Selina Fairchild
Introduction
I was raised in the farmland surrounding the capital city of Britain. My family
was a simple one; my mother worked as an alchemist selling homemade potions
to passing adventurers. My father, a known rogue, had been murdered by Lord
British's maniacal enforcers the month before. On a sunny afternoon, my mother,
Miranda, and I were discussing what reagents to cultivate given the current
cycles of the moon. Without my father's "income", food would be scarce
this winter; the nobility of the land seemed to take no notice of the poor.
As we spoke, the sound of clattering hooves approached from outside the hut,
and came to an abrupt halt.
A heavy knock sounded at the door. "Open, in the name of the King!"
I looked at my mother, and saw my fear mirrored in Miranda's face. Reluctantly,
I stood and drew the bolt.
A company of the King’s militia stood before me, resplendent in gleaming
plate armor. The oldest of the group, a captain by his coat of arms, returned
my gaze levelly.
"Is this the house of Fairchild, young one?" he asked. "Aye,"
I returned warily. "Then let it be known that we come to try Miranda Fairchild
before the King's court. She hath harbored a known fugitive from our justice,
and the Virtues demand atonement."
The four men in the captain’s command marched through the doorway,
and seized Miranda roughly, forcing her down on her knees. Three made haste
in tying her down across the barrel in the storeroom, while the fourth readied
his halberd.
"Nay! Thee cannot! She is but an elderly alchemist! She…"
The words were broken from my mouth like splintered wood as a restraining cord
was looped around my neck. "Be still, child," the captain hissed in
my ear, "unless thou doth want the same."
I watched, straining, with tears streaming down both cheeks, as my mother was
murdered by these enforcers of Lord British's so-called virtues.
The company departed, leaving me gasping for breath on the cold stone floor.
The youngest guard, a boy barely out of his teens, paused by the door, and smirked
at me. My grief gave way to the blackest rage I had ever known.
My anger was compounded when I realized that my desire for revenge could not
be realized without causing my own death as well. What purpose in that? So I
left Britain, and wandered without purpose to first one town and then another.
Picking pockets to sustain myself, I chanced by a tailor's shop in the city
of Trinsic. The two shopowners were discussing Lord British's latest proclamation.
I moved closer.
"Tis said that any healer caught assisting the agents of darkness shall
be put to the blade," the first read aloud. "Good!" Exclaimed
a noble in the shop. "Mebbe now when the guards cut down one o' these thieving
bastards, they'll stay dead and trouble us no more!"
"Don't forget about Lord Blackthorn's Shrine of Chaos," the other
tailor spoke up. "They can still go there to obtain passage back into the
mortal realm, though 'twill make for a hard walk back through the woods, unarmed
and alone," he grinned.
I knew this to be untrue. I had heard tales of the Chaos shrine, and knew that
it was the favorite hunting ground of those who would be Lord British's lackeys.
How they canst call themselves honorable is beyond my comprehension. Where is
the honor in returning to death those who have just been returned to life?
At last, I had a purpose. I would do what the healers would not. Seeking out
a camp of sinister mages southof the city, I explained what I wished to learn.
They agreed to instruct me, once they learned why I wished to study with them
and not with the Council of Mages.
Though I still liberate nobles in the woods of their cash when I chance upon
one, I now wear the robe of a wandering healer, and I strive to make good on
my vow to assist evil's cause.
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