Lamneve gave her family name to Kedaleam the day she joined the Temple of
Water.
Not that she'd wished to keep it. Not after the scandal that rocked the
usually sleepy village of Storm Hill, its chief magistrate--Lamneve's
mother--disgraced, caught cheating on her mate--and with a jotun! Such
interspecies mingling occurred rarely among the storm giants, or so
Lamneve's tutors told her. This was years ago, after all: after Lamneve's
mother took her own life and after her father fled his reputation to parts
unknown, leaving a large baby that glittered like ice on the steps of the
temple.
Her childhood passed this way, the other orphans in the temple's care
mocking Lamneve for her strangeness. Her otherness. The giants did not
like how her skin refracted the light; the humans did not like how she
loomed so silently, mistaking her quietude for ignorance; not even the
half-elves, with their own identity issues with which to contend, welcomed
her to sit with them at First Bell.
But she was smart, as far as giants go, perhaps owing to her mingled
heritage. She worked diligently at prayers and chores alike, earning at
last the affection of the constant priestesses who ran the temple. At the
onset of puberty, Lamneve surprised them all, displaying a keen affinity for
Kedaleam's chosen element of water and curative spellcraft alike.
So it was that Lamneve wrote her name in the temple's book. She eschewed
the bonds of her past (as if she had any) and pledged herself to a life of
service, heart and soul. The priestesses even planned to send her to
Seringale to train with the famed healer Korvoduin and nurture her nascent
talent.
Perhaps finally, she thought to herself as she packed for the long
journey--storing herbs, tinctures, and ointments in her healer's pouch;
writing a long note in a cramped script to the temple's High Priestess,
thanking her for her kindness; dousing the hearth in her austere bedchamber
for the last time--perhaps finally she would atone for the sin of her birth.
Perhaps finally she would come home.
Description (commended):
The giantess looms over her surroundings, a paragon of the species
standing taller than some trees. So too are her arms nearly trunks, though
the comparison should end there, for the rest of her conjures thoughts of a
massive statue, one riven from ice, perhaps illuminated and set upon a
pedestal. Her alabaster skin glitters in the light, a diamond coruscating,
and because of this some might mistake her for a jotun. She keeps her hair,
coarse and shock white, bound atop her head in a severe bun. The quirk of
her mouth betrays frosty cobalt eyes with a gaze more discerning than most
of her racial contemporaries. The giantess conveys an affinity for water in
her every movement, far too graceful for a creature of her bulk. Despite
this, she nearly glides through any space she occupies, rivaling even the
elves for poise. Her garb is the most unremarkable aspect of her
appearance, for she clothes herself in the simple robes of an ascetic.
Weep for this seedling
That never should have been
A horticultural hybrid
Who never fit in
Cry not for the seed, and innocence lost
Mourn not for the flower, its beauty unseen
Yearn not for the scents, of blossoms to be
Remember the seedling, for that was she
Reflect on potential, its nascent spark
Consider the roots, straining their bin
Ponder your feelings, and who nurtured whom
As you saw that seedling, rooted in sin
Fret not for the steward, or his outraged heart
Fret not for the gardener, his guilt over his part
Fret not for the farmer, and his poisoned soil
For the living, continue on in their toils
[reply to Ashlyn]
That never should have been
A horticultural hybrid
Who never fit in
Cry not for the seed, and innocence lost
Mourn not for the flower, its beauty unseen
Yearn not for the scents, of blossoms to be
Remember the seedling, for that was she
Reflect on potential, its nascent spark
Consider the roots, straining their bin
Ponder your feelings, and who nurtured whom
As you saw that seedling, rooted in sin
Fret not for the steward, or his outraged heart
Fret not for the gardener, his guilt over his part
Fret not for the farmer, and his poisoned soil
For the living, continue on in their toils
See the seedling
As it was
And grieve
Trillian 1 , 0 , 0 . Better late than never! you can't rush a heavy heart. Or inspiration... Lamneve 1 , 0 , 0 . You can’t hurry love or a garden, Trillian. Forgiveness is like that too.
[reply to Trillian]Davairus 1 , 0 , 0 . well you probably just played too many drow ninjas.
[reply to Ozaru]