[color=ec008c][b][h3]Lynnwell Tourmaline[/h3][/b][/color]

[color=fff200][i]Founder's day... 200 years ago...[/i][/color]


The skies were cloudy and dark, the rain was falling, the rumble in the distance making itself known. A few bright flashes would be seen in the sky above Rhea. Arcs of lightning would spread out, followed by the booming sound of the thunder.The bolts of lightning would illuminate two figures atop of the Rhean administative building's roof. One moment they stood still, then when the lightning bolts illuminated the place again. One had been fatally wounded. It were with determination and swiftness that the hand of the old man found it's mark, piercing the chest of his opponent. A woman, physically far younger than he were stood there close before him, even as he withdrew his hand, with the blood dripping down upon the wet rooftop. They were but a few steps apart, and it were with difficulty that the woman stumbled forwards, before slumping against the old man, her head falling to rest on his shoulder.

[color=92278f][b]"It were mine appentency, to hie see thee... with mine eyne one last time. Did thou ever divulge... what the lynx hidith within? It does nay matter nay more...'Tis hoar o' night...imminent afore us.. puissant... yet.. soothfast to be.. mine eyne fell only upon thee... beorn o' beorht... I.. bid thee mine final vale... Laurel."[/b][/color] The words were soft, yet he could hear them well, even amidst the rumbling skies above. The final words uttered by his adversary of a lifetime took her final breath before her body slumped down.

The end is often the end, the end of life is death. But not all things only have one life. One beginning. One role. The line of hero and villain can be difficult to discern to the untrained. As the old man faded into history as a legend, the other became mere myth and lost in time. Stories told to children to keep them out of harms way, lest the Lyngurium Lie would get them. The lynx of Laurel, the undying warrior. The enemy of Rhea. Yet time can change people, and change stories. Heroes become villains, and villains becomes heroes. History is ultimately written by those which taste victor, even if it may be bittersweet.

In modern Rhea, few are those who even remember the old children's tale of the dreaded lynx. Yet the memory of the great warrior and founder of the school of Saint Laurel lives on, even if tales of his exploits may have given rise to untruths and variations. There is no doubt to the people of Rhea, that Laurel the saint has been, and still is regarded as the greatest of heroes that Rhea, possibly even the world have ever seen. His sacrifices and achievements are celebrated across Rhea, most commonly on Founder's day.

[color=fff200][i]Founder's day... present time.[/i][/color]


A day which once had much more meaning. It was with graceful steps that a young woman strode into the schoolgrounds, catching a few glances by various onlookers.

[b]"Whoa look at that killer bod- Hold my drink. I'll be right back..."[/b] A young man said in a mix of amazement and clear interest.

[b]"Whose that? Is she a firstyear?"[/b] A third year student asked to his associates, as he had never seen this girl before. Were she a firstyear? She looked to be around his age.

[b]"She's pretty... where's her uniform though?"[/b] A girl said in a hushed manner to her two friends which formed a gossip triangle.

The young-looking woman simply strode past all the various students, including a select few who tried to engage her in conversation. She didn't even look in their direction but instead walked up to the statue dedicated to St Laurel that stood in the courtyard, before giving a graceful bow towards it. While the statue itself didn't resonate at all with her memories of the founder, it was still a monument dedicated to his honor. The mighty were to be remembered and respected even in death. A slight smile crawled up on her pink lips.

Would there even be someone alive at this age to make her truly feel alive again? Like he did. Her hair hung over her eyes, concealing her wandering gaze amidst the gathered students, hoping that she would see someone worthy. That's when her eyes fixed themselves on a young man and woman, one has clumsily bumped into the other which looked like she was barely awake. Causing all her paperwork to litter the area around her.

[color=92278f][i]'Weake.'[/i][/color] A lone word to describe what she saw, it was not only disappointing it were an affront to the memory of he who fought so hard. Not to mention the male had the gall to offer the female some food she had seemingly done nothing to deserve.

[color=92278f][i]'A pismire afore this grimalkin o' yor.'[/i][/color] The woman scoffed before she decided to approach.

[color=92278f][b]"Hearken to this beldam, ye purblind baseborn. Thou aswell, fainéant maid. Afore thee tread avaunt. Thou must rise, lest wanion shalt befall thee erelong. Thou sully the fane o'Laurel. 'Tis my gardyloo. Tread into his garth with care, would be mages..."[/b][/color] It were in an olden tongue, and an eeriely manner in which the woman addressed Alexandria and Michael.

The woman wore a black sweatshirt lacking any visible insignia of belonging to St. Laurel's, her dark red pants were wide yet looked comfortable, ending just above her ankles. She wore some wrapped up sandals aswell. An odd combination of attire, which looked like a mix of something a librarian would wear or someone going to the beach on a stroll. Yet the oddest of all were a broché she wore at her shirt, located where most military personell would bear their medals. Yet this was no medal, it depicted the silhuette of a man, likely carved in some horn from an animal. Aside from her attire, the woman had a tail akin to that of a cat, along with a pair of extra ears. Giving her four in total. Her hair was pink and slightly hanging over her eyes, concealing them from any beholder. The girl seemed to otherwise be about 5'9 and was much more well endowed in her bosum than most others present. Yet there she stood, her pose was that of someone confident, yet with a tinge of feeling she were watching them very closely. As if she was critizing their looks... or perhaps their whole existance alltogether.

[@Crowvette][@Scarifar]