as she was.

Her spot was chosen. She had to focus. Gathering her breath, courage, and whatever was left of her strength, Lysarra made the leap. As she soared through the air, her eyes never left her target, and she focused as long and as hard as she could. The magic welled up inside her, and her body began to shine with arcane energy, and she focused - unfalteringly focused - as her life depended on the spell's success. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the magic to take her forward, and as the spell took hold...

A misfire.

Lysarra landed on her toes, undamaged from the fall, and realized in that horrifying instant that the magic hadn't worked. But the instant passed in an instant, and in the instants following, Lysarra had only one thought - one that even her youthful arrogance gave way to: "Survive." Blinking didn't work, but she knew plenty of other spells, and just as the eager, hungry corpses around her realized that their target was only a foot from their feet, their feet were suddenly frozen in their tracks. Lysarra was impressed with herself for that one. Her frost magic had never frozen so many things so fast. A success, to balance out her failure.

She didn't give herself time to bask in it. Before the ice broke before the strength of the Scourge, Lysarra quickly turned and ran as quick as her limp could carry her. That... was not very quick. Again, she focused on the path ahead and shut her eyes, trying to Blink. Unfortunately, all she did was flicker, and stay right where she was. The frenzied sounds of the Scourge behind her caused panic to take hold of her heart, and Lysarra turned to look just in time to see a few of them break free from the ice. She tried to run faster, but there was just so much pain weighing her down. It was a miracle she hadn't blacked out yet.

As they gained on her, she turned again to send a blast of ice and cold air towards them, slowing them significantly, but unfortunately not stopping them. She was losing ground by the second, and grit her teeth as it became more and more apparent that she'd have to fight her way out. She would, though. She'd kill all of them. Even if it killed her, she would not leave one of them standing as she fell.

Lysarra kept her eyes on the enemies chasing behind her as she formed this dark vow. So focused was she on what ten lay behind, she forgot all about the hundred ahead. Her attention snapped forward in time to see broken teeth in a rotting mouth, lunging to sink into her pretty little face. Her pace faltered, and her mind frantically reached for a spell that could save her, but the fire that formed on her fingertips was far too slow to spark. Before the spell could ignite, she was pounced upon and pinned to the ground.

It took all her strength to hold the beast back, its jaws snapping mere hairs from the end of her nose, screaming and snarling, maddened by the magic that corrupted its corpse. As she felt her arms struggle and begin to give way, and she heard the horde behind her starting to close in, it looked to Lysarra like this was going to be the end. So close to her goal... yet, in the end, all for nothing.

Then it happened. The sound of a miracle.

Thalassian words, from Thalassian lips. And a volley of Thalassian arrows, flying through the air, piercing straight through the skulls of the Scourge.

The corpse fell limp as soon as its head was shot through, slumping atop Lysarra like a foul, rotting deadweight. For a panicked moment, she thought she would suffocate, but she wasn't under it for very long. It was swiftly rolled off of her, and she looked up into the eyes of a fellow elf, bright and blue and wide and... still alive. "She survives!" the woman shouted to her comrades, over the din of the battle that had started in her rescue. "She's wounded, but she's still alive!" Lysarra had never been so happy to hear her mother tongue.

An older man was quick to push aside the scout and pick up Lysarra as though she were a delicate, fragile thing, so close to being broken. Never in her life had she been handled so gently. "We retreat for now, and take her to a healer! She's a sign that this city is still worth saving!" From the look of her rescuers, from their armor to their bows, they were clearly a squad of rangers. Farstriders. Picking through the bones of their once-great city, seeing what could be salvaged, and how much they had lost. Lysarra could do nothing but laugh at her good fortune, to be at the right place at the right time. The ranger that held onto her cracked a grin at the sight of her weak smile, taking it as a sign of her good health. "We saw them swarm your tree. And while we were coming for a closer look, we saw you jump out. Pretty gutsy, there, little lady, even for a mage. You got a name?"

She looked up at this stranger with awe and admiration, feeling with all her heart that she was blessed to have these people brought to her. "I am Lysarra Lightseeker," she told him in a weary, faltering voice. "Daughter of Lysander Lightseeker... I am Lysarra Lightseeker... My name... That's my name..." She repeated herself, almost desperately clinging to her identity, as if she were trying to remember how to claim it. How long had it been since her name mattered? How long had it been since anyone called it? The Farstriders all gathered round, expressions softening in sympathy and sadness, and the ranger who held her only broadened his smile.

"Lys, huh? Nice to meet ya, Lys..." The sincerity in his voice nearly moved her to tears. "Hey, nice climbing back there. We should be calling you Treehugger instead of Lightseeker, I think! With skills like those, you could be a Farstrider too, if you tried!" At the joke, she laughed again. They laughed together.

She survived.

She won.

As the Shepherd's Gate came into view over the eaves of the estates that lined the war-torn streets, Lysarra Lightseeker learned a lesson she would never forget. It was not cunning, nor cleverness, nor magic and might that saved her life today. It wasn't her wealth or her name, it wasn't a blessing of the Light. The Farstriders came, in a cosmic coincidence, and placed themselves between her and death. Elves saved her. People saved her. She didn't save herself.

No matter what power she'd gathered for herself, building up walls and a palace hoping for safety and peace, she wasn't strong enough to hold it all together to the end. Without help, however bleak and unlikely it seemed to come, she would have died just like everyone else. She needed them. She didn't have the strength to save herself.

But someday, she might.

She wasn't strong now. But someday... she might be.

All she needed to do was survive long enough to get there.

Awesome,
Especially liked the bit about the mad man and the farstriders.
Keep it coming!

If you feel like it, and as I see our small group has recently endured a split until next meet; you can do what I like to call 'loose time rp'; which is when u get together with another character who would have been in your past and rp how things played out back then. This helps with building back stories and progressing character back stories when your characters are stuck in 'real time' waiting for others to get online or pick up where you left off a current plot line.

The rules are pretty simple for this rp, 1) it's private cuz it happens technically 'in the past' and 2) you both can't die or it fouls up the future.

Did this with a few farstriders on another realm, all stuck in some tree tops over the dead scar when the scourge attacled. We rp'd rationing out supplies and drawing straws for gathering materials which we'd need to leave the trees for. Came up with an ongoing joke about bat jerky we all still refer to this day.

Anyway, keep it coming! Great job.

Sounds like fun! Especially since I have some plot ideas that I wanted to write out, but the problem is they aren't interesting to read or write xD But!!! If it's RP, that changes completely! RP makes everything interesting.

In truth, I didn't have anyone in particular in mind when I added the Farstriders >.> If anyone wants to insert themselves into the story with that, they can be my guest. Just know that, since Lys was a LITTLE delirious at the time, it might take a little pushing to have her remember your face xD (Not that, at this point, it'd do anyone any favors)

After posting the first picture, someone said to me, "I love the art! It's so cute!!!"

It then became my life's mission to make the next 2 pics as un-cute as I possibly could.