Arame watched her father set her sister's scimitars outside in the yard. Arame's thoughts swam as she searched her father's face. What was going on in his head? Why was he doing this to his favorite?

Arame silently cheered as her father set some sort of note down on her sister's pack. Arame's distaste for her sister Nadara was always very clear. Nadara had always been the prettier, faster, quicker, better of the girls. Arame's hands tended to magic, where Nadara was a natural when it came to blades. Nadara was the first allowed to have a boyfriend, Arame was always stuck inside with chores. Nadara was never punished.. instead Arame was the one that took the blows..

A look of horror crossed Arame's features as her father came in the house, that look of calculated evil in his stunning silvery-gold eyes.

"See what your sister has done? She left, without asking. She has done nothing to help this family. What does she expect us to do? Does she expect us to aid her damned army? Concolor. Hmph. I hope she rots within those walls. I hope Tirome kills her. Don't you agree, Arame?"

The question was horrible. Arame had no real love for her sister, but she certainly didn't wish death on her. No, not death, just.. hours and hours of ch-

The thought was stopped cold as her father's fist came down on her face.

"Damn you Arame! Answer me when I speak to you!"

There were bright starbursts in Arame's vision, her stomach queasy as she blinked back the tears, trying to hide the pain.

"Answer me little girl. Isn't it disgusting that your sister is going to whore herself out to the humans? Doesn't that make you sick?"

Her father's words bit into her heart. Naddie wasn't doing that, she was doing what she wanted.. she always did what she wanted...

"ARAME!" Her father's voice broke her tumbling stream of thought.

"Y-Yes father!" Arame's voice cracked as she answered, her tongue spitting a lie, and her heart shrivling as it spilled out.

"That's a good girl. Go do your chores. I'll not have you be a failure too. Go, get out of my sight."

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For the next few years, Arame did her best to do just that; stay out of her father's sight. For the most part, she succeeded. Once a year for the next several years, her father actually sought her out for a severe beating. After the second year, Arame realized that it was the anniversery of Nadara's departure from the household. Each encounter left Arame feeling that much closer to death. Each encounter left Arame considering how she could meet death...

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"Arame? Daughter, come to the house." Arame's mother's voice rung through the trees. It wasn't often that her mother spoke, for much the same reasons she herself didn't speak; fear of the father. Arame set down her small shovel and brushed her calloused hands and rose. Upon entering the small house, Arame noticed something different. Nothing was out of place as always, as her father was a very neat person. Almost to the point of obsessive. There was a pall that touched everything, something not tangible, yet there.

"Come here girl." Her mother's voice was very restrained, its quiet music muffled purposely. Entering the parlor, Arame noticed a male elf sitting across her mother. Not her father, and not like anyone she'd ever seen, Arame immediately dropped her eyes to the floor. The male elf spoke.

"When the two of you are ready, his body will be delivered here for you women to attend to. The fight he had was a brutal one, from what we could tell, but with washing, he will be fit for viewing."

Arame's eyes lifted her her mother, but her mother was looking at the man. "Tell me sir, the wounds. Could you tell how they were inflicted?"

The man nodded once, then gestured to the blade at his side. Arame looked the man over, her eyes lingering on his oddly spiked blue hair.

"Scimitars, Lady. A scimitar took his life. The wound was clean and deep, but it's likely he bleed for a while before death. The woman found outsi-" The man was cut off by Arame's mother raising her hand.

"I don't care. He died, I wish not to know the details of how. It didn't happen within a city, for which I am thankful. Just have the body brought here, and thank you." Arame's mother rose and looked down at the man. He rose as well, looking tired, frustrated and rather bewildered at the sudden harsh treatment. After a few exchanges, the man left. Arame's mother looked at her, shaking her head. With that, Arame's mother left as well, leaving Arame at home, wondering just what happened...

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"No, uncle, please....." Arame's words seemed to have sounded on deaf ears. Arame didn't put up much fight, she didn't have it in her anymore to do so. Each night the same routine of degrading acts of servitude, every night he forced himself on her. Little by little Arame retreated into herself, with each damaging blow the face, body, or other limb she began to stop feeling. Eventually, after years of such treatment, Arame began doing the requested deeds and acts without much prodding, the man she called uncle very pleased with it all...Arame's heart began to die.

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It was late, very late. The moon had already disappeared from the western horizon, the sun not yet begun peeking out from the eastern horizon. The dark blanketed Vlamaldi's home. Arame's footsteps didn't make a sound as she crept down the hallway. Clad in only a sheer, filmy nightie that she'd been ordered to wear upon her arrival to her uncle's hell hole of a home, she shivered. A glint of steel shot from her hand as she passed a waning candle. Down the hallway and stopping at the bedroom door, Arame eyed the handle for a brief moment, steeling herself for what she was about to do. She had run this through her mind each time he violated her, each time he forced her to do the degrading acts that amused him so.

Arame pushed open the door.

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A muffled scream of pain broke the silence, the sound wet. The scream faded to nothing and the stench of blood filled the air.

Arame climbed off the bed and dropped the dagger, blood streaming from her nightie, arms and hands. Looking back at the bed she hated so much one last time, she tilted her head. The blood was pooling nicely, the slit across his throat ragged. One twitch later, and he was dead.

Arame closed that door for the last time. Cleaning up and tossing the blooded nightie into the burn pile, Arame gathered her meager belongings and closed the front door for the last time as well. Heading down the path from Kisah, Arame found herself upon the western road. Looking down the darkened road, Arame looked to the horizon. Stonegate.

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Bright blessings, and blessed be.