♩ ♪ ♫ ♬
She was born to those who called ice capped peaks home, those who spoke to the ancient of ice and wing, those who sung to the very soul of the world: an Isldar. One of thousands who would live for hundreds of years, Korraeta came to this world a perfect pearl in the tundra of Ellador. Here she danced away the decades and came into the pillar of the dead as an obedient servant of the great wyrm, Frisit. Korraeta sang to the rivers that ran through Aloria and helped guide those lost in its depths. It was in such a role that she found herself flung beyond the southern reaches of the her people's holds and into the world of man.
His eyes were unlike any Korraeta had seen before. When she peered into those frozen ponds of pain and sorrow, she saw herself reflected in them. He trapped her, marooning her on a glacier of promises and lies. His words a whip that bent the woman of ice to his will. His hand harsh and unforgiving; the wrath of man was not something she would underestimate again. The stench of death lingered upon his very soul and yet, she loved him. This mortal with a southern fire and ill will. Serdjan, he called himself, Serdjan of the Aleskovic.
"Is this what you want?" He asked, voice cold and uncaring.
"If it is the only way." She reassured, her voice filling the cool autumn air with pleasant melodies.
"So it is." Serdjan grunted as he produced a hunting knife as dark as the night sky with teeth that hungered for light. It was black steel and frighteningly sharp.
"Close your eyes." He commanded, his voice hot and humid on her neck as he brought the blade closer to her pointed ears. Korraeta obeyed, looking to the polished silver that clung to the wall of their lodge. It was the last time she would see her elven beauty.
Soon, another was born. Far from the moonlit mountains of Ellador and deep within the hinterlands of the northern archipelago. A babe, with tufts of gold that crowned his head and wails that signaled his first breaths of life. Korraeta was filled with joy - something sweet and warm that she hadn't felt with Serdjan. His love was like the cold; too much and one could lose a part of themselves to the frostbite. The little one, whom the two would soon call Milojica, did not have the frozen presence of his father and for his first few days would only feel the nurturing warmth of his mother.
"Please, let him be." Korraeta begged in a hoarse voice, keeping the babe wrapped within furs and close to her chest. They had been arguing for what felt like hours and she knew the temper of her lover was running thin.
"Give him to me." Serdjan said with not an ounce of remorse, his pale palm like a bear trap primed and readied. He demanded, not asked, a final time, "Release my son lest I rip him from your breast."
"Serdjan, this doesn't have to happen now. We can wait. I beg of you, it has barely been a fortnight since he came into this world. I do not want -" She had began to plead, until that open palm of his came crashing to her face. The breath was cut short as he grabbed her slender throat with his meaty fingers. Still, she held tight to the now crying child as he choked the life out of her.
"You think I care for what you want, woman?" He snarled and reached for her bosom and did as he promised: ripping their infant son from her. Serdjan tossed Korraeta to the ground like a rag doll and with a few long strides found himself before that mirror. Milojica was crying now, his mother wailed in raspy tones, and his father staring into the silver and at the blade of black steel he pulled free from his belt.
"It is for the best, to do this now while he is still fresh to the world." Serdjan reassured both himself and the woman sprawled across the floor. He held tight to the babe's head as he brought the hunting knife to those cheeks. They were like fresh snow, soft and white… and then stained red.
He stared into the mirror that hung above the bleak marble tub, blonde hairs littered its surface. Bright blue eyes stared back at him and he flashed a smile to himself. It was a close shave but that was how he liked it. Milojica twirled his mustache into a curled position, twisted just right. He turned his face to the left and right to make sure he was finished: his chiseled cheek bones were as barren of hair like the days of his youth. When he turned to the right, he caught a glimpse of a rune that was tattooed behind his left ear.
Milojica set the black blade down and held his ear down to look at the body art. He spoke a single word in Old Mankth, and the small powder room of his apartment was filled with a subtle turquoise light. It lasted just a few moments, but when he looked at his face, it was cast in a shadow. The shadow of his ears which were stubbed at the top like his mother's. He frowned as his eyes caught the light. They looked cold and unnerving, just like his father's.
"Disgusting." He mumbled, and left the room - the light leaving with him.
