03-08-2017, 05:16 AM
Merrinna lay there for awhile longer trying to pull together fragments of memory of her time in the home of the Seldarine. Despite her best efforts, the fragments dispersed into the air like dust. She knew it was an impossible task. The mortal mind was not meant to hold such knowledge. And mortal she was once again, for the warm glow that had constantly filled her in the afterlife was now replaced with the cold chill of mortality. She had to fight off the wave of anger and resentment flowing through her for being pulled from her eternal reward. It was her own willingness, no, her feeling of business unfinished that had allowed her to be brought back. It was a rare event that an unwilling soul was torn from its Plane. She held on to a thread of her training to center herself once more. Once emotion was removed from the equation, she could see the truth for what it was. It was one of the first things learned in her semi-monastic community.
Resigned to go on living, Merri had to force her limbs to move. Every joint ached from long inactivity and rigor mortis. She dragged the linen sheet off and forced herself into a sitting position. The room seemed to spin for a few moments. The jumble of memories only made it worse. She opened her mouth to call for someone but only a dry croak came out. Looking around, she spotted a clay pitcher on a small table close by. She slides off the cold stone until her feet touch the floor. There she stayed in that leaning position for a moment to ensure that her recently revived legs could hold her weight. Feeling a little more confident, she walked stiffly to the table to investigate the pitcher. There was a cup nearby. It should be water and not ceremonial oil, she figured as she lifted the pitcher to fill the cup. Water it was and refreshing to boot.
Feeling somewhat revived, Merri moves to investigate her belongings. She finds her dress neatly folded nearby. It was cut in similar style to the ceremonial robes worn by the wizards of her community, though shorter and more snug in places to allow for sword fighting. Few wore such a garment as hers for few chose her path of sword and spell. Then she slung her baldric over her shoulder and hefted her bag went off to look for nourishment. It felt like she hadn't eaten in ages.
Resigned to go on living, Merri had to force her limbs to move. Every joint ached from long inactivity and rigor mortis. She dragged the linen sheet off and forced herself into a sitting position. The room seemed to spin for a few moments. The jumble of memories only made it worse. She opened her mouth to call for someone but only a dry croak came out. Looking around, she spotted a clay pitcher on a small table close by. She slides off the cold stone until her feet touch the floor. There she stayed in that leaning position for a moment to ensure that her recently revived legs could hold her weight. Feeling a little more confident, she walked stiffly to the table to investigate the pitcher. There was a cup nearby. It should be water and not ceremonial oil, she figured as she lifted the pitcher to fill the cup. Water it was and refreshing to boot.
Feeling somewhat revived, Merri moves to investigate her belongings. She finds her dress neatly folded nearby. It was cut in similar style to the ceremonial robes worn by the wizards of her community, though shorter and more snug in places to allow for sword fighting. Few wore such a garment as hers for few chose her path of sword and spell. Then she slung her baldric over her shoulder and hefted her bag went off to look for nourishment. It felt like she hadn't eaten in ages.
