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A Damaris Satinsun StoryEdit

I saw her first at death’s door, just a lithe misty shape on the edge of my failing vision. I lost consciousness, and when I woke, it was to a cheery campfire, the tang of harpy blood in the air. She sat near me, inspecting me I believe, but so pain-addled was I that I lashed out at her. I nearly cut her in two. She spoke to me, words in a strange, whispery tongue that I did not understand. She fed me. She named me Arithe; I approved.

I believe I began to trust her then.

As my wounds healed and the pain lessened, I observed her. Her pale skin was blue-tinted in the right light. Encased in dark leather, a sharp knife at her waist, a longbow over her shoulder, she was silent as only a Kaldorei can be. When I drowsed, I thought her a wisp of memory.

Yet so young; barely out of kittenhood myself, I recognized a kindred spirit. And so innocent. I do not believe she knew of hate, or of pain.

For nine days she cared for me, feeding me, talking with me. When it came time to repay my debt, I did so without thought. She was in trouble: I helped her.

Then I stayed with her. Her companion. I am a solitary creature, but I did not mind being this elf’s friend. She needed one so desperately.

At first it was an exchange: in return for my assistance in her questing, she fed me as much as I wanted and healed me when I was hurt. As the days passed, I began to respect her, and possibly feel fond of her.

And then came Seric.

I knew him from the beginning, his lying eyes and false charm. I knew what horror his fine cheekbones and sensuous lips hid. I could smell the poison dripping from his pores, just as easily as I could smell my friend’s pleasure. He disgusted me. And, for the first time since I met her, Damaris disgusted me as well.

I stayed away, far away. Perhaps, had she not dismissed me and my warning so fully that first meeting, I would have tried to stop her. I knew the pain that would come; I told myself I didn’t care. She was old enough to make her own decisions, and her own mistakes. For weeks, I ignored her, and she ignored me.

When she came back to our room at the inn one bright midmorning, dripping in his scent, I was so repulsed I fled. I did not notice the lost look on her expressive face, nor the worries that massed like stormclouds behind her eyes. I prayed to her moon goddess that his seed was not growing in her, but it was a selfish prayer: I did not want to see his get.

It was petty of me to hold my grudge for so long, and I am ashamed of how I acted. I often wish I could go back and change what happened. Strange, isn’t it, that an animal--ruled by instinct, living in the present--would regret the past. I am too sentient by half; I think that is the curse that Teldrassil’s taint laid upon me.

I know she remembers every word he said to her. She never told me, and I do not think she ever will.

She was crying by the water when I found her. I will forever remember the desperate pain of her sobs, the hitch of her breathing. Part of her innocence had been ripped away, and the tattered edges bled crystalline tears. My hostility and resentment disappeared.

Of all things, she apologized to me. For not listening, for not thinking. For not trusting me. I wish I could apologize to her: I did not try hard enough to stop her, and I let my anger get the better of me. I was young myself, and mistakes are the hallmark of youth.

Together, we began putting together the pieces of her broken heart. We left Teldrassil for the bleak shore of Auberdine. Damaris quested with a single-minded intensity for nigh on two years, only allowing myself to become close. Rarely was the quest about adventure, or helping others or the land; now she traveled for money, for the reward that had before been just a satisfactory byproduct at the end of her labours. Things might have continued like that for aeons were it not for one man. Ironically.

Damaris saw his advertisement in Auberdine and was intrigued. Tentative contact gained her the Edicts of the High Council. Her eyes glowed so brightly while she read, and her hand was nearly shaking in anticipation when she sent a note to the leader of the High Council. She wanted to meet him.

Diarmaid Ó hInneirghe. He came, they talked. Too anxious to be scared, and too hopeful to care, she passed his tests spectacularly. He was a different breed of man, and I did not interfere. He is good for Damaris.

She put her guild membership papers in a secret pocket sewn into her shirt.

Now we wander the woods again. She greets passing strangers, and helps those who need it; she basks in each new adventure. Sometimes, there are shadows, but then she’ll touch the secret pocket, and smile.

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