With the clouds capering across the sky in films of white and smog, soft against a backdrop of dazzling blues in the summer air tinged in the sent of flora, Lilli De'Cahors-Beau worked. And work she did. Sweat beaded on her slender brow, chased on down her neck and to the curve of her spine - here she paused, shivered once and tried not to think of what lay against her flesh in a macabre painting of twisted skin and scars long since paled and healed. The ever constant reminder to her sin, her loss, and her hopes all spent away in bitter nothings. She donned gloves, to shield away the similar mark warping the skin of her palm, callouses and tender flesh making into the emboss of a lily. Ironic, she thought truthfully.
For her name was given from the very flower which marked her.
Mary called it beautiful, a sign to her beauty, the sign of the lily which also came to form her calling. Their angel, she often told Lilli in the eves, before the fire and watching the flames dance. An angel who had lost her wings.
If only they knew.
Lilli sighed into the heated air and pushed her wheat-gold hair back from her eyes, like bronze they glimmered on the planes of her face, a complexion of sun-kissed cheeks under the heated sun. After her years of torment and self-directed shame, she still held the glamour of a beauty, appearing older than her years from the emotions and occurrences she had endured. A shame, and a lie it was, to be barely an adult in the eyes of her Gods and yet so aged from the blood that stained her pores, the hate she held for her eternal soul. Let it be damned, she thought, let it be feasted on by the hell hounds of the evil one.
Oh, if her family knew of the darkness in her heart, they'd label her an angel of death.
She eyed the cattle with envy, their cloven hooves narrowly missing her booted feet, their bleats and bellow ringing in her ears. Heavy frames, twitching tails, and simple minds that fueled the need to eat and eat. She envied the simplicity of their bovine existence, had naught to worry about in their days. She sighed once more, a little wistful note whispering through her teeth and lips, and latched her hands around the pail of feed.
The breeze was soft on her face and hair, brushing the strands down her shoulders and black, long over due for a cut. The long tresses were heavy in the heat and she figured asking Mary to hack off the troubling threads would be the next thing to do before the eve came. Of course, that was to mean the day was to progress naturally, and often she expected no less out here in this splotch of a farm home. Out in the outskirts and beyond the norm, what could possibly happen here?
Fortune was never on her side, it would seem.
Lilli approached Mary with a slight smile adorning her face, maneuvering around the clucking hens, she was about to respond to her inquiry with her lit of french tongue - voice of the Cahors, when the shout from the fields drew her attention. Lilli's body immediately tensed, old habits unable to wither away when her muscles coiled tight, her feet shifted and her fingers flexed for the grip of a sword. But there was none to be had, instead, Lilli paled at the sight of the dead shambling their way, moaning and grotesque in every way possible. She wanted to vomit.
The need almost over powered her, and she turned to the side and almost retched, her body shaking in her fit of fright as she moved; she was not prepared for this, even as a warrior taught through the talents of time, Lilli had not met with evil and decay in so long.
So, why now?
Lilli grasped the arm of her mother, preparing to flee, but she was caught in the same fix of morbid fascination as they. Her golden eyes honed in on the corpse of a man and to the arrow piercing through his cranium, the way nerves and muscles spasm-ed into old death throes. Lilli was transfixed on the death, as she had been all her life it would seem. But who had saved them? And why hadn't she responded accordingly, she was a knight, meant to react quickly and kill as she was bred to do.
Why not use the magic within?
Lilli bit her lip and followed her father's gesture and the figure approaching, the man in leather, the man who walked as if of the breeze and grass. The woman blinked twice, taking in the trail of death at his ankles and then to his face. A man lost, just as she. The former knight breathed through her nose, watching his movements carefully, feeling meek and low in her peasant blouse and garb stained at the threads with mud and bovine stench. Seeing him adorned in armour, made her long for her own unpolished pieces, once silver and gleaming and now dull.
She sucked in a long breath and held it there, riddled with anticipation with her eyes narrowing into golden slits on her pretty little face.
"Who are you?" She demanded on a cold breath, her inquiry piercing and hollow, a lit of french marring her vocals in pleasing R's and vowels.