Zehira

Ershta Zehira Al'thor
Status	Active
Race	Human
Gender	Female
Guild	Necromancer
Instance	Prime
Relatives	Agalea, Vashner, Ellywen

You are Ershta Zehira Al'thor, Breaker of Chains of Haizen Cugis   

How it started

The desert wind, a familiar caress on her skin just moments ago, now felt like a distant memory. Zehira trudged through a riot of green, a landscape utterly alien to the ochre dunes she knew. Blueberry bushes, an endless, baffling sea of them, stretched in every direction. Who cultivated such a monotonous crop? The question flitted through her mind, quickly dismissed in favor of the more pressing issue: she was undeniably, frustratingly lost. Those blasted guilds, the moonmages and their serene glow, the warrior mages and their clanging steel – they remained stubbornly out of reach. At least she’d made it to Crossing, or so she vaguely recalled a weathered sign proclaiming. Now, only blueberries.

A sudden rustle in the leaves startled her. She’d been mindlessly popping the sweet, slightly tart berries into her mouth, a small comfort in this bewildering greenery. “What are you doing, girl?” The voice, low and even, seemed to materialize from the foliage itself.

Zehira whirled around, her dark braid whipping across her back. A figure stood amidst the bushes, clad in the simple, earth-toned robes of a monk. His face was impassive, his eyes sharp and observant. “Eating blueberries, monk,” she retorted, pushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

The monk approached, his movements surprisingly fluid and silent. He repeated his question, his gaze unwavering. “What are you doing, girl?”

Zehira’s patience, never her strongest suit, began to fray. She arched a dark brow and sighed dramatically. “I got lost, okay? I’m looking for the moonmage guild. Or… or the warrior mage guild. One of those places with, you know, actual power.” She emphasized the last word with a touch of sarcasm.

A faint smile touched the corners of the monk’s lips. “Power, you say? I can show you to a Book that knows about power. All you have to do is… a few tasks for me that don’t entail you eating all the blueberries.” His gaze flickered pointedly at the handful of berries she still clutched.

Zehira wrinkled her nose, a gesture of distaste she’d perfected over the years. “Some tasks? Sure. And then you’ll show me this… Book?”

The monk nodded once, a small, decisive movement. He gestured towards a barely visible path leading deeper into the blueberry thicket. “Come. The gate is not far.” He began to walk, his bare feet making no sound on the soft earth.

Zehira hesitated for a fleeting moment, glancing back at the seemingly endless expanse of blue. A Book of power… it sounded far more promising than endless berries and the lingering scent of desert sand. With a shrug, she adjusted her backpack and took her first step onto the hidden path, muttering under her breath, “What harm could come from a Book?”

The path wound through the dense bushes, the air growing cooler and damper. The monk walked silently ahead, his movements economical and focused. Zehira trailed behind, occasionally swatting at unseen insects and wondering what kind of tasks this strange man had in mind. Picking more blueberries was definitely out of the question.

Finally, the bushes parted, revealing a weathered wooden gate, almost swallowed by the surrounding greenery. Beyond it lay a small, unassuming courtyard, with several simple buildings constructed from rough-hewn timber. It didn't exactly scream "powerful magic guild," but Zehira had learned long ago that appearances could be deceiving.

The monk gestured towards the largest building. "The Library. The Book you seek resides within."

Zehira felt a flicker of excitement, a genuine spark amidst her usual cynicism. "Alright, Monk. What are these tasks then?"

The monk turned to face her, his expression now more serious. "The Library holds many things, not all of them easily accessible. Some require… a certain finesse. A quiet touch. You will retrieve three items for me from within. Items that are not meant to be disturbed by clumsy hands."

He paused, his gaze piercing. "And you will not, under any circumstances, read anything you find within those walls unless I specifically instruct you to do so. Do you understand?"

Zehira bristled slightly at the implied lack of trust. "Fine, fine. Finesse, quiet touch, no reading.

"Alright, Monk," she said, a grin finally breaking through her usual sardonic expression. "Let's see what secrets this 'Book of Power' holds." She stepped through the gate, the scent of damp earth and old wood filling her nostrils, a sense of anticipation, and a tiny seed of unease, beginning to take root. What harm could come from a Book, indeed? Only time, and perhaps a few carefully executed tasks, would tell.

How it's going

My mind, a tempestuous sea, forever churning with chaos. Brief lulls offer fleeting respite, yet the storm is my constant companion. This path, though mine by choice, has been paved with the harsh echoes of unspoken words, whispers that sting and linger. Accusations fly – brash, impulsive, cruel – each a sharp stone marking a steep descent. But this is my journey, my burden to bear.

Yet, within this maelstrom, a single beacon shines. She is the serene eye in my perpetual hurricane, a paradox understood only by the heart that knows it. A once-in-a-lifetime anchor, a connection I cling to with fierce tenacity. She is my person, always has been, always will be.

Zehira had met the Snake some years ago, in circumstances she now vaguely recalled involving a debt, a brawl, and her own quick thinking (or so she told the story). He was a man of few words and even fewer questions, his loyalty a solid, unshakeable thing. She knew his real name, as with anyone else, she just didn't use it. "Minion or Snake" suited him, she thought – silent, watchful, and capable of striking without warning if she ever deemed it necessary. She often wondered if anyone saw their dynamic for what it truly was. Zehira, the flamboyant storyteller, always at the center of her own fabricated dramas, and Snake, the quiet shadow, ever present, ever obedient. It amused her that no one seemed question his unwavering devotion.

How it went..

What's in a name they say...

A sharp, rending pain blossoms within your mind, blotting out everything around you! You fall forward, landing on your face! As the world swims back into focus and you shake off the brutal stun, a rough voice like stone upon stone fills your mind, saying, "Yes, that is precisely it. For this you shall be known as Ershta, The Theft of Knowledge." The resonant, unyielding declaration from Lord Jeihrem settles upon your consciousness, not as a gift, but as a permanent, agonizing branding—a new identity carved out of pain and the sheer force of his will, forever tying you to the stolen wisdom you now possess.

To surrender to the chaos is to be consumed by an endless storm. And though the calm at my center is sometimes buffeted and threatened, a core of unexpected strength has solidified within me. The tempest may still rage, but this inner resilience holds firm.

And so, I adjust my crown, a symbol of the authority I wield over my own tumultuous realm. I am not an easy dominion to rule. It is a constant battle, a relentless navigation through the storm. But I endure. For it is never easy being Queen.

I might be a narcissistic diva, basking in the perpetual glow of my own undeniable magnificence and demanding every spotlight, but let's not confuse my exquisite aesthetic with softness. That perfectly coiffed hair and those designer ensembles merely serve as a distraction, a pretty facade for the true terror that lurks just beneath the surface. For you see, when the curtain finally falls and the masks begin to slip, "I'm every nightmare you've ever had. I'm your worst dream come true. I'm everything you were ever afraid of." So go ahead, adore me, envy me, clamor for my attention, but never, ever for a single, fleeting second forget the chilling truth of what lies beneath the captivating sparkle of my dazzling, yet utterly merciless, smile.

The world had always existed for my amusement, a stage for my unparalleled brilliance and the inevitable, glorious culmination of my dangerous delusions of grandeur. Every life taken, every carefully orchestrated act of malice, affirmed my supreme intellect and undeniable power. There was no true challenge, only the delightful satisfaction of bending reality to my will, one terrified gasp at a time. Then, a peculiar thought drifted into my perfectly ordered universe: perhaps sharing my genius, rather than hoarding it, held a new kind of twisted pleasure. It was then, in a moment of sheer, captivating insight, that I considered the possibility of something more. For the first time, a collective enterprise seemed... acceptable. Not as a master, perhaps, but as the indispensable, utterly superior force that would undoubtedly elevate their petty schemes into legendary acts of terror, all while basking in the reflected glory of my magnificent orchestrations. Forces of Evil

How it will end

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered. How will it all end? How could she possibly know the intricate tapestry of fate, the grand design of the cosmos? Maybe no one truly knew. Or perhaps, in the endless corridors of time, some all-seeing eye held the answer.

But for her, a different kind of ending was crystallizing, sharp and clear against the blurry edges of the unknown. Maybe she did know. A certainty settled deep within her bones, a cold and unwavering truth that had been years in the making. The one thing she knew, with a conviction that burned brighter than any mortal desire, was that Lichdom was her path.

It wasn't a whimsical fancy or a sudden impulse. It was the culmination of countless nights spent poring over ancient texts, the reward for forbidden rituals whispered in forgotten tongues, the fruit of sacrifices made in the pursuit of arcane power. It was what she had worked for her whole life, every spell cast, every secret unearthed, every boundary pushed a step further into the shadowed realms of magic. The end of her mortal coil was not a terrifying abyss, but a doorway, a necessary transition to a form of existence that defied decay and mocked the fleeting nature of life. Lichdom was not just an end; it was a beginning of a different kind, an eternal reign in the chilling embrace of undeath. And in that singular, unwavering knowledge, she found a strange and terrible peace.