The Shadows of Umbra RPG

[Brinniel]

Raye turned her head at Dimithil and stared at him. Was he actually trying to be nice to her? It was hard to believe, but the elf no longer looked at her with anger. Instead, he looked at her with curiosity and interest. Raye smiled at this. Obviously, she was not the only one who had changed of opinion.
Still, she hesitated before answering Dimithil’s question. The only other who knew why Raye had become a murderess was Berethion. And now he was dead.
In the end, Raye decided to tell Dimithil because for one, she had already told one secret of her past and to her it didn’t really matter if he heard another. And two, talking to Dimithil would help Raye take her mind off the pain, which now seared throughout her entire body.
She turned her head to Dia who was walking several feet ahead. If the wolf had anything to say, she didn’t say it. Raye turned back to Dimithil and nodded.
“Alright,” she said. “I will tell you why I am who I am as I believe you deserve to know.”
Dimithil nodded back at the woman, his eyes intent on her.

“As I told you before, the wolves were not the ones responsible for making me a murderess,” she began. “It was the people. I was young and homeless, and where I wandered were not friendly places. Where I wandered, no children and few women dwelled. The men were drunk and stupid. And they were never kind to some girl like me. I knew a little about hunting, but not nearly enough to survive. So I had to spend much of my time in small settlements where I learned to rely on stealing. At first, I hated to steal, but I quickly I learned that it was my only way to survive and I did it regularly. I became quite good at it and was not once caught…well, except for when I tried to steal Arrelle’s horse, but that’s a different story.
“The point is that I was hurt in my past. I was the only little girl these drunken fools ever saw and because I was different than anyone else, they took out all their drunken rage on me. These men would spit on me, curse at me; even physically attack me. I have the scars to prove it. It was because of me that there were less bar fights and less men killed. They picked on me because they knew I was too small and weak to fight back. Or so they thought.
“I was thirteen or so when I killed my first victim. The man was drunk; he had a few too many pints, and he wandered the roads aimlessly, looking for some ‘fun’ to do. That was when he found me, hidden off to the side of the road. I saw him come, and though I prayed he would not see me, I knew he already had. I expected him to come and say something vulgar, but instead the fool pulled a knife. Men had hit me several times before, sometimes even knocking me unconscious, but never before had one attempted to pull a knife. I knew that he was going to try to kill me and I knew I would have to fight back this time. It’s hard to say what happened next. One moment the man was walking towards me, the knife in his hand, the next moment he was dead with the knife jammed in his throat. I had killed the man and I realized that I was not as helpless as I had thought.
“I taught myself self defense and improved my fighting skills. Any man who would try to hurt me was a dead man. They quickly learned that I wasn’t so helpless and I was best off to be left alone. But I did not stop killing. By then I feared people and anyone who would approach me, whether it was to hurt me or not, I killed. It didn’t matter whether it was male or female, human or elf; I struck them down. Soon many learned to avoid me, and I was free to be left alone. But my hunger to avenge my past only grew.
“I began to find my own victims to murder and did it only for my own pleasure. Killing another boosted my self-esteem and told me that I was not completely helpless. I guess you could say that it became an addiction. Murder was something I did so regularly, I probably did it in my sleep. I hardly even looked at my victims. I did not care about their life; I only cared for their death."

“To tell the truth, I still do not care for my victims’ lives,” Raye finished.
“You don’t?” Dimithil repeated.
Raye gave a rueful smile. “I know it may sound strange,” she said. “But how can I feel sorry for my victims? Death is not so bad when you think about it and I made sure not to let my victims suffer. I’m not that cruel, you know. What ails me now is something I did not realize until after Berethion died. For every victim I killed, a loved one of that victim suffers. For every victim I killed, ten more suffer. For my own pleasure, I caused grief. And now that I myself have experienced this grief, I feel terrible. I killed who knows how many and never once realized what I was really doing. I hate myself for what I have done. And what I hate even more is the fact I can’t change it.”
“Don’t hate yourself, Corrowyn,” the elf told Raye. “What you did was wrong, but you’re right; you can’t erase your past. You must learn to forgive yourself. You have been given a second chance to life. Use it wisely.”
Raye shook her head. “I don’t know how, Dimithil. I don’t know how to live like you do. I don’t want to kill again. Honest. But I fear a repetition of my past. I don’t think I could bear that to happen.”
“Your past won’t be repeated,” Dimithil said. “Not if you don’t let it. Defend yourself if you must, but do not kill another needlessly.” The elf smiled. “And Corrowyn, I know you are not helpless. You proved that a long time ago.”
Raye smiled back at him and their eyes met.
“You keep calling me Corrowyn,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Do you still want me to call you Raye?” Dimithil responded rather bitterly.
Raye ignored his question. “You told me that my name, Raye, was nothing but a name I gave to my victims,” she continued. “But the name has stuck with me all these years. Should I really drop it? Do I really deserve a name like Corrowyn?”
“I think that if there is any name you don’t deserve, it’s Raye.” Dimithil shrugged his shoulders. “But that’s just my opinion. You may call yourself by whatever name you like.”
Raye closed her eyes to think on this, no longer watching where she stepped.
“Corrowyn,” she whispered to herself, almost smiling.
It was that moment when Corrowyn tripped over herself and stumbled. Dimithil managed to catch her just before she hit the ground. Corrowyn groaned in pain, her eyes still shut. She didn’t bother to remove herself from the elf’s arms. She no longer had the strength to.
“I’m not sure I can go on,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
“Well, you needn’t worry about that,” Dia responded somewhere behind the woman. “We’re already here.”
Corrowyn opened her eyes to find herself back at the entrance of the caves, and the foul stench returned to her.
At the same moment, Tallin, Belle, Hwesta, Arrelle, and Jet approached them.