For as long as I could remember it had just been my father and I. To outsiders we might not appear to a family. There were never any friendly hugs between us, no kind words or terms of endearment between father and daughter. We might have been strangers who had met. But he was all I had and I loved him.
My father was a strange man. He was righteous, but he was also driven by a burning passion to ensure one particular evil doer was set to rest. However, he knew that it was unlikely he would be the one to do the task, having little use of one of his arms due to a horrible event, the same that had killed my mother and scarred me.
And so he attempted to transfer his passion for right onto me. I was trained in the use of a bow and arrow and small daggers. My father had hired a man to train me in the sword once, but as each time I used it I appeared to get worse than the first time that had not lasted long. So instead of a sword he had prepared for me a bow and quiver, and a supply of arrows.
I can recall the day he had given me one arrow in particular. It was different than the others, he had carved it himself out of the darkest wood he could find so that it glistened almost black. It was to be a special arrow.
"Take this Alexican. And promise that if you ever get the chance you will go after that murdering bastard and you will fire this right into his heart. Promise me that you won't miss," he urged me, holding the arrow out to me, his eyes burning with an almost scary passion.
"I promise,"I had gulped. I had only been 9 years old at the time, a mere child though I had never had the playthings the other children had had. I had never really been around many others apart from my strange father.
I had had a mother once. Until I was about 1 year old I had had a mother before she had been killed. My father refused to speak of it, and I was too young to remember, but at night sometimes I would dream of fire, of a woman holding me in her arms and screaming at a man who was standing in the fires, untouched. I dream of the man drifting away like smoke, of my mother screaming for my father, of her growing faint from the smoke and slowly falling to the ground, still being careful enough to ensure that it was not I who hit the ground first. I remember hands reaching through the flames and, on some nights when my screams have not already awakened me, I dream I see disappointment on my fathers face when he realizes that he has only rescued me. While my father refuses to confirm whether these dreams had any truth or not, his arms carry scars, the ones on his right being burned in so deep that he can barely use the arm. And light scars pattern my own body. Funny though, if I had really been pulled from the flames then shouldn't my body be more scarred than the light silvery outlines it carries, light scars that are barely visible to the human eye?
All my father will tell me of that fateful day is that Ukoar caused it. He murdered my mother and one day he should pay for that crime. One day I was supposed to make him pay.
And I would. But not for revenge, although the death of my mother often played on mind. I had been brought up with a strong sense of what was right, and that what was wrong should be punished. And Ukoar had done much much wrong. His murder of my mother was enough of a crime to justify my one day killing him, should I get the chance, but that was not his only crime. Each of the races had their own list of crimes that the man had committed and I had sworn that one day I would ensure justice would prevail and that Ukoar would get the punishment owing him.