In the first few years, all was as it should be according to Vasille. He was her light who shone through the windows of the small confined space when she woke. He was her darkness who punished her with long, deliberate torment when she disobeyed. The man was her everything, and if she displeased him she was left with nothing. Ysorrowen learned quickly that there was a hidden part of her which had been lying dormant until he had woken her and showed her the way. His way.
Ezran hesitated as she asked him to close his eyes. It was not something he was usually comfortable doing in company, but her entire aura was soothing to his usually cautious mind. "OK," he whispered as he closed his eyes and unconsciously tensed himself against…
When the white rose of the 466th moon fully bloomed in the city of Targues of the Kingdom of Astratti, Ysorrowen emerged. The faerie was kind and pure, full of beauty and grace. As with most faerie maidens her skin was unblemished, her features fragile…
She held the wilting petals in the palm of her hand, staring blindly into the velvety white. Something had triggered a memory of him. Was it a smell? A sound? The way the wind blew? Anything and everything triggered those memories these days, ever since…