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Life is Cruel.

Her birth was celebrated by only her mother alone in and in a small barn. As far back as she could remember there was never a place she could call 'home'. They never stayed in one place for long, and Tilawen was never given a chance to make friends. There was only one particular instance she recalled staying in a village for longer than any place than before. She had been allowed to roam whilst her mother 'attended' to something.

The adults in that village gave her a wide berth, avoiding her at the most and ignoring her in the least. It was better than the children, who had cornered her against a stone wall. Children are not cruel by nature, but often spoke cruely when afriad of something they didn't understand. Her hair was a deep red, her eyes a light green. Her skin dark and the crystals on her body different than their own.

It was perhaps the eldest boy and girl who picked up on the fact her mother was Oban and thus it designated her as the enemy.
Children who didn't understand the changes of the time, only influenced by those who had lived through the wars, and the invasion of the Oban army. The information was removed from the truth and made to sound as if all Obans were indeed evil.

She recalled being pushed, various stones being thrown at her. At least until an adult noticed the gang and quickly broke them up. Tilawen was crying, numerous bruises and small cuts adorning her small body. Her mother was called, but she didn't come. Unsure of what to do with her, the remaining adults of the village awkwardly watched over her.

When the sun was about to set, her mother returned. She bore similar marks as her young daughter, and anger lit in her gaze as she demanded to know what happened.

Gathering up Tilawen, they stayed in the only place available to them another barn. Wither people didn't trust her, or old hate was blinding them to their need it was unsure. Tilawen would recal this was the last time her mother held her this way. That warm comfort that allowed you to cry into your parents sleeve until you had cried yourself to sleep.

There was fire. The events the came to past were such a blur to her. She remembered it was hot, too hot. Her own voice screaming as flames licked at her legs and arms. A mother trying to shoulder the brunt of the fire by protecting her young one. The fire was rumored to be an accident. A animal from the barn had knocked over a lantern and though they escaped their temporary shelter was burned to the ground.

Rumors spread, it was her mother who had set the fire. A ridiculous rumor indeed since both mother and daughter suffered from burns, who would set a fire while still inside the building? An unjust rumor, and it spread faster than any fire could.

Sticking to the village her mother had tried to find someone who would help them. An old woman who could not bare to watch their suffering volunteered. She had wished to attend to the mother first, but was instructed to help the young girl. The burns on Tilawen's arms and legs were nothing compared to her mothers back. By the time Tilawen had been helped, a fever had taken over, and the burns had become infected.
Tilawen recalled the strong pungent smell of puss that made her gag and want to throw up. The ramblings of her mother as the fever refused to go down. Her health was failing. The old woman was not a healer by trade, only knowing traditional medicines that would help lives stock. She did her best but it was of little comfort to a young child who would weep at the side of the only person who ever shown her love.

Tilawen recalled feeling numb, the old woman had taken off her mothers charred clothing and had prepared her for burial. In the small pile of discarded clothes Tilawen sifted through it and found her mothers bracelet which she claimed as her own. Her mother was buried unceremoniously in the pasture the only attendants being herself and the old woman.
She was young and for a time the old woman tried to look after her, perhaps out of pity or obligation. For a time things felt normal although never quite the same.

Life is cruel.

The old woman died in her sleep only a few months later.

Her memory is hazy for this period of her life, she recalled a man coming. Gruff words being spoken as she was dragged quietly and listlessly out of the house. Words were spoken harshly, she avoided looking at him her gaze cast to his legs and feet. A strange tattoo on his left leg was what she fixated on until out of frustration at her being non responsive he left. It would only be later that she would discover that this man had been her father and he had left to her own devices.

Tilawen wandered aimlessly through the village. Like a ghost who was haunting them she never spoke and only survived on scraps that people left out for her. As she got older however those small tokens of kindness became fewer until they stopped happening. She was old enough to know that her presence was like a plaque a quiet and unwanted blight upon the town.
Although it was considered trespassing she would often visit where her mothers body was buried. One day however the new owners of the land chased her off brandishing sickles and scythes. Tilawen was no longer able to visit and there was nothing left to tie her there. Picking up a walking stick she began her long and aimless trek which be considered her lot in life.