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Author Topic: Ylva Rasmussan/Murmillion/Healer  (Read 11453 times)
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Ylva Rasmussan
Oddball Healer
New Santharian

Offline Offline

Gender: Female
Posts: 262

Human, Murmillion.

« on: September 11, 2008, 10:46:33 AM »

Name- Ylva Rasmussan.
(Proper pronunciation- Yil-va Raz-mu-sen. With an almost silent ‘y’ at start. Then use a strong and harsh rolling ‘R’ to say the start of her surname.)
Gender- Female.
Age- 37.
Race- Human.
Tribe- Murmillion.
Occupation- Surgeon and healer.
Title- Oddball Healer.

Height- 1 Ped, 1 Fore, 2 Palmspans and 4 Nailsbreadths.
Hair colour- Light Ash Brown.
Eye colour- Hazel.

Physical Appearance

The pale skinned Ylva could be remarked as having a very unbalanced appearance. Often forced to look up at her patients, this healer is shorter than average in height and has a very boyishly slim figure. Yet her limbs are very toned especially her strange thin gangly arms, which don’t seem to match her short torso. This petite woman has tiny feet but long bony hands. Her body seems almost comically out of proportion, yet she possesses the posture of someone totally comfortable and content within themselves. Her back and arms still bare faint scars from when a warg tried to attack her during her teens. Her heart shaped face, button nose and big wide eyes contrast heavily with thick unkempt eyebrows. Even more strange is the fact that her eyebrows are several shades darker than her messy hair. Her hair is usually tied up in a rough bun at the nape of the neck with leather straps. Her face is unusual but nonetheless has no traditional prettiness about it. Her hollowed out cheeks, dark shadows under her eyes and furrowed brow give her a haggard look yet her small mouth is often bearing a grin beaming with energy.

Since arriving in Santharia, Ylva has taken to wearing dark brown woollen leggings and a cream tunic, under a black brigandine, as well as charcoal coloured leather boots. With these, she usually wears a black leather belt, attached to which is her rather menacing Bladeaxe. When wandering in cold weather, Ylva uses a wide fur coat. When not travelling or working, Ylva chooses to wear the garb of her people, which she has kept with her since leaving her family‘s Draks. In her pack, are always stored two long woollen dresses, both a shimmering dark blue. To complete the outfit this murmillion usually wears thick black leather boots, a black leather jacket and a black leather belt, all decorated with silver patterns. Around her neck will always be a silver amulet, etched with the glyphs of Mari. Due to no work or income, most of her jewelry was sold in order to survive; all that is left now is one necklace of dark opals that is never worn.


At the age of 37, Ylva sometimes feels much older than she is. Though secretly soft hearted, this woman is still a Murmillion, inbred with ambitions and a selfish streak in her and her life is more important than anything else, thus money and food are normally her main priorities. A follower of Mari, but not a fatalist at heart, Ylva feels that she has to save everyone, solve people's problems and if she doesn't then it's her fault. From years of nursing, has a strong urge to order people around and tell them what to do, though she tries to suppress this instinct. This healer cannot just let things happen, but is always determined to take action. Throughout her life, her heart has always lusted after more in life then just housekeeping.

Her heart has always had a propensity to care for people, especially if they are ill or injured. For her, friends are a rarity and highly difficult to acquire or come by. Though throughout her life, this murmillion has survived perfectly well without feeling the need to talk to other people, especially strangers. Her communication skills have always been slightly strict and formal. Interaction with people is often difficult and awkward. This healer finds it much easier to speak while she is working. In her work, she doesn’t ask, she demands things. Her blunt way of putting things can, by some people, be interpreted as too cold and direct.

However when someone does gain her trust, Ylva will remain loyal to them for life, defending anything they do or say. In particular this woman has always found it a torture and a challenge to talk to men, especially younger ones. Not a very charismatic person, Ylva has never really been sure how to flirt. In her youth, her work made her too busy to take notice of the opposite sex, and now with age catching up to her, she considers herself too old to. If Ylva ever did love someone, that love is now locked and hidden away within her memories.

 At the age of thirty seven, a lot of women her age have families and children, and sometimes Ylva wonders what being a mother would have been like, what would have happened if she had just stayed at home. Her mind often wonders what her sister is doing, whether Annika accepted the life that she did not, whether she has nieces and nephews she does not even know about.

Yet this ordered person seems to thrive on chaos, loving the sound of busy cities, people shouting around her. This doctor always thinks best when she is on her feet and busy with too much work. Quiet lifestyles scare her. Her mind finds it easy to think calmly and quickly, organizing her thoughts and ordering her actions. When taking action Ylva thinks first, and then acts quickly. From a young age has possessed the ability to tackle many tasks at once, and is a fast learner. Her memory is one of her greatest weapons, able to recall events and facts from long long ago.

A strange woman of opposite emotions, this healer can feel burning rage, ready to strike her enemy with her blade-axe, but also a calm and steadiness which helps with her work. Her heart is full of gleeful joy, then suddenly sorrow. When angry, her steely cold glare is something always to be avoided, and could make wild wargs run for their lives. Yet her smiles, ranging from sly to shy, are always full of warmth. Warning: Her face can sometimes bare a grin akin to those of the insane and mad variety.

Ylva has always been a dreamer. This woman was never content to stay in one place, even when in her youth. This wanderer has always drifted, never sure what her mind is seeking or searching for. Highly superstitious, she believes that everything could be a sign from Mari.  By strangers she is normally considered strange due to her upbringing. But perhaps Ylva views these people's seemingly normal lives as just as strange.


-In Healing-

The woman is highly proficient as a healer, with over thirteen years of training and experience. With her calm and organized mind, Ylva can assess a situation and make the decision over what the patient requires. With a remarkable memory for diseases, illnesses, antidotes, antivenins and herbal remedies, this woman can handle a variety of situations as a surgeon, including having to amputate limbs and repair organs. When it comes to medicine, this woman is not one to take lightly or get into an argument with. Due to her upbringing, can be a bit fatalist at times. However Ylva has always tried to stop this attitude within herself.

-Ability to fight with a Bladeaxe-

From the age of ten to twenty-two was trained in the martial art of fighting with a bladeaxe, the weapon of her people, practicing regularly with her father, and equaling any of her brothers. With her bladeaxe in her hand this petite lady is a rather ferocious fighter, possessing a great speed and balance while fighting. Ylva uses all her cunning when fighting with her blade axe. Using wrestling throws, grabs and holds to control the fight; parrying a blow, unarming her opponent, pulling them off balance completely or pulling them in closer into an embrace, for a final fatal stab to the chest. While normally a Drakkar would kill their enemies with no remorse, Ylva is reluctant to do this, only severely wounding someone when it is necessary. Though not a warrior or berserker, Ylva is by no means unable to defend herself in fight.

-Her Mind-

 One of Ylva’s greatest strengths is the way her mind works. It was her vast memory, and willing to learn, that drove her throughout the years. A fast learner, Ylva observes everything around her and calculates what she must do to succeed. As a fighter, has to use cunning and quick thinking to get out of danger. As a doctor, Ylva calms her mind while chaos reigns around her. Her mind longs for moments to prove her worth. The world could be ending and people running around screaming, yet in her mind there would only be peace and silence.


-Physical Disadvantages-

Whatever skills in combat Ylsa has acquired over the year, they are all are hampered and weakened by her physical build. Having always been rather short for a fighter, most opponents tower over her. The reach of her arm is shorter, thus giving her opponent another advantage. Her slim build lacks strength; her body can be knocked aside or overpowered. Her arms lack muscles, unable to lift anything at all heavy. Her weapon weighs more in her hand than in the hands of the murmillion mercenaries that normally use it. Ylva tires quicker in fights from her lack of strength. Also this means that this murmillion cannot use many of the wrestling techniques that her people use.

-Language Barrier-

Though Ylva can now speak basic Tharian. Thick dialects and complicated sentences still trouble her. Though Tharian is closer to the Murmillion language than it is to Santerran, it still has a lot less Elvish influences than the Murmillion language. This healer finds it hard to communicate with her Santharian patients, often frustrated by her inability to express what she actually means. Ylva often is forced to take longer in saying things. Also is frustrated in her small knowledge of Tharian vocabulary and is confounded by obscure and confusing words like sponge and apparition. Santharia can sometimes overwhelm her due to its strange alien ways.

-Murmillion attitude-

Ylva is not a total fatalist, but is still a believer in the fact that Mari guides all people. Her strange attitude can confuse some, not many would take actions just because a dream told them to. Her mind seems determined to try and see signs in everything. This could be interpreted by those not of her own culture as insane. This wandering woman follows moths and dreams even if they are leading her into a desert or danger, or both.


-Seas and Dragons –

(Age 0-17, 1631-1648 A.S.)

The birth of Ylva of the House Rasmussan on the 13th day of Singing Bird 1631 A.S. was frankly not that dramatic in substance.

The night sky lacked any ominous foreboding atmosphere, no dark storms or howling winds. Her parents, Truls and Hildegarde Rasmussan, were both in very good health, leaving it unlikely for Ylva ever to become orphaned. Her family was not the last of a rare tribe of humans destined to seek vengeance against those who had wronged them. In fact Murmillions are like ants in how they populate the vast mountain range they inhabit. In her close family alone the girl had thirteen brothers and one sister, two years her younger, called Annika.

The young inquisitive child grew up battling and brawling amongst her brothers and sisters. Her childhood was spent running amongst the complicated network of tunnels, halls, catacombs, balconies, caves and stairways that was her home. Ylva’s family lived in their mountain fortress in the Nightvalleys, north of the Moon Hills, beyond the borders of the Santerran King’s influence. Her young wild spirit thrived amongst the wilderness, with its dark birch and beech forests and jagged fuming mountains. Surrounded by the daily hustle and bustle of the Draks fortress, the young blacksmith's daughter would sit waiting for her father to come home from the smithy with its fiery furnaces bellowing deep beneath the earth.

The young Ylva listened as her father told her tales. Such stories they were, of the fire dragons residing in the Burning Mountains, of the ghosts creeping in the Silver Forest. Her young mind engulfed the fables, longing to venture out into that world of folktales. When the hyper young child did sleep, she dreamed vividly; which was considered a very good quality in a child. Only murmillion children fall asleep under the strange glow of mushroom paint, and as Ylva slept, her young mind dreamed of the dragons and ghosts of her father's tales.

One evening, when the girl was around seven years of age, her father took her to the top of the draks, to the highest balcony in the complex. It was dusk, the sky slowly shifting from light blue to deep murky purple; flecks of orange and pink spirally across the sky. The sun hid below the horizon, leaving the air colder than before. The young Ylva stared out across the mountains and forests. “What lies beyond the forests?”

Her big hazel eyes peered questioningly into her father’s much more gentle brown ones.

Truls Rasmussan was a very patient man for a murmillion and had grown used to his daughter’s constant questions. He was a humble man for a murmillion and had married into the aristocracy. His family line merging with his wife’s noble lineage, his own upbringing had been much rougher, growing up on the mountainside on the edge of the dividing line, stuck between the mining commoners and the noble lords. It had been his skills at glyphwriting and his enchanting craftsmanship that earned him so much prestige and honour. It was, he suspected, the only reason his wife had married him. The old blacksmith scratched the top of his hair, only thin patches of grey remaining where thick black hair had once been.

“The rest of the world, Ylva.” He answered, teasing his daughter, knowing full well that this wasn’t the detailed explanation that the young girl sort. The girl in question gave him a look back. Oh such a fearsome look no child should possess, a mixture of fury and disappointment, of frustration and unamusement. A look that she’d obviously inherited from her mother. Truls’ wife had often given him this look. Perhaps it was best just to answer the questioning child properly.

The old man’s eyes scanned the wild terrain. To a murmillion the whole world consists of warg filled forests and harsh mountains that to an outsider would seem inhospitable. But to a murmillion it was a sanctuary, beyond it lay only enemies and traitors.

“To the north, lies bloody Korweynites, constantly seeking to get our lands, hating us for our loyalty to Menemronn.”

“To the south, pagan fisherman, Santerrans. To the west, the Murmillions that betrayed their own kind, loving the Unspoken-one more than Mari herself.”

His daughter gazed out at the horizon. It was difficult to imagine that anything existed beyond it. The young girl’s head spun back round to face her father, “Is that a bad thing? If they’re Murmillion, how can they not be part of us?”

Truls sighed, massaging his temple with one long bony hand, Dear Mari, save us from children who plague us with constant questions....

“Tis very bad, Ylva. If a cleric heard you say that…well…anyways, they’re branded Fallen. You see it’s our devotion to Mari that what makes us who we are, that makes us Murmillion, Free Murmillions, that is. And as Free Murmillions, we belong to here. You should-”

Sadly the man was interrupted by his own daughter, who was already onto her next question, “What lies to the east?”

Truls frowned. “The sea.”

“And beyond that?”

“….More pagan lands, I think its called Savonaria or Santharia or something stupid like that. Lots of wooden houses, silly magicians and fake gods. No mountains and no draks. Heathen lands for sure….”

“Oh, that’s sad; I’d like to go there one day. I’m going to be an adventurer.”

Truls grunted. Ylva was a bright child, but at least his other daughter didn’t get silly ideas in her head. “You would? Your mother will be pleased…”

Hildegarde, Lady of the Great House Rasmussan, came from higher up the hierarchy than her husband, from a very traditional and influential family. Truls guessed that the woman was probably already plotting her daughter’s marriage. The man was grateful that he had lots of sons; sons didn’t cause as much trouble. A son could help their father in the smithy, forever honing their magic craft. Daughters couldn’t. Daughters became wives.

Ylva, unfortunately, lacked any skills required to be a dutiful wife. Her sewing was abysmal. Plants died in her care. Her cooking was infamous; at feasts half the guests were poisoned by her food with the other half refusing to eat it.

However in one tradition Ylva found comfort. Like all nobility, the young Murmillion was taught how to fight with a draskovaer. Ylva’s awkward long hands -unsuitable for delicate women’s work- suited the weapon. Her height and build were indeed weaknesses, but she learned to overcome them with agility and cunning. Years of practice helped her become adept at the martial art, often sparring with her brothers. But her interest and skill in the art was commented on as queer, joking that the spirit of a man had accidently found its way into the girl’s body. The women of the draks are not born to be drakkars. And in later years she would learn this.

-Wargs –

(Age 17, 1648 A.S.)

The forests of Ehebion are said to be a dangerous place to wander, some Santerrans still believed that only ghosts are left to haunt the silver beech woods of The Sickle, they prefer to steer clear of such a cursed place. Typically, the Murmillions held a completely opposite approach compared to their fish-folk neighbours, treating the perilous place as their playground, daring their younglings to go hunt warg in the hallowed forests.

Amongst the beech tees with their dappled light and buzzing clouds of insects, a young woman quietly tiptoed through the undergrowth. Her brothers had goaded her, taunted her weaknesses, her gender. But now the seventeen year old Ylva was determined to prove to them that she was worthy. The petite hunter flitted across the rugged terrain, ears constantly listening, big large eyes peeled for signs. The girl stilled, unmoving against the soft wind and rustle of the trees, picking up the sound of gentle footsteps slowly getting closer.
 “Father will skin you when he finds out you stole his blade-axe.”

Annika. The hunter turned to see her younger sister glaring at her, the harsh expression not suited for such a round pretty face. The younger girl scoffed, “Why in Mari’s name are you out here, Ylva? You think being eaten by a warg will make you a drakkar, hm?”

The elder sister grunted, turning her bushy haired head to scan the forest, “I’m not going to be eaten.”

“You forget your path; the Dreamer made you a spindly girl. Not a drakkar officer, not a man. You’re probably not even tall enough-”
“Are you here just to insult me?” Ylva frowned, dark eyebrows furrowing together to create a thick line.
“I’m here to stop you doing something rash.” Her sister gave her a look of concern and pulled a piece of fair flaxen hair out her pale freckled face. “I care about you. But why can’t you just stop being so stubborn.”

The dark haired young woman raised an eyebrow. “Stubborn?”
“Yes,” Annika carefully smoothed down her shimmering blue dress and sat down on a very knobbly log. “All you do is ignore everything mother teaches us.”

“I just don’t want to be stuck serving others the rest of my life, surely you can understand that.”

“’Serving others’....you mean just become a wife and mother? You see such a life as plain? What if I wanted such a life, would you look down on me for walking such a dream?” An angry expression fell across the blond’s soft sweet features.

The dark haired sister hesitated, “Annika, I-“

Snap. The sharp sound caused both girls to jump. Ylva’s eyes flitted around, searching the mass of trees and branches for signs of monsters and beasts. The girl had been so foolish. Determined to hunt a warg, she’d forgotten to consider that perhaps she could be the hunted. The beasts could smell prey over vast distances; her and her sister had just become dinner. Her grip tightened on her father’s blade-axe, the enchanted glyphs glimmering slightly in the few rays of light that had reached them through the shaded glades.

Annika shivered next to her, staring round the glade with large fearful eyes, “It can’t be a warg. The packs don’t hunt this close to the mountain this time of year.”

 “It could still be a male, they split off at this time of year, searching for a group to join to mate with the females.” A low growl hummed quietly through the bushes. The beast was nearby alright. Annika slowly start to edge in the direction of the draks entrance further north.

The elder one waved a hand at her,  “Don’t run, it’s a warg not a puppy, we’re going to have to face it.”

“Face it? What crazy dream are you walking?!”

“Just don’t move Annika...............Annika?” No response came, the young woman turned and watched as her sister sped away into the undergrowth, “Damn it, I said don’t move!” A long howl echoed through the woods, “Annika!” Ylva ran after her sister, making a quick prayer to Mari as her feet pounded against the forest floor, chasing towards the sound.

The creature called the warg comes from a time of dark magic and even darker wars, far more intelligent than any mere bear or wolf and far more dangerous. To kill such a creature was a rite of passage in the Burning Mountains, but to die by one was a dishonour that no Murmillion would choose to bare, their spirit remains tainted by such a fate.  The unworthy were said to forever stark the silver forests. Ylva prayed that her sister would not have such a doom. The darkness was settling in, the sun creeping down below the horizon, the forests became alive with the tiny noises of life, of crawling and squeaking, scuttling and scavenging. “Annika!” The young woman searched for her kin, spotting her sister’s tracks leading towards the draks. The warg, it seemed, hadn’t followed its prey.

“Strange.” The girl frowned, peering down at the tracks.

A low predatory growl rumbled through the silver foliage.

A hungry pant emitting from the jaws of the beast lurking behind her. The hairs tingled on the back of her neck, realisation dawn, oh indeed wargs were very intelligent creatures. It had pretended to chase her sister while leading Ylva right into a trap. The beast leapt forward towards its intended victim and the woman hopelessly spun round, blade-axe lodging itself it the monster’s snout as its jaws reached out to bite her, aching to taste her flesh. She parried its attack, desperately whacking the warg away with her weapon. Its claws slashed at her limbs, ripping through her clothes, easily digging into her body, drawing up blood.

The warg was a male, slimmer and more compact than a female, but still strong enough to easily tear her head off. The feral being encircled its prey patiently; its golden eyes looked across at its prey, desperately desiring to kill, to feed, to survive. But it knew it had time, staring at Ylva as if to say ‘Run, little one, go run, go ahead, I have time,  plenty of time to catch up such a slow clumsy creature as you, you’ll think you’re safe but I’ll catch you, I’ll clamp my jaws round your neck.’ Ylva desperately staggered to her feet, pain crawling up her arms and body, her blood staining the forest bed. Her father’s words whispered to her within her mind. With any enemy,  man or beast, the important thing is to show that you are unafraid, stare it down, show it that you too are a monster to be reckoned with, don’t panic, don’t even blink, keep your mind calm for you will only get one chance....

Her breathing steadied and her hands tightened around the hilt of the draskovaer, the woman stared across at the predator matching its glare with a ferocious snarl of her own, inside her mind tried to focus, ignoring child-like thoughts and whimperings that threatened to break through.

The ferocious creature dug its heels deep into the earth, body low, ready to pounce; saliva dripping from its jaws, blood dripping from its long supernatural snout.

Life or death. Warg versus girl. Suddenly the world was a clear crossroad, simple paths with only Mari knowing which one must be walked.

Without any warning, the beast charged.

The young woman stood, staring down her enemy, watching as it came closer and closer, further and further towards her, its meal, its jaw almost to bite, the beast closed in, the woman waited till the timing was right...

The murmillion sprung recklessly to the side of the attacking beast, avoiding its jaws by mere moments, at the same time she twisted round  and with an anger fuelled battle cry Ylva swung down the sickle shaped axe in an almost mad rage, performing a reverse drakkar’s embrace with the inner blade slicing through the top the beast’s neck as she fell clumsily sideways to the hit the harsh rocky earth, her father’s blade cut right into the delicate muscle where the spine connected to the brain of the animal.

The animal cried out in pain, stumbling, unsure what had happened, confused as to why its prey did not lie dead in front of its yellowy eyes. It slumped to the ground with a thud and a long howling cry. Its legs still scratched at the earth as if it were still running, its tongue flopping out its mouth limply. Its breathing struggled, as it made small panting noises like a small dog. The beast stilled.

The young woman tiptoed over to her victim, reaching out to stroke the beast’s rough fur, a dark and shiny blue under the shaded half-light of the moonlit forest.


(Age 17-22, 1648-1653 A.S.)

Lady Hildegarde of Rasmussan stormed through the corridors to her daughter’s chambers, mortified at hearing that Ylva had attacked a warg. A woman attacking a warg! Oh the Houses would all be chattering and laughing about such a thing! Her daughter’s death would have been better than such disgraceful news. In the past, the mother had put up with her daughter’s lessons in combat. Hildegarde had tried having ‘words’ with her husband. But the normally meek man had been stubborn on this particular issue and had let the girl carry on with her training. The Lady of the House had let it go, believing it to be just a whim. But now it was giving the young Murmillion woman ‘ideas’. Something had to be done.


The young woman looked up from her bed as her mother loomed over her, her arms folded, her whole body tensing, wound up like a shingar watching its prey, about to pounce. No doubt she was here to reprimand her.

“Why were you in the woods in the first place?” Ylva cringed slightly, both from the pain and her mother’s quick asking of the dreaded question. The teen gave a reluctant but honest reply.
“To...to hunt warg.”

The mother sighed, Hildegarde’s mind reeled at such an explanation. “You are a woman, you are my daughter. You should not do such things. You could have died! A draskovaer is a man’s possession.” The lady shook her head and shouted around her, “Oh Mari, why does she carry on like this and insist on tormenting me so?!”

The young woman picked at her bandages, “If she made me better with a blade than a sewing needle, should I not honour her decision?”

“Heathen child! Don’t you dare interpret your own arrogant childish spoilt selfish ideas as those of the Mistress! The Lady made women for the domestic domain, not to be warriors. You must acknowledge this.”

Their eyes met. The air couldn’t have been any colder and it wasn’t due to the fact that they lived within a mountain.

“And if I don’t?”
Silence. The world grew quiet around them, as if waiting for the mother’s answer.

“You’re not getting a choice, you’re being sent to train under the clerics. I pray to the Dreamer that they will be able to teach you what I have failed to teach.”  

   Like all murmillions, Ylva had grown up with Mari. Cults, prophecies, sacrifices, dreamwalking, shadowcasting and hallucinations, were all ordinary parts of her life. Listening to the sermons on the night of the full moon, the crowd would go into mass hysteria; mass hysteria being just an ordinary monthly occurrence for Ylva. Mari was present in everything. If a son died, the family accepted it as what the Mistress had determined for him. To grieve over one‘s fate in life, as Ylva did, was considered peculiar.

Truls and Hildegarde seemed pleased with their decision. Their elder daughter was a troublesome, headstrong girl; why not let her become a pious priestess instead? A few precious years past and the young woman treasured these last years in her draks. At the age of twenty two, she left for Dagans. As a parting gift, her father gave her her own blade axe, tailored for her build and height with the family glyphs engraved into the surface. Her sister Annika watched as her sibling left their family home, doubtful that she’d ever see her again.


(Age 22-29, 1653-1660 A.S.)

   Ylva travelled along the High Shores road until she reached Dagans set against the harsh Burning Mountains; providing no safety or comfort for any enemies of Mari. The Bridges of Mist and Silence loomed above her and were indeed impressive sights to behold, but bleak to her eyes, offering no warm welcome.

The young woman lived in the draks of the cult patrons, with the rest of the novices. It was just like home. No one ever said draks were known for their variety, the only difference now being that Ylva shared her room with thirty others. Like all novices, hours were spent memorizing texts, listening to Sermons and learning to interpret the sacred art of glyph writing.

   Studies were hard. If one did not improve fast enough, then Mari obviously did not mean for them to be a cleric. They were cast out. Ylva feared this more than most and strove to succeed. Ready to faint, the young woman would fall asleep at night, images of moths, fire and darkness imprinted on her brain.

   Due to her good memory, the young novice was apprenticed to the Master Healer, cleaning sickroom floors and clearing beds. For the next seven years she went through training. The stock of medicine was constantly low from lack of outside trade. The training methods were old fashioned but Ylva was a determined and diligent student.

    By the age of twenty-nine, her training was complete. However, as the young doctor’s confidence grew, her trust in the Cults diminished. Her own thoughts contradicted what she heard in sermons. Supposedly Menemronn went to the world of dreams. And yet texts that Ylva had read from other cultures spoke of him worshipping a different god. Often healer just let their patients die, accepting a patient’s fate as the will of Mari. This was not striving towards greatness like the sacred texts preached. It was giving up, letting nature take control. Something had to be done.

It was a grim grey morning, the day that Ylva argued her views with the new Master Healer. Ylva had waited, her hands resting neatly on her lap, the noises of the sick rooms echoing down the blue lit corridors deep with the Cult’s mountain lair.

A scrawny figure limped towards her, the Master Healer’s clerk. The limp was probably caused by an old knee problem but Ylva couldn’t be certain.
 “Ah, Healer Rasmussan, may Mari walk with you.”
A wrinkly hand indicated for her to follow him. His pace was slow, giving her time to try and neaten her hair, though only direct intervention from Mari could stop her hair from being frayed and messy.

 “What is the most common use for bloodweed?” The limping man asked her casually, it was common practise amongst the clerics to constantly test novices. Ylva frantically answered the question, “A water plant that is used to detect the poison krakenweed, Sir.”

The old cleric grinned, “Fine memory you have there. Mine used to be like that too.”

The woman was shown into the Master Healer’s dark catacomb chambers; the man himself did not bother to look up as they entered. The Master Healer was young compared to those who had previously held his position, including the one Ylva trained under. At thirty-two, his ancient robes looked like they belonged to another man, as if his hair needed to be greyer, his face more wrinkly. But with a great deal of cunning, the Master Healer had beaten people twice his age to the position. Keeping peace with the Cult’s Kunran, the Great Houses, the King, and, the scariest of all, the Arkhaeon’s Guild; a Master Healer often needed as much guile as they did actual knowledge of healing. Constant compromising and negotiating between different factions had left this one devoid of anything but the need to keep things the way they were.

Finally, after five minutes waiting, the young man looked up, “Ah, course. Turgen, you may leave.” The limping man did so.

The Master Healer turned to smile at the young healer. It was indeed a warm and friendly smile, but one that did not reflect his own inner character but instead the fact that this man knew of the woman’s parentage. Her House was connected through the mother’s line to the Cult of the Moth’s Patrons. Thus, this tiny little bit of information directly influenced his behaviour towards her.

However Ylva had no idea of this and thus saw this smile as encouragement to speak openly.

The Master Healer listened; his neutral face hid his real thoughts, which were thus, Hah, the girl’s opinionated...just like her mother…just think of the backlash....dear Mari! Most of the healers would refuse to even discuss it; the Great Houses would be in uproar, and as for the Arkhaeon Master… The man suppressed a shudder; They would throw me to the wargs, my organs ripped apart and eaten, my spirit consumed by wild beasts…

“What is your decision?” The woman’s unblinking eyes, set against her pale gaunt face, made her gaze rather unsettling. The Master Healer hesitated; he couldn’t just let her go back to the Sick Rooms, spreading her ideas amongst other young healers. The only option left was…


Ylva tilted her head, her expression that of a puppy not understanding its master’s command.

“Be grateful to Mari that you’re born to such a great family, otherwise you’d be a ‘sacrifice’ in the Lady’s honour. I suggest you collect your things, and leave the Sickle as quietly and quickly as possible. ”

The healer didn’t cry or complain, as her younger self would have. The woman left, unsure of what Mari meant for her.

-Lime Trees-

(Age 29-31, 1660-1662 A.S.)

 For weeks, Ylva aimlessly wandered the rugged terrain of the Ehebion plains, whispering her father’s words softly to the winds, “Our devotion to Mari is what makes us Murmillion.”

His daughter was now fallen, no doubt her family knew of her disgrace. Ylva tried not to imagine her father’s expression at hearing the news. Annika now lived in another Draks with lots of children and a husband. Maybe, her parents hadn’t told her sister. One day, she’d visit her nieces and nephews. Ylva pushed the hope back inside, best not cling to it.

 The wandering healer passed through the gates of Ehebion into foreign lands. In her weakened state, weak in both spirit and body, she was eventually found by strange murmillion traders that turned out to be fallen murmillions. They agreed to take her to Lhindal, the city of the Fallen Ones. The people there spoke her tongue, but it was still, at first, such an alien place; lime trees everywhere, and strange black banners waving in the breeze. However, Ylva grew to cherish it; the chaos and vibrancy of that city. The healer worked there for the next eight years, gaining experience as a surgeon and healer.

In Dagans, there had just been the draks community. In Lhindal, there was the bloodshed of the Murmillion division of the Santerran army. The smell of blood and lime, combined with each other, wafting through the sick rooms. For a few simple years Ylva’s life entirely consisted of healing her patients and tending to her work.

Then one year, dark rain clouds rolled down north from the mountain ranges in Ehebion, her old home. And Ylva was unaware of what changes the rain and storms would bring.

The city of Lhindal was drenched, the wet stone turning black, little rivers running down a maze of stairways and passages. With constant thunder rumbling like a rolling tide crashing above, flashes of lightning glinting through the dark grey sky. The hospital was busy, the rain causing more injuries than one expected. The walls stopped most the sound of the rain, but a low humming still reverberated through the corridors.

Ylva breathed in, the air was cold and damp, even deep down within the tunnels. The woman sat in her small chamber, a table and bed filling most the space, no room for a chair. Leaning over the leather parchment, the doctor continued to write. This being her fifth attempt to start the letter,

May Mari bless your walks sister,
      Please forgive me for writing,

“Healer Rasmussan?”

Her quill stopped, her name was being called down the long narrow corridor. A girl appeared, slightly panting for breath. The girl’s round cheeks flushed, after running the whole way. “Aksel is it?” Ylva ventured, recognizing her, a novice much younger than herself, with sharp little eyes, and a mind to match.

Aksel collapsed to the marble flooring of Ylva’s chamber, “One of the deep sleepers….” The girl took a breath, “woke, no one can calm them.” Giving up on the letter, the woman scurried down the corridor. Even during this damp night, healers ran about the place, only a dim blue light to guide them through the dark tunnels.

The Asthalon hall was a large airy cavern used for long term patients. Higher up in the complex than the other chambers, it had several windows cut into the stone walls to let fresh air flow through the giant cavern while novices hurried around wrapping patients in layers of blanket.

The commotion echoed across the giant hall, the troublesome patient struggling to break free of those pinning him down, shouting and cursing in a language Ylva couldn’t recognize. An audience had gathered; novices and visitors, their curiosity getting the better of them. A double chinned healer chuckled, his wispy beard moving up and down, amused as the short skinny woman battled her way through the crowd,

“The fishfolk garrison brought him in yesterday, found him along the coastline. With this shadow cursed weather, probably got shipwrecked during a storm. What you reckon?”

 The woman’s face contorted in concentration as she examined the patient’s few belongings; a clear bead pendant, a small dagger, and some white robes. “Certainly not a soldier, yet, look.” A long finger pointed to a faded mark on the otherwise spotless white garments. Blood. “Tried to wash it off in sea water, you can see the salt marks. Intriguing, why would an injured man be so concerned about his clothes?”

The patient carried on shouting, still full of energy even though the man possessed several broken ribs, a injured left hand, two broken thumbs, a bruised thigh bone, and a damaged right shoulder; not to mention a severe injury to his temple.

The bearded healer just shrugged.
Ylva pursed her lips, unimpressed by her colleague’s lack of enthusiasm, “His sputum is damaged from salt water, his ichor is also affected-” The commotion suddenly stopped. Ylva looked up to see that the patient had calmed down; his pale eyes were now fixed on her.

“Ichor?” The man repeated the word, appearing to recognize the word, his pronunciation of it soft and plummy.

Averting her eyes from his gaze, Ylva carried on. Highly infuriated that a patient had interrupted her,
“And yet his injuries should be a lot worse…curious…as though someone healed him before the soldiers found him…” The doctor suppressed a yawn, part of her desperately wanted to crawl back to her small bed. “Continue the Ormelin fluid, Silkel leaves and Khmeen seeds; make him eat a raw onion for good measure, always good to add an onion. And no miyu beans, no matter how much pain. Don’t want him falling too deep into Mari’s embrace…” The healer sighed, “Wonderful as the Mistress is….”

Ylva made her way back to her chambers and the strange patient watched her as she left.

-A White Coat-

(Age 31, 1662 A.S.)

Oden, however, would not have considered himself that strange a man. A normal childhood growing up on his father’s farm in Voldar, as a young boy he’d nursed small birds’ broken wings. Aged twenty nine, nothing had changed, the young man had become a healer, a dalorin cleric no less. A highly spirited man who ran round battlefields dragging the injured to safety, his body still bore the scars of such ordeals.

His group had been travelling on a small sloop across the sea back to Milkengrad where they were urgently needed. Sent off course in a storm; not knowing where they were, they had quickly become shipwrecked. The dalorian had awoken assuming the stony beach was Wind Bay, unaware how far he was from home. The healer had tried to treat his injuries but he had passed out after just a few hours of consciousness.

When the cleric next opened his eyes he had not been prepared for what greeted him. The vast cold cavern was bathed in a grim blue light. Peeling back the blankets, Oden saw that his own pristine white clothes were gone. Someone had taken the liberty to change him into an ugly grey robe. His left eye twitched slightly; unused to people helping him. The nerve! A young woman clothed in odd long leather robes approached. Oden noted the peculiar dress sense but let it pass. Instead he took the chance to explain the misunderstanding; a priest of Nehtor didn’t need to be hospitalized.

The girl blinked, her little brown eyes looking frightened and confused. The young woman have him a worried reply but one that the cleric’s ears could not understand.

Not many foreigners can actually describe what the Murmillion language sounds like. But an expert might suggest, ‘like an Elf trying to speak with rocks in their mouth’. And indeed the sharp harsh sounds of Murmillion rather worried Oden; his mind now fully aware he was not in Wind Bay.

The cleric, understandably, got rather frantic at this point. Due to the miyu beans they had given him, the man had no idea how horribly injured he was. The young woman had ran away to alert some authority or another. The few conscious patients sat up in their beds and eagerly watched as helpers ran to restrain Oden, nothing this amusing normally occurred in the Asthalon hall. Two healers then arrived; a bearded man, who didn’t seem very unconcerned, and a short petite woman, blabbering on in that strange language.

Suddenly, Oden heard a word he recognized. The man relaxed, repeating the word to the woman, hopeful that she might understand him. The healer just kept talking and Oden watched as she took her leave.

The lady had said a santharian word. This meant Oden was not stuck in some demonic netherworld as he had feared. It was still Caelereth. The man stared out the window at the strange stone city. A zesty scent lingered in the air. What was this Coór-ridden place?

-A Book-

(Age 31-36, 1662-1667 A.S.)

Slowly the rains halted, leaving the sky pale silver. The sun remained hidden, stopping the city from roasting too much. The lime trees brightened in the warmer weather, the fresh zesty scent dancing its way down corridors and passages, blanketing the whole city. Ylva yawned. A shaky hand mixed dried watchmoss into a cup of water and gulped it in down. The stuff was supposed to awaken the person. Sadly the effects wouldn’t kick in for another hour or so.

The work seemed endless with new casualties from the border skirmishes. However Ylva had found time that morning to go through the archives,

….Ichor, the liquid substance of the spine, thought to correspond with saliva of the tongue, originally a Tharian word, which came into use in Santerran duri...

Bright daylight flushed through the windows, slightly blinding Ylva. The woman made her way to the back of the hall. The strange patient was asleep, his eyes tight shut, set deeply within his long face, deep purple bruises covering his pale freckled skin. His dark red hair looked as though someone had attacked it with shearing scissors. The man was probably still in his late twenties, though Ylva couldn’t be sure.

“Wake up!” The man carried on his gentle slumber. The healer grunted. “Santharian, I have to talk to you!”

A few heads turned to see what was going on, but the man himself remained motionless. The healer pulled out a book out her bag; it was a peculiar object, for all murmillion literature is written on leather scrolls. This book was as foreign as the shipwrecked man. Ylva had spent hours searching for it, finally finding the discarded rejected thing on the librarian’s desk being used as a paperweight.

Thud. The book landed on Oden’s chest. His eyes flung open from the pain from various injuries still healing. The cleric frantically looked round only to see Ylva standing there, her arms neatly folded across her chest.

Looking down, there was a copy of the Compendium lying in his lap. His eyes glinted with recognition. Turning back towards Ylva, The dalorian showed her a map of the world on an old torn page. “Where am I?”

The Tharian words made no sense to the woman’s ears but Ylva gently took the book from his hands and pointed at their current location on a map of Nybelmar. The man’s face went pale.

Oden snatched the book from the woman and frantically read.

... slaves are mainly prisoners, either criminals or captured in war….

His face fell, reading the passage over and over again. This city was under Santerran rule, and they didn’t like outsiders, certainly not clerics of other gods. The man thrust the page at Ylva, pointing at the sentence.

Ylva frowned as the man hysterically flapped the book in her face, “I can’t read this…yet what it says clearly worries you…”

Murmillions are said to be born with only selfishness and ambitious intentions in their hearts; and indeed, Ylva’s need to help people was entwined with her own ambitions. Yet, the woman felt compelled to help him; Mari, after all, must have sent him here. A smile broke across her face, a rather unstable one but still one that could be considered honest and genuine. “I promise, I’ll help you, I’ll teach you Murmillion. How am I supposed to talk to a patient who can’t tell me the symptoms?”

Oden had no idea what the lady was saying, but somehow felt compelled to smile back, due to the fact that kindness has no language barriers.

Over the years Oden’s injuries healed. Ylva taught the santharian her language and in turn she learnt Tharian. Healer Rasmussan had never had many friends. Perhaps only her father and sister, but they were no longer part of her life. Here was a person who was her friend due to chance alone. Their friendship was an odd one, often neither able to communicate what they wanted to say.

If asked, Ylva would have denied all fondness for the wretched man. Arguments were regular occurrences, both being stubborn, neither giving in. They would not speak for weeks, and then suddenly just start talking again. Neither mentioning the disagreement, both having forgot why they argued in the first place. Perhaps in another story, Oden and Ylva would be described as star-crossed lovers; but this is not that tale. Indeed, reality far is crueller than fiction, epic battles become massacres, and sometimes friends are lost to those who love them.

-Knives and Needles-

(Age 36, 1667 A.S.)

The two friends sat on a bench in a courtyard used by the hospital to grow medical plants. The sky above was almost sunny, tiny bits of light peeking through the grey. The santharian patient smiled, this strange grey rock world could almost be called pretty today, though part of him missed normal houses as much as he missed his own family. Beside him sat his only friend here, a strange female healer who had somehow decided to help him, and was currently trying to learn more Tharian.

“Yahrle.” Ylva pronounced the word with great difficulty.

“ Not yah-rul, Yahrle.” Oden corrected her in very shaky murmillion, “It is a silent ‘h’.” Not bothering to look up, the former cleric just carried on picking leaves off the nearest redberry bush. Ylva glared at him. “Silent? How can that be?”

The man shrugged and relaxed further back on the bench, wincing slightly when he felt his knee twinge. He glanced over at the woman and decided to change the subject to a less studious topic, “You know, I never ask why you choose to be a healer.”

“I didn’t,” Ylva replied, still concentrating on reading her notes on Tharian. “I sort of...fell into it.”

“Fell? You seem very content with a job you didn’t choose…”

“We walk the path but only Mari knows our destiny.”

Oden smiled wryly, “Oh she does, does she?”

Ylva frowned, “Mari is part of my heritage, my upbringing. I suppose you believe your gods to be more legitimate…

The santharian grinned, he did indeed believe this, “You never talk of this upbringing of yours…or your family….”

Ylva sighed, “I was born north of here, in mountains that still belong to murmillions, my family is one of the Great Houses, my father was a blacksmith, I have thirteen brothers and one sister, my mother was very controlling but I was…stubborn.”

“Your mother sounds....”

“My mother came from a very pious family, I understand her more now than I did in my youth.”

The man huffed, “Sounds idiotic to me. It’s true. I mean all that taking strange mushrooms, weird dreams, full moons…moths…I mean what’s so special about moths?!”

The bushy haired woman scowled at him, “Everything you don’t understand about my culture you simply call ‘idiotic’…Why even ask such questions?”

The priest scratched his armpit, staring at the ground, “Sorry, I thought we are friends…friends ask questions.”

Both flattered and embarrassed by his use of the term ‘friend’, Ylva carried on trying to concentrate on her notes. “Patients are not normally friends with healers; we’re the ones sticking knives and needles in you.”

“I’m a healer too. Or I used to be…” The cleric grumbled, looking sullen. His eyes stared out at the horizon, perhaps remembering his old occupation, his far off home.
“Oden…You’re safe if you stay in the hospital. You know what Santerrans do to outlanders like yourself? Slavery.”

Oden wasn’t listening, “Only if they caught me…you could help me. You could come with me.”

Ylva glared. “I’m content here.”

“So you love this place, where your people are ruled over by an empire, your goddess is just another deity stuck onto their pantheon, and your hospital is run by uncaring-”

“Of course we care-”

“-They let people die, even when the patients have a small chance of recovery, they just let them die!”

“Every death is Mari’s will, we cannot alter it.” Ylva stated, remembering how once she’d thought differently, but those thoughts had led to her becoming an outcast.

Shocked her attitude, the dalorian shook his head zealously, quickly grabbing his friend’s hand, holding it tightly, staring fervently into her eyes as if willing her to understand, “Ylva, death is decided by the changing tides of fate; a healer should save as many as possible, no matter the cost to themselves.”

The murmillion rolled her eyes at her brave courageous friend, wanting him to go of her hand for several reasons, one being the blush that was forming across her cheeks, “Sounds a peculiar attitude to me, can’t help people when you’re dead.....So, in comparison, you think that healers like me are selfish?”

“No! I didn’t, er,” The redheaded man gawped, “I didn’t mean you. Ylva, in fact you’re-”

Ylva pulled her hand away. “I’m not helping you leave.” She firmly stated, before grabbing her things and leaving the courtyard garden. Ignoring Oden as the man called out his retort; the healer didn’t stay to listen, believing it to be just another argument.


(Age 36, 1667 A.S.)

Ylva stormed down the dimly lit passage. Her fists clenched, her breathing heavy, the latest argument with Oden still fresh in her mind. Presumptuous little ingrate, arg! I’ll carve his guts out with a spoon! Oh he’ll… Not concentrating, the woman gently collided with someone.

“Sorry, Ma’am, I, erm…”

The Master Healer of Lhindal straightened up, readjusting her robe. The lady was quite a bit taller than Ylva. Perhaps only ten years her elder, but much more elegant, with strong cheekbones and a regal posture that the petite woman could never have achieved.

“Ah, yes, Healer Rasmussan…” A smile crossed her delicately boned face, one that suggested that the lady had been looking for her. “The shipwreck case, I need your notes, the Santerrans believe him to be threat.” Sharp almond shaped eyes watched her, looking for a glimpse of a reaction, a trace of emotion.

Careful not to indicate her thoughts, Ylva’s face became a smiling helpful mask; handing over her notebook, and answering politely “Ah yes, intriguing case, severe injuries to the head, yet the man recovers well. I’ll take you to him now if you-”

“That won’t be necessary,” The Master Healer interrupted, “I heard that he was nearly recovered so I deemed him fit for slavery. This evening I gave the Lhindal Guard permission to take him.”

The mask remained still, hiding Ylva’s shock.

 “Thank you for the notebook, Mari blesses your dreams.” The lady left her alone in the dim blue passageway. Ylva waited, listening as the woman’s footsteps grew quieter and quieter. When the healer could no longer hear them, the mask fell away and Ylva’s knees gave way.

No noise came out her mouth. The shock ran down her spine, numbing her body, preventing tears. Her mind gently tried to collect its thoughts. No one must see you like this; quickly go to your room. The healer made it to her chambers without being seen.

Ylva curled up on her bed, her mind trying to concentrate on more practical matters. The Master Healer now had her notebook, which had her notes on Oden. The woman would find out how Ylva had helped Oden remain hidden in the hospital all these years, how she had removed his name from certain registers, smuggled him ointments and pain relievers, hid him during inspections and countless other offences. The healer got up and started to pack.

There was a knock at the door; Ylva quickly grabbed her bladeaxe from beside her bedside. “Healer Rasmussan?” A concerned voice called out, it was only Aksel, now Healer Oddmund, since she finished her training. “Is Mikkel speaking the truth? Did they take him?”

Aksel had known how Ylva was friends with the patient; the girl had kept quiet, Ylva was sad to leave such a loyal person. “Damn Mikkel, may Mari make his cursed beard drop off. Yes, it is true.”

“So you’re now going to go rescue him?” The girl asked, watching Ylva pack, putting her observant eyes to good use.

“Hah!” Ylva scoffed, “Rescue him? Why would I do that?”

“You love him, don’t you?”

The healer froze, “Love would require proof, would it not? Romantic words spoken, kisses, looks, that sort of thing. I, however, have no evidence of that sort to give you Aksel. Besides, the eternal loss of a friend is hard enough to bare. No, I did not love him.”

“It’s not forever, they only keep slaves for thirty years-“

“-And how many slaves do you know that survived thirty years? Ode…Mister Accam, only just recovered from his injuries. He’ll die within two.”

“So you’re going to go save him?”

“I’m saving myself before the Master Healer catches me.”

“But you have to save him.” The girl’s hopeful little eyes bore into Ylva, confused as to why the woman did not realize this.

Ylva pulled a large travel bag onto her back, and swung round to face her young colleague, “One skinny woman against the Santerran military? In folktales it works, but I’m a doctor. Not a hero, not a man, not a drakkar. I’d be slaughtered long before I reached him. I don’t even know which mining camp he’s in....No, Aksel, I’m being practical for once. I’m running away. Carry this satchel, will you?”

The young girl said nothing more and just helped her with her things. They quietly ran through the silent stone city, most people still slumbering in Mari’s kingdom. They reached the south gateway by dawn. A sun peeped over the horizon, casting light on the mountainside. Aksel sighed, “Where will you go?”
Ylva scanned the landscape, no destination springing to mind. “I have no idea.”
Aksel turned to leave and gave a quick bow, “I’ll walk with you in my dreams, Healer. May the Mistress watch you, you’ll need her, the world out there is a harsh place for dreamers....” Ylva smiled and nodded after her before disappearing down the path, heading for the hills.


(Age 36-37, 1667-1668 A.S.)

Ylva awoke screaming. Her body jolted upright which in turn knocked her travel bag, sending it flying down the hill. The woman sighed, quickly running after it, her mind still thinking about the dream. Flashes of moths and men danced through her brain. The image of a warg chasing her through the pathways of Lhindal in the rain was still fresh in her mind. A bad omen perhaps? Certainly it was a strange dream for Mari to give her, but one that obviously reflected her current circumstances.

The healer clambered to the top of the hill to get a better look at her location. To the south lay the rest of Aca-Santerra, the flat plains looked bleak and bare. Ylva sighed, reluctant to leave the moon hills where the woman had always resided.

Then, suddenly, her eyes spotted a familiar sight, a faint silhouette dancing in the air above her. A moth. The murmillion grinned. The tiny creature was heading east, toward the coast. Ylva was born a Free, never one to sniff at an obvious sign from Mari. If Mari wanted her to go east, then east she would go. Perhaps even over the sea, to Santharia, Oden would have liked that. Her face fell as she remembered her friend. Shaking morbid thoughts from her mind, the healer followed the moth.

Ylva travelled along the foothills, eventually arriving in the city of Artakar. There, the healer bought passage to Santharia in exchange for jewelry which her family had given her when she was still young.

After about a month at sea, the wandering doctor arrived in Strata.

It was a strange but vibrant place, full of smells, some thick and spicy, some horrid and putrid. The idea of streets and roads was, indeed, very strange. Even Lhindal had had stairways and tunnels, arching up and down. Everything was new to her, from the queer homes made of wood to the alcoves for fire making called ‘Fireplaces’. The very flatness of this new place perplexed her. Frankly the whole place vexed her with its alien ways and foreign tongue. From her lessons with Oden, Ylva could speak some basic Tharian. Yet no work could be found here, Strata seemed to already have enough doctors. Ylva had only one necklace left and little san, enough for more two meals at the most.

A moth fluttered past her window.

The woman packed her bags.

One Draskovaer, or blade axe. Given to her by father, highly decorated with enchanted glyphs of Mari.


A very heavy leather satchel full of medical supplies and surgical equipment; this includes a tourniquet, miyu beans, silkel thread and needles, Yahrle, Odea Moss, Ormelin and an onion. Ylva always assumes that she will need every single item of medical importance. Thus carries more supplies than an entire group of Nehtor healers.


In a small wooden box, tucked away in Ylva’s satchel, lives the Drape-Silk spider, Hildegarde, named after the healer’s mother. The woman bought the creature from a dodgy street vendor at the harbor market in Strata. More a tool than a pet, Ylva feeds it rats and insects to keep it alive. In emergencies, Ylva will sometimes use its venom to numb wounds, and its webs as bandages. However the woman would never admit to any fondness for the creature.

The spider is slightly smaller than normal for its species, with a fuzzy light silver body, speckled with darker patches of grey. The arachnid does not possess any defining characteristics, except perhaps the patience to wait for prey, and a rather menacing look on its little fanged face.
« Last Edit: May 09, 2010, 04:09:37 AM by Kalína Mërénwèn » Logged
Eléyr Fásamár
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Elf ~ Kaýrrhem

« Reply #1 on: September 11, 2008, 08:51:11 PM »

Just thought I'd say while you are still working on this: "Magic and Weapon Skills are to be combined under no circumstances."

Both are skills that require one's full attention to develop. By learning even one spell, you gain the knowledge necessary to cast every other spell in that sphere. You might now actually be able to do those, but all Sphere I spells are the same fundamental technique, applied diferently. Therefore, by practicing a level 1 spell, you open up the possibility to cast all other level 1 spells, as they are using the same skill, and of equivalent difficulty. Learning that one spell, essentially the entire first level, would take her at least two years.

Secondly, Strengths and Weaknesses are compared to the average peasant. The average peasant has no magical skills, so lack of them, or in this case, only a dabbling of them, is not a weakness. Actually, even the minuscule amount of skill you have is a strength, not a weakness.

Based on the above two points, I would strongly recommend you cut the balance of your character down to weapons and mundane healing, or magic and mundane healing, as even level 1 magic requires frequent practice to perform, as does any weapon. Healing can be learned on the side, but delving into magic is considered an 'all or nothing' endeavor.

Eléyr Fásamár

P.S.~ I love your choice of tribe! Thumb up

Those who say only Insanity can bring true relaxation...
Have clearly never hired a Mindsmoother!

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Ylva Rasmussan
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« Reply #2 on: September 11, 2008, 09:13:35 PM »

Holy moly, sorry about that, that's a big mistake to make, I will change it straight away. Though I will now have to think of a new reason for leaving Lhindal.....I will have to change a few things but I agree with your point. I don't want her to be too powerful. It is just boring that way, thank you for pointing that out!
« Last Edit: September 11, 2008, 10:57:55 PM by Ylva Rasmussan » Logged
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« Reply #3 on: September 11, 2008, 11:08:48 PM »

Just a quick comment: While I see where you're coming from with the weakness 'Lack of Magical Ability' this isn't a weakness. Being unable to use magic isn't, and neither is not being able to treat magical wounds. Having any healing skill is a strength, as you listed it. You could mention this in your healing strength part. But, think about it, why would magically inflicted wounds be so different. If say someone was stabed by an icicle, it would be the same as a stab wound that was cold. Okay, bad example but you get the point. buck


Friendship is like peeing on yourself: everyone can see it, but only you get the warm feeling that it brings.
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Ylva Rasmussan
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« Reply #4 on: September 11, 2008, 11:49:22 PM »

Yep, understand your point, it was more of a limitation than a weakness. Have got rid of that weakness now. Thanks for help!

By the way, just wondering if anyone knew the names of the languages spoken in Nybelmar? I'm worried that the name Ylsa Rasmussan wouldn't fit the culture or language spoken by Free Murmillions. The name is actually scandinavian because Ehebion reminded me of where my friend lives in Norway. But worried that I've made a mistake.  Huh?
« Last Edit: September 11, 2008, 11:50:35 PM by Ylva Rasmussan » Logged
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« Reply #5 on: September 11, 2008, 11:54:58 PM »

Eleyr would probably be the one to ask, maybe Twen? But you don't actually have to have a name befitting of your tribe. Mannix doesn't sound very elven now does it. :P It is nice to have a fitting name, but not essential. If you want to keep your name, we're not going to try and make you change it.


Friendship is like peeing on yourself: everyone can see it, but only you get the warm feeling that it brings.
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Ylva Rasmussan
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Human, Murmillion.

« Reply #6 on: September 12, 2008, 03:43:11 AM »

Ok, thanks for advice. I think I'll keep the name then, I like it too much. azn Though did manage to find out that Murmillions apparently speak a kind of Elven influenced Tharian from here- http://www.santharia.com/dev/index.php/topic,3684.msg43519.html#msg43519.
Eléyr Fásamár
Serenity's Embodiment
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Elf ~ Kaýrrhem

« Reply #7 on: September 12, 2008, 05:42:17 AM »

Yeah, Murmillion Nomenclature isn't strictly decided yet, but as a general rule of thumb, it would be fine for them to wield undertones of the typical elven grace - they are half-elves, in essence, after all. However, from the names already on the site, they seem to incorporate this grace with its polar opposite, harshness. K's are much more common than C's for example, and they use h's right next to other consonants, to make it seem a little more rough. But, as Mannix said, we aren't too strict with names here, and Ylva seems kind of like a mixture of grace and roughness to me.

After reading the history over quickly, I absolutely love your integrations of the Murmillion Culture. You've clearly done your research well. :thumpup:

Her personality and appearance both fit the Murmillions - people think she looks and acts a little strange, and that's what the Murmillions are best at!

Just one teensy thing: You seem to have a spattering of fragment sentences through out the CD. If they don't have a subject noun in them, they aren't a complete sentence. I'll quote one for example, but a quick read through to catch these would really refine the writing. :)

Sometimes lacks humour and is unable to take herself abit too seriously. When is happy, is highly energetic and smiling.

Both of those lack a simple 'she' to complete them. But on that note, I'd like to mention that the writing does seem a wee bit she-heavy. Try and think of good words to describe her like 'the maiden', 'the Murmillion', or 'the healer.' These things do a wonder to accentuate already wonderful prose.

I see nothing wrong with the Murmillion integration conceptually, everything seems great in that regard. Just fixing up those fragment sentences, and trying to subsitute the pronouns in a couple places would really bump this up even another level. Your talents as a writer cannot be denied, you did a great job, and caught on to the S&W's things quickly, it seems. Fix up those two little fluidity nitpicks, and this should definitely be ready for an approval from me. Big Grin

Eléyr Fásamár

Those who say only Insanity can bring true relaxation...
Have clearly never hired a Mindsmoother!

Eléyr's CD ~¤•¤~ Character Creation ~¤•¤~ Restrictions ~¤•¤~ CD Etiquette
Ylva Rasmussan
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Human, Murmillion.

« Reply #8 on: September 12, 2008, 11:19:25 AM »

Ok, have finished rewrite, trying to use less pronouns and fuller sentences like advised. Hope it is better!
« Last Edit: September 13, 2008, 03:19:10 AM by Ylva Rasmussan » Logged
Eléyr Fásamár
Serenity's Embodiment
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Elf ~ Kaýrrhem

« Reply #9 on: September 12, 2008, 08:39:34 PM »

Read through it again, and everything looks all fixed up. However, in between now and titlement, there's one giant paragraph in the history that you might want to break into two. ;)

~First Approval~

Those who say only Insanity can bring true relaxation...
Have clearly never hired a Mindsmoother!

Eléyr's CD ~¤•¤~ Character Creation ~¤•¤~ Restrictions ~¤•¤~ CD Etiquette
Azhira Styralias
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Half-elf, Aellenrhim/ Erpheronian

« Reply #10 on: September 16, 2008, 03:52:15 AM »

Not many Murmillions running around here...it nice to see a new face! And, a non-elf to boot!

Nod Second Approval! Nod

"Be still and I shall calm your mind and mend your broken body."
Twén Aråerwén
Death's Mistress
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Elf, Ifer’hém

« Reply #11 on: September 16, 2008, 03:22:42 PM »

~Titled and Archived~

•º•The spell fell upon the crowd like a dragon, •º•
•º•ancient and full of death.•º•
_.·´¯) Twén Aråerwén's CD(¯`·._
Altario Shialt-eck-Gorrin
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Human, Remusian

« Reply #12 on: March 27, 2009, 01:35:52 AM »

Brought up as requested. :D

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"Ack!" - Bill the Cat
"I did not have sex with that woman, Monica Lewinski." - President Bill Clinton

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Ylva Rasmussan
Oddball Healer
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Human, Murmillion.

« Reply #13 on: July 09, 2009, 10:26:05 AM »

*Bump* Ok finished changes! :D Thank you for dragging it out the archives!
« Last Edit: July 09, 2009, 10:26:58 AM by Ylva Rasmussan » Logged
Deklitch Hardin
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Human, Erpheronian

« Reply #14 on: July 09, 2009, 10:39:48 AM »

Hope you don't mind me sticking my head in here, but I noticed a stray [/b] after your Personality heading



Thought you'd want to know that

Seeking the truth, whatever the cost! - Deklitch Hardin, Elf Friend
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