Emelia

Emelia
Character Name: You’ll find out at the bottom. No scrolling!
Age: 125
E-mail: Belalshallshatterthewitchtower@gmail.com
Description: Black hair, blue eyes, a boyish figure. Dresses like a male most of the time.
History: I actually came up with something for this one . . .
Hers began - as all lives begin - from the womb: birthed both joy of her mother and pride of her father. She was beautiful and blameless and evolving. There was no abuse, no unfairness. Her parents were gentle, Creator fearing proletariats. Her every need, every want, was catered to. Save one. A part of her burned with a passion: selfish. Deep. Marvellous.
One day her parents died, simple as that. She did not murder them; she did not rescue them. Some weeds were plucked so that the flower may thrive. It was natural: natural and right. Never mind that it was her gift that brought the flames, her gift that saw fingers of heat caressing the walls and ceiling; an every changing tapestry of interwoven reds and blues and yellows. The act was freeing. The act was love. The act was . . . sensual.
Her relatives and her neighbours coddled and sympathised, spoke of honouring their memories, making them proud. She did not mourn their deaths, why would she? The cleansing fire had washed through her body, drying her tears. They chafed. They all chafed–the well-wishers and do-gooders–She felt bridled. Bound. It was not long before she left the village of her raising, smoothly ignoring those who averred to know.
She never stayed in one place for long; there were too many “incidents.” A temporary occupation as a stable hand ended brusquely when the stable “accidentally” caught fire. She considered herself obliging for letting the horses go beforehand. The magistrate ruled in favour of her paying off the debt. They considered it justice; she considered it legal slavery. They were not very nice people. They were apologetic, before the perfect fire claimed them.
Their pleas were muffled by rag and by wood. They had not behaved, had not been silent, so she had locked them in a wardrobe. She embraced her gift, seduced the flames, and coerced them to vibrant, beautiful life. They danced for her, for her alone, loving hands that teased. Her eyes were black mirrors, wide to capture it all, despite the heat that brought tears to her eyes. Her mouth was slightly parted, breathing erratic and uneven. Her cheeks were stained roseate, a delicate pink. A film of sweat shone upon her naked body as she gave herself up to the storm . . . .
She had lain for hours–before any form of aid came to the farm–the warm ash and cool breeze driving her senses to delirium. She savoured like a dragon upon its horde, body shivering with fond memory. In all the confusion that followed, no one noticed the sooty, disshelved young woman fleeing the scene.
The extent of her gift remained largely undiscovered, until she was set upon by some strange crone. The woman prattled about power, about the fate of worlds, turning carriage wheels and other such nonsense. The crone offered to teach her to better use her gift, in exchange for a sworn oath to someone. After about a month’s travel, she became frustrated with the old crone, who always forced her to keep her power in check, and who never let her to feed the flame. She over-taxed the old crone's energy by setting a brusque pace, and burned her in her sleep . . . so much for power.
She found her way into the arms of a mercenary outfit, a small band of thieves, warriors and treasure hunters. Over the years she spent with them she learned to suppress her desires, much to her dismay. In private she developed her “gift”; in order to draw income she learned a measure of the art of swordplay. With the mercenaries she was truly happy, and she would have stayed . . . were it not for a tragic accident involving her entire troupe being burned alive, leaving her the sole beneficiary of their wealth.
Where she and her wealth disappeared to, who can say?
Her name . . . is Emelia.
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