Zemryn: Out of Bondage
Zemryn’s eyes could be as hard and frigid as the cursed stones she was forced to pry from the dark places of the Rhyot Break. Down a twisting hole where she could only fit by scraping her shoulders bloody, those two glittering eyes could be seen glancing back at the slave on the other end of the frozen chain that kept them all forever bound to their fate. There was anger in those eyes, and torment, but always those things were kept simmering below a layer of serenity. The serenity was often forced, and so came across more as sadness, but there were also moments when it was sincere.
It was in those moments that she sometimes sang. Her voice would drift out of a crevasse, or echo down a long tunnel, or rise slowly out of the frost and mist of her crude hut. She sang in ancient Elvish, in a secret and guarded dialect of the distant and dreamlike kingdom of the Valenari, a land far across the wide sea. Most often she sang of Atemi. They were songs of primoridal strength, of forgotten wars from eons past, and of undying dedication to the Bright Lady.
Lift me up, on wings of faith,
So I can see,
Above the weeping land,
Where heroines’ bones, moldering and white,
Lay like secret shrines,
To Atemi. To the Bright Lady.
No Korrud in the mines knew this language, and so while they could beat her for insolence, which they did with cruel relish, they could not understand the depth of her words and how they helped her survive. She sometimes sang a song of her own creation, of the final battle at the Shrine of Atemi. Her sweet, haunting voice belied the absolute dread of the words.
I remember the day the sun went down, blood-red and moaning,
Behind the Sacred Shrine.
Atemi’s Hand struck down the devils like ripe wheat before the scythe,
In the twilight, their blood was black.
The Korrud paid dearly for that trespass!
Now only I remember, only I and Atemi,
How their limp bodies fell like flitting snow into the crevasse,
Filling it.
Filling it.
Atemi’s Hand struck them down, gore-flecked and singing,
Singing with their last breath,
To Atemi. To the Bright Lady.
Zemryn was neither tall nor heavily built. Of Elven kind, she stood at just under five and a half feet and possessed an athletic figure that was lean and strong from labor. She was fair of skin when clean, and pretty in those rare moments that she allowed it to show through the grime and the muck. Most often she did not, for beauty was no boon in the pits. Her hair was light, kept at shoulder length, and often hastily secured upon her head so that several strands fell across her face, concealing her emotions and expressions. Distinctive ears, pointed and long, marked her as a Valenari, but her frosty eyes were unique to her alone and secretly told of her dedication to Atemi. She was aware of this, and often drew dark circles around them with coal dust to highlight their pale glow.
Quiet but fair, violent when threatened, kind when respected, Zemryn was also a healer to those in need that she felt were worthy of relief. She worked her ministrations in secret, as best as she was able, mending cuts and bruises, tears and breaks, with practical methods first and then more mystical methods second, so as to hide their effect. The prayer she uttered before easing others pain was for her alone to hear. Still, she was no peace-monger, and had left many a wicked fellow slave bleeding and half-dead when they crossed her line. She was no slave whore either, trading favors out of desperation, and her body was a temple that would only be abused to a point. This, combined with her dirtiness, tact at hiding her features, and perhaps divine favor, had allowed her relief from that foulest fate of slavery.
If asked of her past, Zemryn would only say that she had been in the Break for six years. She also seemed to suffer stomach ailments, beyond the daily sufferings of mining and captor abuse. She would often double over suddenly while working or in her sleep, clutching at her midsection, but she managed the pain in silence. Sometimes, she would even smile a dark smile as her fingers clawed and grasped at whatever was hurting her from the inside.
The most common thing she said to others was this:
“I have suffered, as we all have suffered, but I have hope, as we must all have hope.”
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Zemryn was dreaming of her last moments at the Shrine of Atemi. She was gripping the hand of Alyne, her closest in age and her dearest friend. Alyne! Her dark hair and bronze eyes, her wondrous smile, were a well of remembrance! The two of them, along with the others that were too young to fight, were listening to the battle that raged beyond the great iron doors. They swayed and sang, their voices mingling with the cries of death just beyond the threshold…
Alyne! She was torn away from Zemryn’s grasp at last…her outstretched hand severed at the wrist by an axe…the tiny drops of dark blood falling across the floor…and then her head…tumbling down, down, down, her golden eyes flashing one last time before closing. Atemi! Welcome her!
The dream shifted and then exploded with sorrow, ending as Zemryn was awoken by someone rattling her shackles. Another day of pain, of perseverance. She would not give up, not while she had a breath to give.
But what was this? Her shackles had fallen free? A woman…amber eyes that seemed to drift from one slave to another. Follow her?
Freedom?
Zemryn did not hesitate beyond a moment. She gave a muffled but still furious yelp of triumph. Freedom! Rolling to her feet, her chest rising and falling with joyous exertion beneath the matted fur of her tunic, she helped a fellow to their feet whether they wanted it or not. Her voice was hushed but brimming over with excitement. She was mostly talking to herself.
“Wondrous mysteries! Let us fly from here! If I die in the wastes, I will die free!”
She would have liked to have burned the crude hut to the ground, to watch it sputter and turn to ash! But there was no time. Another day…when Atemi willed it.
For now, she would follow their benefactor! If any needed help to walk, Zemryn would spare no energy or strength in aiding them.