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06 Oct 2018

Who is Trill?


Who is Trill?

As the darkness drew in, the young Trill would cosy round her family’s fireplace and practice her vocals. A voice so sweet you would be drawn to it like a hand to a glove. Her simple scales would become freeform operettas with childlike improvisations that could seriously bring on nostalgia in even the most hardened of elves. Cushioned comfort and calming songs wouldn’t last the evening, for tonight would be different. Trill was interrupted by a clatter so loud it made her jump, and skip several notes, skewing her final scale off tune and into a spiral towards breathless nothing. Cold wind shot through the room like the slipstream from a panicked Qeynosian horse. Several men stumbled into the house, all barking out commands to one another and to Trill’s mother. They carried something. Their blood spattered decorative armour glinting a cherry red hue, traipsing blood spot footprints around the house. Footprints of soldiers forced to march to their deaths.

Trill was seven years old at the time, and she was cherubic in her appearance, such a blue porcelain princess that you would guard like honey from a bear. Her majestic face squinted in the Freeportian Twilight to catch a glimpse of the prey these warriors carry in. Her search for a clue was short when her ears popped with pain as a guttural scream flew from her mothers throat, the scream was a solid one, with little in the way of words attached, yet it seem chant incessantly for hours in Trills timid mind. The Terror masked by tears in her mothers face, made Trill instantly yelp like a scolded pup, she knew it was bad.

The soldiers of death, unfurled a soaked set of rags from a body on the floor. Trills mother collapsed, an angry bubbling heap. Trill crawled over to the body and the soldiers parted to let her in. They bowed their heads low as they curled into the darkness behind her. Through glassy eyes, she spied a face so familiar she wanted to kiss it. However, this face was but a mask, a twisted and contorted death mask, from the man she knew as her father. Before anymore could be rationalised Trill collapsed, in a heap, on her fathers dead form. She awoke seconds later, hugging him, as if to squeeze the air back in his lungs, to force the life back into his face, to hear him laugh and comfort her for just one more time.

Orc Widow, they would whisper silently like the
blade of a thief as it turns in the back.

He had been on a hunting trip, a simple routine gathering expedition. Orcs had ambushed them, a whole tribe of them, they seemed driven by bloodlust of some sort. Her father had fought to the best of his ability, but with so many Orcs, they were overwhelmed quickly, such a tragedy to be slain by Orcish filth and their swarming mentality. Amongst the Teir’Dal residing in Freeport at the time, such a loss to such lowly adversaries was a very dishonourable way to go. So much so that Trill and her mother were branded as outcasts. ’Orc Widow’, they would whisper silently like the blade of a thief as it turns in the back.

Trill could not understand the victimisation she received from the rest of her Teir’Dal friends. She withdrew from what was left of her society, and she found solace in her mothers embrace. Trill’s mother, however, was beyond grief, she had climbed that mountain and had planted her flag of anger high. It often flapped in the gentle breeze and whipped people who came to close. Inside her mountain a lava filled hatred swelled. Such that when it surfaced it would stick to those nearby. And Trill was very close by. Since her mother was a slender lady with not much in the way of physical brawn, her mind was supple enough to use her only gift, her voice as a tool of torture. Trills mother used to make ends meet by singing at tavern functions and private occasions, whilst in secret insecurity, she would coach Trill night and day, to sharpen her daughters voice beyond the musical tones. Trill clung to this attention like it would save her from the darkness of despair, when in truth her mother was crafting Trill into a weapon built from the hate and the anger of her loss.

But as Trill hardened, many lesser races would
succumb to the suffocating siren song she could command

The sweet voice from the past, echoes now and then, as it is focussed like a magnifying glass upon the back of some lowly creature, until it burns so hot and so deep the creature screams its last breath and Trill absorbs its tonal death rattle into her voice, supplementing her own tones, to unleash upon the next victim. For Trill there was no education to speak of, only vocalising pain and death to her mothers heartbeat. But Trill needed nothing more, than the love and acceptance of her Mother, and the more she trained, the more her mother coveted her like a prize trinket. All too soon, for her mother, the training was at an end, and Trill was sent out to kill. If there was profit in the kill, then sing till its dead. One way or another Trills mother would buy back the respect of the Teir’Dal.

Orcs would die. They were always first on the list. But as Trill hardened, many lesser races would succumb to the suffocating siren song she could command. Blessed as Teir’Dal, Trill would broadcast her inbred hatred for the vermin that frequented Freeport. She did not see her quest as a killing spree driven by monetary gain, she saw it as a cleansing in readiness for the rebuilding of Neriak, so once again the Teir’Dal would take up their ancient place in the future of Norrath. This view would leave her alone in the wild, without companion, or aid. After a time the road beats down hard on the elven frame, and loneliness can set in. Trill’s resolute would be whittled away by time and by battle. Eroded to the core, she would often rest for very long periods to forget about loneliness to heal her scarred vocal chords. She would become a recluse in her own helmet, fixating on trivia about the brittleness of her hair, looking in the mirror too much, to prevent her from seeing the real world outside.

Trills essence was being tapped away, and she could not see how to regenerate. So she compromised, and tolerated, and roughed it as best she could. Searching for a home within the wilderness. Searching for a guild to take her in, and be her adoptive mother for a while. Hopefully her search has ended.

Tags: Writing