A road more travelled

When you're grow up in the valley as a girl who likes swords, your path is very well paved. In every town there's a big building dedicated to ladies who like swords, and inside are books praising the heroism, bravery and compassion of ladies who like swords.
It might sound a little limiting, but there's something simple about it that I quite fancied. If you wanted to take a sword to the evils of the world, you had the tales of Sword Sister Macry Marceline and her triumphs against horrible demons to read by the stealthy light of a hooded lantern, long after you were meant to be asleep. 
For the more adventurous you could spend your days acting out your favourite scenes from Bertold and Bethany, a series of plays about a husband and wife duo who explored the western parts of the Valley, battled orcs, found treasures, rescued people, and more besides. Looking back on it, the plays were poorly written and often over-performed, but there was a magic in it, knowing that at its core they were stories of real people who'd at least done some of those things. 
No matter what you were in to, from sculpture to teaching to farming, there was a story in the book of Muir that you could draw inspiration from. 
By the time I was 14, some of the older kids in the town had taught me the basics of using a weapon and moving in armour. I'd saved up and bought a spare breastplate from the town guard (although it was more dents than plate), and traded 6 months of work at the local smiths for a fine hand-and-half sword to call my own. I named it Macry, because I wasn't very good at these things. I decided to see the world, so I packed my bag and signed up for a caravan.
What no one tells you is that caravanning is boring. Myself and the other guards would take turns walking with the caravan, scouting ahead and napping among the crates. "Scouting" was my favourite part, although it was northing more than walking a few minutes ahead of the caravan, keeping your eyes out for monsters or, more commonly, dragging fallen branches off the road so the wagons could pass. 
The first thing I learned is that "boring" is the best possible outcome of caravan guarding. On my second run, a quartet of bandits armed with crossbows ambushed the wagon. They yelled at us to put our weapons down; they would take what they wanted from the wagon and leave us in peace. The young fool that I was, I charged the nearest brigand and got a crossbow bolt through the leg for my efforts. After that I had the sense to stay down until the brigands were gone. The merchant whose caravan it was gave me a restorative potion and we all had a laugh about it later. I remember him asking "What were you thinking?" to which I had no answer that didn't sound utterly stupid. 
Stories are great and inspiring, but all the stories I had were of heroes, not of the people before their rise to fame. I was pretty certain I was meant to be a hero (although I could not for the life of me tell you why), but I had no clear path to that goal. Instead I did the only things that had a proven track record of improving my station in life: I saved my money, I recited my prayers and I doubled my morning and evening practice sessions. If the merchants ever found it funny to watch a teenage girl do arms drills for an hour each dusk and dawn, they never said so to my face.
My 7th caravan run was a long one; all the way from Tsar to Tsuen (on what the merchants laughingly called the "Tsupply Run"). It paid well, even if it meant a winter of heavy storms, and constant stops to clear snow so the wagons could pass. We were a few days south of Tarran's Junction when we were stopped. I was sitting on the back of the wagon resting my feet when I heard the horses whinny and the merchant shout. Four thieves with crossbows had us surrounded. I don't know if they were the same ones as before, but their demands were the same: Let one of them (carrying a rather large sack) take their pick from the wagon, then we'd be on our way. 
The merchant motioned for myself and the other guard to stand down. We were really only there as a deterrent, and weren't expected to actually face down anything more threatening than a giant rat or a pile of snow. I was wise enough to know that if I stood down, we'd be left in peace shortly. Something in me rebelled at that idea, however. I felt more like a decoration, like a scarecrow a farmer would leave out to protect the crop; just a straw man meant to be visible and not much more. I was angry, at the merchant, the thieves, the snow, and those endless summers watching amateur Thespians completely butcher "Bertold and Bethany And The Crown Of Ice".
I lent my sword against the wagon and leaned against the wheel, blowing on my hands to keep them warm. "Thievery is punishable by death" I said loudly (probably sounding like a petulant child as I did), to laughter from the brigands. I had to make sure they heard me. It felt fair, somehow, as if stating the law made it real in some way. As the brigand with the sack passed me, I stabbed him in the neck with the dagger I'd concealed in my hand. I'd grabbed my sword and dodged behind a nearby rock to the snapping of crossbow strings. Up, over the rock, then swinging Marcy around and driving it deep into the nearest one's shoulder. The next brigand had dropped her bow and drawn a short sword, and had taken something that might have been a guarded stance. There was a something virginal to the scene; I'd never stabbed someone before, and the brigand looked like this was her first real fight. I kept my focus, and waited a moment for her inevitable panicked thrust which I knocked away before punching her in the jaw with my offhand, following it up with a swift kick to her stomach. 
There was a meaty thump from the other side of the wagon, the other guard had driven her axe into the final brigand. I know my face was flushed with fear and triumph, but the other guard (and half-orc gentleman who never gave me his name) looked furious. How dare I make him risk his life for 2 silver a day and all the snow he could shovel? Soon the adrenaline wore off, and I spent the next 10 minutes vomiting into a bush. The surviving brigand - the one I'd kicked - was dead by the time I got back. The half-orc claimed she'd drawn a dagger on him so he'd split her head open with an axe. I did not know if that was true, and returned to the bush. 
By the time I'd recovered, the half-orc and the merchant had dragged the bodies off the road, and looted them for silver and steel. We cleaned our weapons and went on our way. That evening there was no laughter by the fire, and when we made it to Tsuen (uneventfully, I add) we quickly parted ways.
As horrible as the experience was, I felt validated, and redoubled my training and prayers. I considered joining the church and training as a paladin, but I was a poor candidate. When I applied, the priestess (a kindly older woman) told me to come back when I "had a cause". Even then I knew she was right. I liked the ideas of law, justice and compassion, but i was too young (and too foolish) to understand them, and to think how they may motivate me to strive toward the divine. I did not enjoy the time I spent at the citadels. Most of the initiates were monkish people, spending their time interpreting texts, meditating, and discussing ideas and events. Killing brigands because thievery was unlawful was less important it seemed, than communing with the divine and understanding yourself and the world around you.
I was good at defending caravans however. By this stage I was the 'veteran' of a dozen skirmishes, against brigands, goblin raiders and once against a pair of giant spiders. I owned a proper breastplate, and had some money to my name. I could certainly afford to stop and become a guard, but the caravans had given me something even better: A name. I would be occasionally recognised by merchants and other guards, and I proudly remember hearing a merchant recommend me to his friend "She's young, but if goblins make a play for your wagon? By the Lady, she will stop them". I wasn't a scarecrow any more. I was a guard.
That might have been the story of the rest of my life, if not for a horrible run to Aberdeen that spring. It was bucketing down. Two dozen guards for a train of 15 wagons, and the stirges were out in force. At any time, half the guard and merchants would be out resting off their nasty bites. One night the rain got too intense to even see the what was left of the road, and we looked for a place to rest. A check of the map revealed a ruin only 10 minutes trudge away. The threat of what may lurk in a ruin was raised, but the caravan master pointed out it was probably better to fight skeletons indoors than to fight stirges out here. The ruin was old, carved into a hillside. Any distinguishing features had long since been worn away, but there was enough space in the entrance to shelter everyone and the horses so we made camp.
I volunteered to scout deeper into the ruin, and I remember being annoyed that no one offered to join me. I took a lantern and checked all the rooms that hadn't caved in or flooded. I'd long since gotten over my romance with old tombs, and was checking for cracked ceilings and signs of undead more than for hidden treasure or arcane secrets. One room was lit, but it turned out to be an older woman who was taking shelter from the storm, the same as us. She carried an old, rusted sword but she seemed harmless enough. Once dinner was cooked I went and sat with her, glad for any company that wasn't cranky merchants or tired guards.
She politely deflected questions about herself, but seemed fascinated with me and my life up to that point. I told her how I'd moved from a young, naive girl to a slightly older, slightly less naive girl. She laughed, and told me that there was no shame in admitting that I still had a long way to go. I told her about my dreams of becoming a paladin, and my irritation that I didn't fit in with the people I'd met at Muir's citadels. I was closer to a thug than to a scholar, to which the old woman laughed. She began to tell me more about herself. She had once been a demon-slayer, someone who hunted otherworldly creatures with silver, iron and invocation. She invited me to compare her path in life with my own; one of guarding those who often seem ungrateful, and bringing steel to bear on those who would gnaw at the edges of society and civilisation. I found her words comforting, and fell asleep leaning against the wall, as she told tales of her own heroism. She said that bookish priests and pulpy plays were not the determiners of honour or zeal. Only our actions and what we held in our heart mattered, and they were for Muir to judge, and her alone.
When I awoke in the morning, she sat peacefully next to me. Her skin was dry and torn, and her bones were cracked and yellow. She had been dead for many years. Her sword was shining and silver, and glowing with runes. I took it for myself, and buried the old woman's remains in the soft earth outside the ruins. I kept guarding caravans for a while, but eventually I'd had enough. I took to the wilderness, hunting outlaws and later the undead and demons as well. I often went months without stepping foot in a church, or even seeing a friendly face. Instead I let my holy book and my heart guide me. When I returned to Tsar with the head of the demon Mannoroth, they called me Lady Kingsley, and gave me the place in the citadel there. They told me that I had been a paladin all along, that I had walked the Justicar's path without even knowing. They asked if I wanted to stay, and train the initiates.
I remember thinking "Bugger that. There's something down by Blacklake that's coming out of the swamp and eating people. Can't watch teenagers stumble through prayers while there's that kind of nonsense going on".
So yes, I'm sitting around the Fallen Sword, doing what I can for now. But when I get my sword back, you'll understand if I pop off for a bit and bring the Fury of the Sword Sister to whichever undead, demon or devil is dumb enough to get found first.