Scyla Revanos - Death's Handmaiden

[Wicked]

Now, I understand that I am the last person you really wished to see at a time like this.
But with that said, I am likely the last person you will see.
So, please, try to maintain your composure and let us face this transition together
with a sense of tact and confidence that this is not the end.
-Scyla Revanos



​

Name: Scyla Revanos
Age: Mid-Late 20's
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Occupation: Acolyte of Kelemvor
Voice type: Cold and mature, with a slight 'English' accent
Quirks, strange mannerisms, and/or annoying habits: Often quiet, she is a listener. Tends to only add to a conversation if she feels it's important/relevant to the topic at hand. Serious to a fault, but capable of 'switching' without warning if it calls for a softer touch, if only to put others at ease.
Hair color and type: Stark white and long
Eye color: Light grey
Skin tone: Pale caucasian
Scars or physical deformities: Unknown
Mental illnesses: Unknown
Height: 5'11”
Weight: 165lbs
Body type: Lean, toned, and athletic
Religious Preference: Follower of Kelemvor
Family: Deceased
Allies: ---
Enemies: Undead​

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The Last Time
"Thank you for coming, we're sorry for contacting the temple so late in the evening."
The middle aged woman, flanked by her husband and two children, opened the door wider to permit entry into the modest farmhouse on the outskirts of the city. The dark robed visitor entered quietly with a subtle nod of the hood.
"It's my mother. She's been sick for days. I- I think she's getting close to-", she stopped speaking as the robed woman lifted a hand and gestured for an escort to the bedroom. "Ah, yes, of course. My apologies. Right this way."
A short walk through the small home took them to the back of the structure, where the sounds of a wheezing cough could be heard getting steadily louder. Upon opening the door the source could be seen, bedridden and weakened by illness, the elderly matron of the family. She was trying to do her best to put on a strong front for the younger generations, but the expression faltered when she laid eyes upon the visitor.
"Oh? Is it time? I suppose it is, hmm?"
The robed woman stepped forward towards the bed as she reached up to pull back the hood, revealing pure white hair that conflicted with her still youthful face. Her expression, cold at first, softened as she regarded the old woman and she nodded slightly to confirm.
"Can my family stay, to see me off?", the grandmother glanced past to the people clustered around the doorway to the room.
The white haired woman murmured, "If they wish."
"Thank you, dear.", she smiled weakly as she reached out to take the stranger's hand, who took it without hesitation. "My name is Editha, what is yours?"
"Scyla.", giving the frail hand a gentle squeeze, she looked back as the family drew closer to witness their elder's final rites before she turned back to face her, taking a knee beside the bed. "Don't be afraid, Editha. As you know, this is not the end of your journey. From here your essence will transition to the afterlife, where Kelemvor will judge your deeds fairly and without bias. But this is a time for the celebration of your life. One that was long, and full of many accomplishments, both great and small.", with a subtle incline of her head Scyla drew Editha's attention back to her family, as if for emphasis.
"Now, let us start at the beginning, Editha. Tell us of some of your fondest memories throughout your years, so that you will continue to live on in the minds of those that care for you the most..."
With a deep wheezing breath, taken with purpose and renewed vigor, Editha started to tell her tale. For the last time.

​

More to come...

 

[Wicked]

​

What Can Be Unlearned
By candle light, a child no more than eight years of age was focused intently on the careful calligraphy of committing words to paper. But with the sound of a whip-crack, the young girl felt the reed lash the back of her right hand without warning, "Disgraceful! Do it again, Scyla, properly this time."
Scyla looked at the partially unrolled scroll of parchment in front of her, and the list of names she had been composing in an elegant script with fresh ink and quill. Her eye was drawn immediately to her grievous error, looking at it in retrospect it was painfully obvious. She had miss-spelled the name. Two of the letters were transposed, turning Jainus into Jianus. She took the edge of the scroll with one hand, and using the edge of writing desk, tried to tear the used portion from the remainder of the whole in as straight a line as possible. She then crumpled the torn section with a discrete wince, over one hundred names, it had taken her hours to commit so many to the parchment. Only to be tossed aside, to start anew. The little blonde-haired girl looked up to her harsh instructor when she was ready to continue. Her writing hand was marred by a growing red welt from the stick, but the tall, prim woman apparently paid no mind to the girl's discomfort.
"I'm sorry Mother. Shall I continue?"
"You will, but first tell me the importance of committing these names to the scroll. Convince me that you understand their significance.", looming over the girl, she crossed her arms, reed in hand and waiting.
"Yes Mother. Jergal, the one true god of the dead, commits all of the names of everyone who dies as a record for the end times. We, the devout faithful of Jergal, must also scribe the names of the dead to assist him in accounting for the death of everything."
"Good, that is satisfactory. You would do well to remember for as long as you live under this roof, you will abide by our rules and the wishes of Jergal. If that means writing until your hands cramp and your fingers wither, until you get it right, then so be it. Do I make myself clear?"
With the reed wagging beside her head as her mother spoke, Scyla stared hard at the blank scroll laying in wait before her, "Yes, Mother. I understand. The Final Scribe guides us, to the end."
Seemingly placated, her mother nodded and stepped away from the child as she started once again the arduous duty of transcribing the names of the dead to blank paper.

"Adjust your grip, girl! One hand on the handle, the other on the base of the shaft, at least shoulder width apart! I won't remind you again!", the voice of the man carried across the small clearing to where Scyla, roughly ten years of age, was swinging a fortified farming tool at a straw stuffed dummy lashed to a wooden post in the ground.
She corrected her grip on the scythe and once again took up an attack posture on the target. The midday sun was beating down on her with no shade to be seen, and the heavy black robes were stifling, and seemed to be growing heavier on her with each swing along with the weapon. She wasn't entirely sure if it was fatigue, or the sweat being absorbed by the thick material. She quickly drew the conclusion that it was probably both.
"Sorry, Father!", running at it to swing again, she was rewarded with a small burst of straw as her strike cleaved off one of its 'arms'. She also took note of the three men approaching the house, making their way up the long path from the road. Each one dressed in the robes of Myrkul. She immediately knew this would likely not end well.
"Scyla, keep practicing. I want to see that dummy in pieces by the time I return.", her father spoke as he turned away from the training grounds to meet the visitors not far from Scyla's current position, still barely within earshot. It was hard for her to make out at first, the conversation seemed to start on a polite note, with soft spoken words. But that didn't last long at all. Soon enough both sides were raising their voices to the point of yelling. Her father was refusing an offer of some sort, whereas the strangers were beginning to accuse him, and by extension her family, of fanaticism. Through all of this she continued to swing the scythe at the training target, hacking it to smaller and smaller chunks of straw and material, as she grew increasingly frustrated. Her mother had come out of the house and joined her husband in the confrontation, which only served to escalate things further, as she went to meet them wielding her own scythe. As she stared down at the remains of the dummy, now merely a wooden cross with scrap remnants of clothing left hanging from it, it dawned on her that the source of her frustration wasn't the accusations by the followers of Myrkul. But rather the accuracy. Were her parents fanatical followers of Jergal? She had read the teachings herself, and her parents seemed to take them to extremes, she had been beaten enough over the years to attest to that. Also the late night discussions they held, when they believed her to be asleep. Expressing a desire to move away from the city, so as not to be disturbed. The open contempt they held for the Dead Three, refusing to acknowledge their existence if at all possible. They claimed that Myrkul, Bane and Bhaal were usurpers to the rightful god of the dead.
Her personal reflection was shattered by the sound of her father yelling her name in a tone that was normally reserved for the most heinous of misdeeds. The tone that promised impending violence.
"Scyla! My scythe. NOW."
She dutifully brought the weapon she was holding to him, placing it into his outstretched grasp as she stared hard at the ground. She could see the feet of the visitors backing away cautiously, before fully turning to retreat when her parents both took a step forwards.

A different house. A new life, they had called it. Scyla looked around the property surrounded by forest, a young woman of fourteen years sitting in a thicket at the edge of the clearing with the dark, heavy robes aiding in concealing her among the shadows. In some respects still a child, but in others much older and forced to mature out of necessity. Yes it was something new when they left the city four years prior, but nothing had actually changed. Not for the better, at least. 'Cultists' is the label her parents had earned for themselves. Extremists who had twisted the faith of Jergal into something perverted and evil. Some even suggested that they had started to kill in Jergal's name, claiming that it was simply the victim's time, as a way to justify the crime. Scyla couldn't speak to the accuracy of such claims, her parents had yet to allow her to see to a dying one's last moments. But the rumor was apparently enough for the bounty board, and it drew the adventurers who sought the payout.
Which in turn brought Scyla to the situation she had found herself in. The hunting party was approaching as slowly and quietly as possible, but not so well that she didn't hear their advance and use the opportunity to hide in the forest undergrowth. They now had the property surrounded, unaware that one of the 'cultists' were in their midst, not far from a very large man with an even larger sword. She could have reached out and touched him, if she chose to. But she remained silent. She had made her choice.
The party passed her by and continued their advance on her home, and she gave her parents no warning. Inside the house, her mother screamed, the sound cut short abruptly. Her father gave a bellowing roar as he went on the offensive, and she was sure he got a couple good swings in with the scythe before he too fell. As for Scyla, she never moved from her spot at the edge of the forest. She was in quiet prayer to Jergal, to Myrkul, to any deity that would hear her. Once the hunting party had left, taking with them anything of value, she finally left her hiding spot and returned to the house. She found it in complete disarray. The invading party had done a thorough job of overturning anything not nailed down. Her parents, what was left of them, were left in bloody heaps upon the floor. She took some time to gather their remains, and tend to the burial and rites. After all, it had obviously been their time.
Now alone for the first time, she went about cleaning the house, reorganizing and putting everything back in its place as best she could. All the while keeping an eye out for any remaining valuables that she might be able to use, and paying close attention to the tree line, in case the party were to return. She didn't find much, not that she had expected to, but she did know of a couple places her parents hid their coin and jewelry that were overlooked. Taking what she could, and collecting her own scythe, she left the house behind.
It took her some time, but she eventually found other Jergalites who accepted her into their homes and helped her to correct her skewed vision of Jergal's teachings. But this time of peace and personal reflection didn't have the opportunity to last long, as within a few short years the Time of Troubles began.