Chapter one.
It was a cold morning in early January when Lanarta left the house. She strode across the fields, her short, plum dyed hair glinting bright red in the early morning sun. Her body was wreathed in black leather, a cat suit surmounted by a dust jacket coming down to her ankles, her feet shod in black leather boots. She had decided to forgo her favoured method of transport, her bike, for a walk this morning. The paralel scars on her shoulders began to itch. She mused on the them as she absent-mindedly began to scratch. Her father said that she had be burnt in the orphanage where he found her, but she wasn't too sure about that. Each scar was exactly 8 inches long and lay in exactly the same place on each shoulder. Oh well, they were slightly ugly but not much more than a cosmetic floor. Lanarta didn't let them bother her anymore. If anything, they were an interesting party peice, atracting the attention of the great and the good.
She enjoyed walking, it was a great way to strech her long, lithe, legs. As she stood at 6 foot, her stride was as long as any man's and she was twice as strong, well in her proffesion she had to be. There was no margine for error, no room for weakness.
Her father had taught her that from the first. She was going into the family buisness. Odd that the family buisness surrounded fighting when her father was a Priest but Lanarta had learnt to stop questioning his wisdom years ago. She'd been adopted by him when she was 5 and he had been a part of her life for 20 years. She had never quite figured why he had picked her out of all the orphans. She wasn't the prettiest, or the strongest back then. If anything she would have described herself as a bit of a damp squib. She had been lanky, even then, a foundling unloved and unwanted by anyone but her father. He had taught her disipline over her body and mind for as long as she could remember, honing her psychic and physical gifts until she was as sharp as a pin. By the time she was 8 he had taught her to wield a dagger with deadly effincency, by the time she was 10 a short sword. At 12 she could use a long and by 15 she was acustom to using any weapon on to be found on the Medieval battle field. She was a true trooper, suited to her calling as part bounty hunter, part deamon hunter and she did her job job with ruthless efficancy and just a little hint of enjoyment.
It was a cold morning in early January when Lanarta left the house. She strode across the fields, her short, plum dyed hair glinting bright red in the early morning sun. Her body was wreathed in black leather, a cat suit surmounted by a dust jacket coming down to her ankles, her feet shod in black leather boots. She had decided to forgo her favoured method of transport, her bike, for a walk this morning. The paralel scars on her shoulders began to itch. She mused on the them as she absent-mindedly began to scratch. Her father said that she had be burnt in the orphanage where he found her, but she wasn't too sure about that. Each scar was exactly 8 inches long and lay in exactly the same place on each shoulder. Oh well, they were slightly ugly but not much more than a cosmetic floor. Lanarta didn't let them bother her anymore. If anything, they were an interesting party peice, atracting the attention of the great and the good.
She enjoyed walking, it was a great way to strech her long, lithe, legs. As she stood at 6 foot, her stride was as long as any man's and she was twice as strong, well in her proffesion she had to be. There was no margine for error, no room for weakness.
Her father had taught her that from the first. She was going into the family buisness. Odd that the family buisness surrounded fighting when her father was a Priest but Lanarta had learnt to stop questioning his wisdom years ago. She'd been adopted by him when she was 5 and he had been a part of her life for 20 years. She had never quite figured why he had picked her out of all the orphans. She wasn't the prettiest, or the strongest back then. If anything she would have described herself as a bit of a damp squib. She had been lanky, even then, a foundling unloved and unwanted by anyone but her father. He had taught her disipline over her body and mind for as long as she could remember, honing her psychic and physical gifts until she was as sharp as a pin. By the time she was 8 he had taught her to wield a dagger with deadly effincency, by the time she was 10 a short sword. At 12 she could use a long and by 15 she was acustom to using any weapon on to be found on the Medieval battle field. She was a true trooper, suited to her calling as part bounty hunter, part deamon hunter and she did her job job with ruthless efficancy and just a little hint of enjoyment.
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