Trill had hacked away her Thexian braids that bound her hair high, in Teir’dal columns of hate
It had been some time since Trill had performed. Unsure as to whether she would continue with her pursuit of fame and fortune, uncertain about what lies at her center anymore, she’d often phase in and out of sentience quoffing more vile ale than she could tolerate.
The road ahead had become fragmented, its dusty track bogged down with indecision.
The fire that once lit the way had all but burned out.
In an attempt to reshape her identity, Trill had hacked away her Thexian braids that bound her hair high, in Teir’dal columns of hate.
The time for hatred has passed.
Diluted through contact with others, a myriad of races and cultures and a diffusion of their reasoning and reckoning had supplanted her own.
The worst of it was, Trill now cared, very deeply about others.
Others that weren’t fixated on the gospel of anger.
Sipping more ale seemed to nullify the confusion, and make it clear to her that a change was underway. A change she must now embrace, a change she must commit to. A new age, a new family, a new name. And the mead will keep her sane.
Stepping into the sunlight, softening her features, Trill became Lull.