Zorellaia Morizzilieh the Scarred Disciple of Loss, Harvester of Dreams

Title History

Role

Chapter 3

There was a mouthy elf in the tree, so I shut him up.
I kept pursuing him since he kept spouting threats and was generally
annoying, sacrificing my shields and weapons. Apparently, for some
arbitrary silent reason, wardens cannot be hunted within the Tree.

This rule makes as much sense as the rules of the cities and equally repulsing.
It would be different if the tree was in danger or at least in potential
danger, of course, but this was not the time.
It would be different if the bark or anything else warned of the potential
expulsion upon the hunt taking you to the tree, but no such justification exists.

The elf can knock out my shields and weapons and sacrifice them within,
but cannot be attacked. He can deliberately use Hamsah guards to try to
take advantage of my Wanted status, but I am the one who got expelled.
Of course, nothing better can be expected from a mouthy daisy sniffer,
but Ergush definitely made an unjustified mistake and thus I won't accept to
be back unless an admission of guilt and an apology is made.
From what I've seen of the angry cat, this is highly unlikely, so I might
be inclined to seek a more agreeable set of circumstances, without onerous
arbitrary rules made on the spot to serve the whims of the pansies.

Role

Chapter 2

As Zorellaia traveled the lands, learning new prayers and fighting others a lot,
she found that the hatred of the cities grows within her. The hatred for paladins
and other protectors of the meek especially, leading to many hunts and many scuffles.

She made a decision to join the tree as a reaver to better position herself
against those she hated. All the while the anger and the foul language she
grew accustomed to while growing up, even when not remembering exactly how
she picked all the foul words and mannerisms, just came natural and felt right.

The friggin harbinger was somehow impressed enough to let Zorellaia in on the
first talk and now she is just missing the blessings from Rahsael, who she
figured could perhaps help her deal with the loss of the memory. Who else would
best know how to deal with the lost and the broken than the god of Loss?

Except that all Zorellaia got for that was a friggin broken doll teasing her.
That doll gets a nice friggin eye jabbing next time, long overdue it seems.

Role

Chapter 1

Parents. Friggin parents. Zorellaia must've had them, of course.
But absolutely no memory of them was anywhere in evidence. Just a simple void
where that knowledge should exist or where it has existed. They must have been
pure-blooded, of course, since her complexion, build, skin color and general
outlook on life was rather friggin clear. Except the memory that was hazy.
She had to invent an appropriate last name to go by, no one the wiser.

Of course she remembers joining the guild, that old friggin wrinkle of
irksomness making a fuss about her excellent ability at quiet prayer and
contemplation. At the moment, she just imagined herself back THERE, unable to
move, unable to speak, unable to breathe, throat cut, just friggin laying THERE
on the streets of Seantryn. That still glazed Zorellaia's eyes all over.
She strove to remember the details, but it was all hazy. Except it was clear
that THE boy was there. Friggin looking down at her as the blood ran out.

What was friggin unforgettable is that THE boy, that hateful teen, was dragged
down from that husk of a delightfully burned-down house. House that was also
friggin THERE, in Seantryn. Why, where or when, it was still hazy. The flames
were masterful, of course. The way the spread up and down the friggin city was
rather a delightful feeling. All the cities should burn for all Zorellaia
cared, nothing good ever came out of them, like a friggin knife at her throat
being a prime example.

Of course she despises those who aren't self-reliant and those who protect the
weak. The friggin weak should be culled, and the guards cut down for, say,
letting them down, or something. If you trust someone with your life, you
friggin deserve to die and if they take responsibility for it, so should they.
That much is friggin clear. If you think the cities and the guards and
civilization and proprieties will save your hide, you deserve to be beaten,
enslaved and eaten by orcs, not necessarily in that order.

Hazy, all the friggin time hazy. Was the throat cut yesterday? She checks
the scar. No, seems to be long-healed. Where's the friggin lotion? It itches.
When did she see THE boy and the flames? Last year? Ten days ago? No, she must
live in the present. What is friggin present? Once we get past the lost
memories? To learn to protect herself. In friggin quiet contemplation while
others endure suffering. The subjects might be a touch unwilling, but that
is not an obstacle. Those who are worthless need to be shown their place,
or lack thereof.

One more thing is clear. THE friggin boy must suffer. Suffer and die.
Or die and then suffer, that bit is a tad hazy.

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