Irori *facepalms* as both of 'his' monks whiff. "Don't look at me. I didn't train them."
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It’s been a long winter for Lyrica – weeks of chores and poor weather with no chance of getting out of the village. But tonight will be different. Lyrica finishes dinner and washes the dishes practically before her sisters finish their meal. She keeps a close eye on her father, the question unasked. Spying the desire in his daughter’s eye, Harmon lets her hopes swing in the wind for a moment before giving her an indulgent smile. He turns on his three girls, ”Gophers might be getting into the potatoes in the upper patch. I think someone is going to have keep a watch on them. Now that the weather has turned – seems like a good night to start. So which of you wants to spend a couple hours doing that?” He waits for two of three to look dejected before he makes his choice, ”Lyrica, you just volunteered. Don’t roll your eyes, girl. Go grab some warm clothing and a staff. I’ll walk you up there.” Lyrica bundles up and mopes around, for show, before heading out to their furthest family patch on the right bluff – night a forgone conclusion. Her father walks with her, eyes always on his crops, even in the dark. ”I left your equipment near the old stump. Don’t be gone all night. Your mother will start to fret if you’re not back at a reasonable hour. Bring back a gopher or two, if you can. They really are sniffing around the potatoes. And don’t forget what I taught you about handling that blade – subtle moves – you aren’t chopping wood.” He gives his favorite daughter a kiss on the head. ”Stay safe. Good night.” Harmon turns and leaves his daughter alone in the darkness. She finds her family arms and armor where he said they’d be. She scoops the bag up and quickly moves deeper into the woods heading for the shielded glade she found last year before the snow reclaimed the heights. It looked like an ideal spot to practice her sword-work without anyone in town finding out. Girls dressing in full armor and whipping scimitars about wouldn’t sit well with many of the townsfolk... particularly Lyrica’s own mother. A few hours later... Lyrica wipes her brow and leaves her blade hanging slack in her sword-arm. She is exhausted from a solid hour of full speed combat training – running across the glade fighting dozens of phantom opponents. Lyrica takes a couple of cooling breaths in the frosty air, enjoying the unusually clear night. She stretches her aching muscles, sheathes the family sword, and takes a knee in prayer. Lyrica prays, as she had for many months, to feel the touch of Sarenrae. Despite her own faith and her father’s training, she’d never truly felt graced by the Goddess. It was said that all Holy Warriors in the service of the Dawnflower felt Her eyes upon them... and it worried Lyrica that she had not. So she practiced and prayed - hoping. On this night, her prayers are answered. A holy fire starts behind her closed eyes, flares into a blinding light, and scours away her flesh, bones, and soul in a hellish blast. It is excruciating and... empowering. Lyrica feels her flesh and bones reknit and reform, infused with flame. Her soul reconstitutes with a core of molten sunlight. As the eye-blinding glare fades, Lyrica sees a woman watching her soberly. Her golden hair flows like fire. Her voice is soft but emphatic. “Few will rise, many will fall. Prove yourself worthy.” Searing flames lash Lyrica as the Goddess vanishes in a flash – sealing the words in her memory. The pain forces a yell from her lips and Lyrica’s eyes snap open. Steam and smoke rise from her body in the night air. The frosty soil around her is cooked dry and the sparse vegetation crumbles into ash. When she rises, she rises a Paladin. Then something even more unthinkable happens... |