Author Topic: The Daughter  (Read 855 times)


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The Daughter
« Topic Start: April 19, 2018, 11:12:05 AM »
Mercy cocked her head to the side. She was an inch shorter than her father, standing at 5’ 7”, she had her father’s dark eyes and hair, but not his fair complexion. She had been told her tan skin was her mother’s, a woman from the deserts surrounding Tahgalez. She was supposedly an influential noble. Mercy didn’t care for that right now, she was focused on the present and the strange man sitting in her parlour.

He said he was twenty. He looked to be much older. His skin was a little darker than hers, his white robes were tattered and dusty, exposing an old brand on his chest that depicted an eye. His face, what was visible behind an unkempt and ragged beard, was disheveled. Heavy bags hung under his tired green eyes. His hands clutched a gnarled wooden staff.

“You are telling me that my father was resurrected by a Daimon and then literally walked into Hell?” She asked, her voice cold. The man sitting across from her nodded meekly. “You expect me to believe that?” He nodded again. “Who are you?”

“My Lady,” He began, his voice dry. “I was a priest in service to your father, The Last Tongue of The Gods.”

Mercy laughed coldly. “Don’t give me that Last Tongue crap. I don’t care if he was the leader of a cult.”

The man started to shake his head but the look in Mercy’s eye stopped him. “I am here to tell you that you are now head of your household here. I understand you are heading for Avengmil, no? Near the border to Ardmore there is a cache, marked by a lone tree, dead and split in twain. It has the answers to—“

“No.” Mercy flatly stated. She pointed to the door. The man promptly stood up and left. She shook her head.

Time to introduce herself.

Apostate sat by his tent in Avengmil, eating last night’s soup. The daughter would not listen, but he was persistent. The legacy of the Last Tongue must go on.
Once the Daleborn family, now the Attano family.