The earliest days of my time within the order were spent restoring the old church to its former glory. It was a daunting task and many of my new “friends” were not as adamant on hard work and manual labor as myself. Most notably was Dracus the exile, amongst the eight of us brought to this place a shady dark elf had kept to the shadows during our first night but even with his obsidian skin and red eyes he could not hide from the moonbeams that had changed all of our lives. At the time I hated Dracus and judged him harsher then the others for his lack of work ethic and constant attempts to flatter Atticus and the stone faced man into doing his bidding or letting him slide on his duties.
The young girl came to slowly, the world bleeding into focus as a blinding light filled her vision. The first thing the Redguard girl - no older than ten summers - noticed, was the bindings around her wrists, cold leather strapped in tightly enough to lose all feeling in her fingertips. Sweat and grime caked her dark brow, rags clinging loosely to her scarred body. Her ankles were binded down as well, as her fruitless efforts to struggle soon revealed, and her muffled screams only drew her notice to the foul rag shoved into her mouth and strapped down. Hazel eyes desperately peered around the blurry room from darkened, bloodshot pits, continuing to struggle in vain.
Sweat poured down the magistrates' pudgy face as he sat at his desk and conversed with the uniformed man standing in front of him. The mood was not jovial, as was evidenced by the angry words and worried expressions that passed between the two men. Lord Bumswottle, the grossly overweight judicatory of the Glenumbra Office of Justice, was berating a young soldier while simultaneously patting his generous cheeks with a lacy handkerchief.