When she awoke, she was covered in blood. Not all of it her own. Her head was pounding, and the knot atop it was nearly the size of her palm. Beside her lay a man. Had he not been filthy and battered, he might have been quite handsome. Rich, chestnut brown hair. The grime and old scars accentuating his striking blue eyes and chiseled features. Pale, bright blue. Those eyes might not have been seen had he not been staring ahead at nothing at all. He never got the chance to tell her what had happened or who he was. He simply stared, and with his last breath he whispered to her.
"Rhyya..."
And then he was gone. The light left his eyes as he sank into the mud and grew still. She searched his body for some clue that might tell her where they came from. Who they might be. She found a small, golden ring on a chain around his neck, beset with a small stone without colour. He had some silver pieces in his pocket. She buried him on a hill, marking his grave with a jagged, white rock, and wished that she had known his name so that he might have been given a proper eulogy. For days she wandered, finally coming upon a small village where she had just enough money for a room at the inn and a hot bath. When the innkeeper asked her name, what else was there to say?
"Rhyya." she replied, and from that moment, that is who she became. Born in blood and muck on a battlefield. A long look in the mirror offered no answers. Once the dirt and filth was washed away, she was left looking at a young woman, perhaps 18 or 19 years old. Long, black hair and dark sapphire eyes. A stranger. No more. No less.Now came the time to discover who this unfamiliar face belonged to.
She learned as she went, eventually uncovering that she knew her way around a crop field and horses. She took odd jobs as she traveled, helping out where she could. She seemed to have a knack for cooking, even when it came to preparing game. Skinning rabbits and plucking chickens seemed commonplace.
She could read. Rather well for a young woman, in fact. Her handwriting was neat and legible. Weeks passed. Then months. The next town being no different than the last, she tried everything she could. There was a desperation in her search. Handy with a needle and thread. A fair shot with a bow and arrow. But still no clue as to why these things came naturally. Hunter? Farmer? Cook? But, who was she? Where was her family? Would they know to look for her? Did they even care to? Perhaps they thought her dead. Perhaps she had no family at all. Maybe no one even noticed she was gone. She tried not to let it keep her awake at night. This new life was all she knew, and unless something changed, it was all there was left to know. She had, somewhere along the way, begun again. And, when she resigned herself to that decision, she chose to finally settle down in the town of Bree.
She found work quickly. A wealthy family in town had need of servants, as wealthy folk always did. She took a job in their kitchen, and quickly went forth turning the daily business of tending crops and feeding the house guards into an efficient operation. A carefully choreographed dance that began each morning before the sun awoke from it's slumber. This life she had made was far from easy. A job. A house full of new friends. But, it was her own. Her choice. Her terms. If nothing else, it kept her from having time to ask questions she had no answers to. Thankfully, no one else seemed to be asking either...
