upscalerat
Count
- Local time
- Today 7:40 PM
- Messages
- 348
- Age
- 27
- Pronouns
- she/her/hers
There had always been something ethereal about Ryllae, but the townsfolk made a point to pay it no mind. They liked her tavern stories, and her potions, and knew better than to draw the ire of a charm maker. Curses were just the other side of charms, after all. And sure, maybe she hadn't aged a day as far as anyone could recall- but she didn't bring trouble, and that was more than some could say about their other neighbors. In the fall, Ryllae's garden was plentiful, and she knew some secret to preserving her vegetables through winter that eluded the rest of them- for the price of a favor, anyone could take some from her stores; she kept birds plump through the cold and slaughtered them in the spring and sold them for a secret.
Summer was always a surprise. Some years, she would grow flowers that would make any who ate them sing sweet as honey; some years, she'd open wines, have the people whisper blessings in them, seal them again and distribute at random. One year when the children got too ruly for her liking, she made a cheese that forced everyone to spill out truths until they had nothing left to hide. This year, her berries would make you fall in love- for a time. Long enough for some to be wed, long enough for some to rediscover what they had once loved; long enough for some to mourn the path they had wanted but not chosen.
The morning brought Ryllae to market. The previous night had been chilly- cooler than it should have been, that time of year, but a welcome respite from the beating sun. Grey clouds seemed to have been grown from the earth, leaving a kiss of moisture on everything it had passed through, and the daily vendors shivered and stomped between their customers. The temperatures had forgotten her that morning, as she bartered berries, teas, vegetables, bread, and more with the people.
She missed the warm airs of midday, the breeze that danced in the street, the trees chortling with shaking leaves. She had returned home, welcomed by splotches of flowers and the cheering of birds. The flowers had a vibrant enough scent to them she could taste the honey that the bees would make from it, and the teas that would ease her in and out of the days once their season was over. But for today, all of nature sung in its own language, harmonizing across the senses to serenade the world.
The silver clouds had separated with the day, becoming pure against a rich blue sky. They made way for golden afternoon light that washed over everything, enveloping the world to show its most beautiful side. Everyone was feeling the effects of the day: the children had run themselves ragged without bothering other residents or their livestock, the riffraff had taken the day to recover from the ne'erdowelling, the haggling had gone smoothly and left everyone satisfied. The tavern was full and cheery when Ryllae joined, and a visiting bard had taken note of the day's melodies.
At a lull, someone asked Ryllae for a story. "Surely you've grown sick of them all by now," she protested, grinning over her ale. No, they argued, never; seasoned spinsters couldn't spin their thread as well as Ryllae could a tale. "I shouldn't want to disappoint," she finally relented, and started.
"Not all days are unmarred as this, you know. You all know. We've had hard winters, harder rains, we've had blights we couldn't stave off. But once, in your grandfathers' fathers' times, they wished for those simple troubles- the sort they knew how to deal with, the sort that promised another tomorrow. They dared not dream of a day half as good as today." The building was enchanted with the woman's voice, accented by soft notes from a lute in the corner. "Many did not survive the summers, and fewer the winters. The very land was sick; nothing grew well, not crop nor cattle nor child. Not just here, but all of the land, in places so far away you might begin your journey now and only would your children's children reach it.
"Traders were a breed nearly killed out, then. Paltry goods peddled between towns, that weren't pilfered by the starving, couldn't offer enough coin to make the journey worth it. Even the ladies and lords weren't spared; they, too, tightened their bellies, and watched as their people starved. Those that could fight off the monsters were dubbed heroes- though they were less revered than those who could make food from the slain. One, apart from the rest, thrived off of this dying land: a demon.
"Not just any demon. The greatest one, it was said to be. Some said that she was a witch, others that she was the mother of death; some said she had been born so evil her parents tried to kill her, and she ate them, instead. Some claimed that she had been starved and wished the whole land to know her pain. Wherever she had come from, it was undisputed that she was the source of all the misery known. Forests died where she walked, prairies turned to deserts where she slept. Dukes met their ends trying to stop her. By the time your grandfathers were born, even they knew that she could not be stopped.
"Life as it was known would cease to be. Even the bravest of the brave shuddered in their boots at the mention of her name." Ryllae paused. "No, not even her name; it had been seldom used before her wanton destruction, and had fallen into obscurity as she killed all around her. She had nearly forgotten it herself, left it in one of the graveyards behind her, at her prime. But that wasn't all she had left behind her: she had left heartbreak, as well, and tracks for the daring to follow.
"Ah, the daring... Many claimed to be so, but none were so courageous as Ailethe." Unease had evaporated into approval at the guardian's name. "Then, of course, Ailethe was not the patron she is today; then, Ailethe was nothing more than a scrawny girl, wielding a sword too large for her and a thirst for vengeance that should have, by all rights, been her undoing." Ryllae smiled- not joyously, but not bitterly. None among the patrons could quite place what sort of smile covered Ryllae's lips.
"Ailethe had lost all to the hands of the witch: her family, both near and far; her land, her town; her friends, her lovers, her future. So she took up the sword, and walked through the damned, through the bones, through the bloodied dirt, through the adventurers who laughed at her. Day by day, she crept closer to the witch, honing her skills as she hunted in barrens, growing from girl to woman alone in the brambles. When she caught up to the witch, she had grown into her sword, and into her senses, and so she followed the witch.
"The witch, by this time, had grown complacent. None would dare to follow her. She could topple castles with just a word! She had defeated the best of the best when she was inexperienced, and no one had any strength remaining. Villages no longer ran from her, or pleaded, or tried to stave her off with fire and salt and runes- she was as unstoppable as the sun, as the ocean, as the very earth itself. But everything sleeps, sooner or later, and Ailethe had gained enough wisdom to know this.
"So the heroine watched, and waited. A fortnight of vigilance and silence was what it took before the witch took rest, and Ailethe waited still for the deepest cover of night." Another pause as Ryllae searched for the words. "And then she approached, carefully, quietly, calmly; she hesitated at the slightest stirring until she was above the witch. The monster below her slept on, unaware that her reign was coming to a swift end. Ailethe drew her sword- and put all the strength of the dead into that blow, and the witch was no more."
Night air buzzed with satisfaction outside the tavern. In a purple sky, stars painted stories out. Ryllae was halfway home before she realized that the bugs weren't the only ones making sound. She stopped, and turned; there was someone young behind her, wrapped in dark cloth that concealed their features. The stranger spoke first. "I'd have thought you'd surely not grow careless again after telling that story."
Ryllae stared hard, but the stranger was simply that: a stranger. She could guess their height, but everything else about them was a mystery. "I'm not sure I catch your meaning." She narrowed her eyes, to no avail. "Nor do I believe we've been acquainted, yet."
There was a wheeze- no, two wheezes- no, that was a chuckle. "That Ailethe saved the land is one thing, but to know what she saved it from? Who she saved it from? We never would have thought you'd be so brazen as to bring that story up again, Sylta." Ryllae froze at that name. "You were nigh impossible to find, I'll grant you. But even as you are... I suppose you couldn't resist playing with them a little." The wheeze happened again.
Ryllae- Sylta- glowered at the mysterious individual. "I'll not be called that name."
The figure shook their head. "Don't take me for a fool. I know who you are. And I shall finally rid us all of the threat you pose." Sylta didn't have a chance: the stranger was close, and then was gone.
Two days passed before the body was found. A lad wanted to buy some berries for his sister and her wife. On the road to Ryllae's cottage, the boy found her body, pecked open by birds and nobbled on by bugs. The rain had washed the blood out of her, but he was sure the bronze dagger beside her had done her in. The town buried her the next day, and Ryllae's name was forgotten from memory for a second time before a year had passed.
Summer was always a surprise. Some years, she would grow flowers that would make any who ate them sing sweet as honey; some years, she'd open wines, have the people whisper blessings in them, seal them again and distribute at random. One year when the children got too ruly for her liking, she made a cheese that forced everyone to spill out truths until they had nothing left to hide. This year, her berries would make you fall in love- for a time. Long enough for some to be wed, long enough for some to rediscover what they had once loved; long enough for some to mourn the path they had wanted but not chosen.
The morning brought Ryllae to market. The previous night had been chilly- cooler than it should have been, that time of year, but a welcome respite from the beating sun. Grey clouds seemed to have been grown from the earth, leaving a kiss of moisture on everything it had passed through, and the daily vendors shivered and stomped between their customers. The temperatures had forgotten her that morning, as she bartered berries, teas, vegetables, bread, and more with the people.
She missed the warm airs of midday, the breeze that danced in the street, the trees chortling with shaking leaves. She had returned home, welcomed by splotches of flowers and the cheering of birds. The flowers had a vibrant enough scent to them she could taste the honey that the bees would make from it, and the teas that would ease her in and out of the days once their season was over. But for today, all of nature sung in its own language, harmonizing across the senses to serenade the world.
The silver clouds had separated with the day, becoming pure against a rich blue sky. They made way for golden afternoon light that washed over everything, enveloping the world to show its most beautiful side. Everyone was feeling the effects of the day: the children had run themselves ragged without bothering other residents or their livestock, the riffraff had taken the day to recover from the ne'erdowelling, the haggling had gone smoothly and left everyone satisfied. The tavern was full and cheery when Ryllae joined, and a visiting bard had taken note of the day's melodies.
At a lull, someone asked Ryllae for a story. "Surely you've grown sick of them all by now," she protested, grinning over her ale. No, they argued, never; seasoned spinsters couldn't spin their thread as well as Ryllae could a tale. "I shouldn't want to disappoint," she finally relented, and started.
"Not all days are unmarred as this, you know. You all know. We've had hard winters, harder rains, we've had blights we couldn't stave off. But once, in your grandfathers' fathers' times, they wished for those simple troubles- the sort they knew how to deal with, the sort that promised another tomorrow. They dared not dream of a day half as good as today." The building was enchanted with the woman's voice, accented by soft notes from a lute in the corner. "Many did not survive the summers, and fewer the winters. The very land was sick; nothing grew well, not crop nor cattle nor child. Not just here, but all of the land, in places so far away you might begin your journey now and only would your children's children reach it.
"Traders were a breed nearly killed out, then. Paltry goods peddled between towns, that weren't pilfered by the starving, couldn't offer enough coin to make the journey worth it. Even the ladies and lords weren't spared; they, too, tightened their bellies, and watched as their people starved. Those that could fight off the monsters were dubbed heroes- though they were less revered than those who could make food from the slain. One, apart from the rest, thrived off of this dying land: a demon.
"Not just any demon. The greatest one, it was said to be. Some said that she was a witch, others that she was the mother of death; some said she had been born so evil her parents tried to kill her, and she ate them, instead. Some claimed that she had been starved and wished the whole land to know her pain. Wherever she had come from, it was undisputed that she was the source of all the misery known. Forests died where she walked, prairies turned to deserts where she slept. Dukes met their ends trying to stop her. By the time your grandfathers were born, even they knew that she could not be stopped.
"Life as it was known would cease to be. Even the bravest of the brave shuddered in their boots at the mention of her name." Ryllae paused. "No, not even her name; it had been seldom used before her wanton destruction, and had fallen into obscurity as she killed all around her. She had nearly forgotten it herself, left it in one of the graveyards behind her, at her prime. But that wasn't all she had left behind her: she had left heartbreak, as well, and tracks for the daring to follow.
"Ah, the daring... Many claimed to be so, but none were so courageous as Ailethe." Unease had evaporated into approval at the guardian's name. "Then, of course, Ailethe was not the patron she is today; then, Ailethe was nothing more than a scrawny girl, wielding a sword too large for her and a thirst for vengeance that should have, by all rights, been her undoing." Ryllae smiled- not joyously, but not bitterly. None among the patrons could quite place what sort of smile covered Ryllae's lips.
"Ailethe had lost all to the hands of the witch: her family, both near and far; her land, her town; her friends, her lovers, her future. So she took up the sword, and walked through the damned, through the bones, through the bloodied dirt, through the adventurers who laughed at her. Day by day, she crept closer to the witch, honing her skills as she hunted in barrens, growing from girl to woman alone in the brambles. When she caught up to the witch, she had grown into her sword, and into her senses, and so she followed the witch.
"The witch, by this time, had grown complacent. None would dare to follow her. She could topple castles with just a word! She had defeated the best of the best when she was inexperienced, and no one had any strength remaining. Villages no longer ran from her, or pleaded, or tried to stave her off with fire and salt and runes- she was as unstoppable as the sun, as the ocean, as the very earth itself. But everything sleeps, sooner or later, and Ailethe had gained enough wisdom to know this.
"So the heroine watched, and waited. A fortnight of vigilance and silence was what it took before the witch took rest, and Ailethe waited still for the deepest cover of night." Another pause as Ryllae searched for the words. "And then she approached, carefully, quietly, calmly; she hesitated at the slightest stirring until she was above the witch. The monster below her slept on, unaware that her reign was coming to a swift end. Ailethe drew her sword- and put all the strength of the dead into that blow, and the witch was no more."
Night air buzzed with satisfaction outside the tavern. In a purple sky, stars painted stories out. Ryllae was halfway home before she realized that the bugs weren't the only ones making sound. She stopped, and turned; there was someone young behind her, wrapped in dark cloth that concealed their features. The stranger spoke first. "I'd have thought you'd surely not grow careless again after telling that story."
Ryllae stared hard, but the stranger was simply that: a stranger. She could guess their height, but everything else about them was a mystery. "I'm not sure I catch your meaning." She narrowed her eyes, to no avail. "Nor do I believe we've been acquainted, yet."
There was a wheeze- no, two wheezes- no, that was a chuckle. "That Ailethe saved the land is one thing, but to know what she saved it from? Who she saved it from? We never would have thought you'd be so brazen as to bring that story up again, Sylta." Ryllae froze at that name. "You were nigh impossible to find, I'll grant you. But even as you are... I suppose you couldn't resist playing with them a little." The wheeze happened again.
Ryllae- Sylta- glowered at the mysterious individual. "I'll not be called that name."
The figure shook their head. "Don't take me for a fool. I know who you are. And I shall finally rid us all of the threat you pose." Sylta didn't have a chance: the stranger was close, and then was gone.
Two days passed before the body was found. A lad wanted to buy some berries for his sister and her wife. On the road to Ryllae's cottage, the boy found her body, pecked open by birds and nobbled on by bugs. The rain had washed the blood out of her, but he was sure the bronze dagger beside her had done her in. The town buried her the next day, and Ryllae's name was forgotten from memory for a second time before a year had passed.