• Alone she wandered, deep in the night. She walked along a dirt path in a dark wood, one no one dared to enter. Her tunic, royal blue in color, was torn in places and stained with blood; both hers and her many enemies. Her leggings, now red, were also torn. Her brown leather boots were falling apart at the seams.

    Her silver hair was matted and filthy, she hadn't washed it in weeks. She reeked of blood and sweat, the only signs of her long hard struggles and battles. Bandages adorned her arms, stomach, and legs; some old, and some fresh with new blood. Who she was, no one really knew; as she said they were not worthy of her real name. She only said she was to be called the 'Syren'.

    She found a tree safely away from prying eyes and began redressing her wounds. She preferred her life this way, after her lover had died by the hands of one named Farence. She finished quickly, then started to move on again. She was wanted for the murder of Farence, for getting her revenge. The had been tracking her for two years.

    She carried only her sword, her ring, a few supplies, and a small money sack in a messenger bag. Long ago she learned not to carry unnecessary items. As she ran, she could hear horses coming upon her. She dared not look back. A hand grabbed her tunic from behind as she tried to get away, then threw her to the ground.

    “You are charged with the murder of Lord Farence Drake. Surrender now or we will use force!” Soldiers and Druids surrounded her, she got onto one knee. “I will never surrender!” she cried out, drawing her blade. The Druids began chanting, “Loko yosu nao kema. Loko yosu moh kai.”

    Getting to her feet, she felt the binding powers of the Druid spell. Her sword dropped to the ground with a clang as blue magic swirled around her, paralyzing her. Her silver hair flowed freely around in the air as the Druids stopped chanting. Her gold eyes searched for any escape. “You will be tried in the court of His Royal Majesty, King Marot of Dystaila.”

    A low ranking Soldier, a Private, picked her up and set her on a horse after binding her hands. The Squadron Capitan gave orders to return to Djera, the capitol of Dystaila. It was only about a week's ride from the forest. The week passed and she was to be in court, to be convicted.

    The entire court arose as King Marot entered and took his seat. The girl was staring with hatred in her eyes at him. “So, Lady Ishera Langot of Hestre; it says here you have killed Lord Farence Drake of Kiytres. How do you plead?” “Neither innocent nor guilty sire!”

    The King was taken back at her comment, but regained posture almost immediately, “why would you say that, Lady Langot of Hestre?” She smirked, “I killed him in return for my beloved's soul that cries unto me in the afterlife. I enjoyed it as well. I will not deny either fact, sire.”

    The King paused, “Then you must die, for it is law my child. How you die, I leave it up to you.” She readily picked the sword her lover was killed with, the one she had in the forest with her. Instead of suicide, she tried to fight her way out. She killed thirty-two men before several blades went through her body.

    She was buried next to her lover, Teir Gond, on a clear autumn day under a cherry tree. No ceremony was held, but her tombstone told all: Here lies the Syren of Hestre; Ishera Langot, 1467-1483.