Sybea the Hand of the Unseen, Spymistress of Blackclaw

Immortal Comments

Role

Chapter 1

Despite the youth that forms her ideals, Sybea kept in restraint when it came
to magic of any nature for a number of years. However, the lure of power and
easy access became too much for the child to resist. Starting with the
obvious perks of a spell of return, and that of flight, she fell into
traveling with few mages here and there when no others could be found and
advancement was of importance.

This, however, grew into more easily accepted magic and the travels of mages
at her side out of convenience and power. Also, this is how she met Istalin.
He was just a child at the time, at least half her age as far as humans go.
Everything he stood for was the opposite of everything she'd come to know. A
Seeker of the Balance, as well as a mage himself, his kindness was unabashed
and un apologized for in a manner that Sybea had never encountered.

Years passed slowly in turmoil of her creeping desire to find the reasons for
Istalin's calling. Then, easily as a breath comes, so did the attraction that
started showing itself when this man traveled at her side. His father slain
when the human was at a early age, his story seems an anchored opposite to
her own, though the only common grounds were guild and sadness.

Then, nearly a decade later, after uneasy friendship and unbound travels,
Sybea's heart grew only more sick with her obvious attraction and how all her
lessons threw her on the straight other way. However, a heart can only be
denied for so long before the pull makes a person question why they resist so
completely, and it took three decades for her heart to settle with magic
instead of against it.

Befriending both the Nexus and the Village, her softly spoken allegiances
balanced against the relationship and stolen moments with the
now-less-youthful magus.

At this point, nearly forty years after their first meeting, Istalin proposed
marriage and was gladly accepted into the arms of the half-drow that once
pledged to be non abiding when it came to the use of such tricks. Days later,
the two were joined at the Temple of the Elder Gods, Yrillbink gave their
hands to each other with Rezmar, Slaid, and Noctyrne looking over the
ceremony.

Thus ends the next thoughts of the story of Sybea Osoluim to live for the
world of Thera and the pace that keeps such stories from being written. God's
bless this tale, though desire grants that it will not be added to for many,
many years to come.

Role

Chapter 2

Upon awakening for the seventh time within a month, Sybea was feeling
stronger and a little more steady than she had since her first days fleeing
from her home.

The weeks that followed yielded getting to know her savior, as it were, the
man who she'd not seen well enough to form impression before the one day that
he returned.

"Halfling, you're awake!" he nearly exclaimed as he came through the door,
and as she turned around to face him from her position of rest on her mat,
her stomach heaved.

Taller than most she'd met, his skin was dark as coal. It was if his
bloodline touched hers so deeply that her throat burned with need for air
away from him, but she couldn't pull herself to move.

"You're-you're drow-kind..." As soon as she said it, she realized how foolish
the remark sounded falling from her gasping lips, and more so as he raised a
slender, ebony brow.

"I am?" he chuckled, looking down at his clothing, brushing his hands against
his vest, "I hadn't noticed. Thank you."

And from this, her thoughts of her Paternal heritage sank from her veins onto
the floor of the small cottage, clearing her mind for the first time in
years. When he didn't seem offended, her own racist nature creeped to the
back of her mind like a scolded child, sinking nearly to the pit of her
stomach.

"I-... I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that..." the words caught in her
throat again, from lack of water or confusion she couldn't have known.

"I, my dear halfling, saved your life. Now, you're free to stay or go."

A year later, when she'd quite decided to stay, her whole perception was
flipped and twist from her childhood. While not a member of the Village of
Battle, Zedoc had hard consequences when it came to those of magical
persuasion. Not only were they not to be trusted or befriended, they were not
even strong enough to be the tools of such people as himself.

However, she also learned the follies of those that sought out huts in the
muddy fields near the anti-magical alters. Their parity had blinded them so
much that they allowed these magi to escape into the furthest reaches of
Thera, where they could practice and become stronger. Why allow a foe to
escape, magi or not, if with more arms they would be incapable?

Sybea, however, found magic quite interesting. Why shy from magic when it was
available to all?

To this day, despite the pull of her mentor - long dead from influenza -
Sybea desires to have taken upon the training of a magus herself... though
would never admit it, for if she were such a creature, Zedoc would have never
saved her life or given up years of his providing for her. So now, in the
middle years of her life, Sybea toys with magic as a tool alone, or an
escape.

Upon his death bed, Zedoc granted Sybea with one ode that would stick with
her past her own grave, and give her strength to release her bitterness for
her own curiosity.

Magic works upon magic, he told her, and once those magi that produce magical
devices and potions are quite gone and dead from the lands of Thera, so too
will their creations. Utilizing their own toys to pull them into extinction
is something to be taken very heavily and weighed upon the mind. However,
they were quick to agree upon, without the sights of magic

Role

Chapter 3

Waking on a bed of soft linens and silks is something that most would
enjoy... unless then bed was somewhere unfamiliar and dark. However, the
strength had not returned to Sybea's limbs quite fast enough to make any
display of fear. Even with eyes open, little could be seen of the room except
for the poor shape of the rafters, the straw stuffed into gaps in the roof,
and the sour smell of animals close by. Her chest clutched and caught as she
tried to pull in a deep breath, the smell enough to make her vomit if only
she'd had anything in her stomach to lose.

The only energy she could muster was to release a groan of displeasure into
the still air of the room, and so little energy was to be had that the sound
barely reached her own ears. However, it was clear with the shifting of
fabrics and straw that there was another who had heard it, despite the
whispered cry.

"Ah, finally awake, Sybea," the man's voice was as smooth as it was when he'd
given her water, and there was no mistaking the timber. "I was thinking that
once your color came back that you would wake, but a few nights here and
we've had quite a scare, haven't we?"

She could barely discern the outline of his hand as it touched her forehead,
and she could do little to resist aside from turn her face away. "You're
familiar to me?" she managed out in a whisper, but the fever had cracked her
lips so badly that she tasted blood. The next taste was a wet cloth, and he'd
not answered. Repeating herself, she ignored the pain in her throat and under
her tongue as the fresh water drown her words and made her chest jump with
coughing.

"Hush, halfling, hush. You spoke your name in your sleep, but I shall forget
it if you'd like, but as I saved your bloody life, I suggest you just hush,
as I said, and drink. You've a long way to go before you can walk out of
here, so there's no reason to fight it."

"Your name...." Her lips parted again before the cold water flushed down into
her throat, washing away the taste in her mouth that was making her so dizzy.


"Zedoc, my child. That's what you can call me. Now rest."

Role

Chapter 4

Traveling alone has it's benefits and weaknesses, as the child was soon to
learn. A single mouth to feed brings the lighter side of homelessness, having
to steal only bits of sustenance to keep the muscles tight and legs steady.
However, stealing without proper training managed to show the darker side of
a life on the streets in a proper fashion quite early in her travels.

Shying away from the very large cities like Galadon and Dagdan means that in
order to keep hidden, the thief has to stay themselves with a little greed as
possible. But, for a child used to a plate of pickings four times daily, this
oath is nearly impossible.

Within the first year of poverty, Sybea had already fallen thin and
discouraged with what she was able to take for herself in food and dressings.
The older merchants were easier to convince, only having to stand at the side
of their shops and carts with a pout, so that they would give their scraps to
the child. Some would offer cots and baths, though she was never trusting
enough to except, and easily captured sickness and disease from sleeping in
the city streets.

One night, months after leaving her mother, while curled up, coughing into
her sleeve, Sybea felt a hand against her shoulder. Now, despite the
sickness, her reflexes were caught in a moment of fear, bringing a dagger
from her belt to the open air above her in a futile and rabid stroke to
protect herself, but it struck air at the same moment as a sharp hand struck
her wrist. The knife toppled to the dirt without nearly a sound except for
the soft snicker of the hand that now held her tightly.

"If only you weren't too weak to hold it, halfling," the voice rang as loud
as the fear that drummed in her ears. The conjunctivitis that threatened her
eyes and nose, however, made it impossible to discern anything about the
lofty voice aside from the smooth, male tone that fell towards her prone
form.

Feeling something wet against her lips, she had no choice but to give in as
she felt the clean water running over her tongue as the touch of wood settled
against her infected bottom lip. "Don't tell me I have to swallow for you, as
well," the voice chimed, dangerously close to her ear.

But now, the fright and sickness caught up to her body, making her fell
heavier and sinking as she lost consciousness with the understanding that she
might not wake. Kindness came with a price, and not even water was free. The
burning in her throat even as the water penetrated made her wish that if she
did awake, it would be only briefly.

Role

Chapter 5

Sybea was born of poor circumstance. Fathered by evil into the hands of
goodness, she was scorned, beaten, and misunderstood though all of her
childhood, as well as her early adulthood. The stain of Elven blood that ran
through her, with little explaination, seemed to be her greatest fault and
merit at once. Raised for the early part of her life in Tir-Talath, Sybea's
mother was a minstral, and quite a beautiful woman. However, only the stories
of such remained with Sybea, and the only things she saw of her mother was
sickness, weakness, and a longing for death.

Her mother took to her as a child, but only as a child placed in unwanted
hands. Her mother's constant suiters would casually insult, beat, and rape
the child even to her crest of adult-hood. The house was always full of
people, and as such, she would hide away in the cellar, praying that none
would come to look for new wines. Curled up on a blanket in the damp
coolness, she'd dream of the stories of Hamsah Seaport, the hills of the
Tahril Mountains, and so many other, far away places that her mother would
sing.

Once, during such a party, a man did wander down into the basement cellar,
drunk on ale and dressed in a tunic of faith. One glance at the small child
huddled into the corner brought a growl to his lips. Assuming he would think
that she was a squatter, she flowed excuses to him to explain that she was
the daughter of the mother of the house. However, with such purity and
devotion to faith that her mother showed the city so openly, he was hardly
content with her words. Over the next minutes, hours or days - for Sybea's
mind was wraught with pain too much to make an example of time - he defiled
her repeatedly, marking her forever as an outcast from the nobility of her
family, though her skin and ears did that well enough on their own.

First, his fists struck the small child, followed by a knee to the chest.
Hardly moving, she could not resist from exhaustion as he continued. "No man
that fears those touches of evil shall ever wed you. You will not survive
that long." With this, the finger of marriage from her left hand was removed
with a sharp blade, wrapped in linen and left to bleed on it's own. "No
circle of affection will touch those tainted hands, for you, just as your
father, don't even know what the words faith or faithfulness mean. I will not
see this woman hurt by her own flesh of the devil."

In what Sybea assumed to be the next morning, she awoke with a fire in her
whole body, screaming out in pain from fever. Her mother's hand was on her
forehead holding down a wet cloth to the child's head. It hurt too much to
open her eyes, but she knew that she was dying, or maybe passing at that very
second.

"Ill begotten," her mother's voice reached her, as well as a hand stroking
her hair, while the voice continued in a sing-song way, "So much like your
father, my lovely reminder of darker times here and my youth. You will never
leave me. Never. I could not bare it, even with such horror as seeing your
stained skin brings me. I'm not strong enough, dark one. Not strong enough. I
wasn't then, and I am more weak with age and regret than I was even in darker
times."

And though it took days, or weeks for the child to find the strength to sit,
stand, and walk, she did

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