Vivenel Brawnwood

Each jounce of her feet slamming into the earth made the open wounds on her back sting worse and worse, she can feel the warm blood ooze down her back. Cornelian taskmasters are not kind with their whips. Chest burning, lungs heaved for air as she made her escape as the sun set over the mountain peaks, world growing darker, all she focuses on is a light of a fire in the distance. A chance, a flicker of hope. On deadening legs she ran as her vision blurred before she collapsed at the edge of the light she can hear worried voices before her world grew black. She awoke in a wagon, staring at the fabric sheet shading her from the sun, a traveling troupe of musicians, faces mixed curious and worried. She told her story as they explained that she can seek asylum at Awen they were already on their way there. On their travels they all became good friends, she sang with them, learned how to play a lyre, laughed and was gifted a lyre of her own to remember the wonderful memories. That was 5 years ago. As a proud Awenian citizen she quickly made a name for herself with her music and singing, with dulcet tones and genuine emotions in her voice can make a crowd smile and cheer or become dour and weep. She finishes her performance as the crowd claps and cheer for her, with a polite bow she leaves the stage to make room for the next performers, a harp and flute duo. Meekly she meanders to a quite corner of the tavern with with lyre in hand. Her amethyst eyes swimming with old memories as her fingers trace the grain of the wood. (Went light on the plot with this one, have fun.)