The baby girl looked dead when she was found on the doorstep of Illmater’s Orphanage in the rough city of Dul’tha. Her pale skin was cold to the touch, her lips had turned blue, and certainly she was too weak to cry. The caretaker looked at the frost-covered pavement, then at the black sky pierced by one flickering star. “An ill omen”, she muttered to no one and picked up the bundle. Upon closer inspection, the weathered woman noticed the child was likely a newborn, still stained with blood, but her tiny chest rose and fell. She was alive.
They named her Emma Thornfield; a simple name worthy of a simple orphan, and she joined the ranks of Dultha’s numerous grubby urchins. She was treated just the same as all the rest; fed just enough gruel, beaten into obedience, and taught her ABCs. Emma developed at a similar rate also, except for her apparent refusal to speak. The doctor said there was nothing to prevent her from forming words. Her fully functioning vocal chords made themselves regularly known. She woke screaming from night terrors almost every night, invoking the wrath of the other children and the on-duty caretakers.
They started calling her Mute – sometimes mockingly, sometimes with pity – and the nickname stuck. Even in her earliest memories, Mute was the name that everyone used to address her. Emma Thornfield was just a formality; the legal name written in fading ink on disintegrating paper in a rotting basement.
This was something of a disapointment to Mute, who disliked the derisive tone often used with her nickname. She relished those rare moments when an adult addressed her as Miss Thornfield because it made her feel like somebody important, rather than an orphan that nobody would miss. Sometimes, when she was the last one awake in the drafty dormatory of Ilmater’s Orphanage, Mute would imagine a future where a butler would call her Lady Thornfield, and she would look out the window of her mansion to a garden filled with the sharpest roses.
Unfortunately, these pleasant daydreams were usually crowded out of her mind by something much less welcome. Mute’s thoughts were often dominated by unwelcome intrusions; whispers that crept into the recesses of her consciousness at all times of the day and night. They frequently spoke nonsense, or they were too faint to make out, or they were in another language altogether. But when she could understand, it was about forgotten things, forbidden things, or things far away. Occassionally it was commands. Yet even without those, Mute was victim to compulsions. Sometimes it felt as if some unseen force was guiding her every move. It brought her to strange places, urged her to evesdrop and steal, and even directed her to complete rituals that seemed to serve no purpose at all.
Througout this all, there was the feeling of being watched; a presence just beyond the edges of perception. Mute had been told about the lone star that marked her birth – the supposed “ill omen” – but Mute felt it was something far more sinister; something that had marked her from the moment she drew her first breath.
Still, it also had the capacity to pacify just as much as pain her, and that’s why she scrambled to the roof to gaze at the sky most nights. Whatever it was, it was powerful. It demanded her attention, although she wasn’t sure it paid any attention to her. She couldn’t move – couldn’t tear her eyes away. When the sun finally rose, she felt it’s influence wane and her body was returned. She stretched her freezing limbs and crawled to the edge of the roof, ready to sneak back inside for breakfast.
Breakfast was watery porridge, which Mute consumed in silence amist the chatter of her fellow orphans. Amongst the first to finish, Mute wasted no time in washing and drying her bowl. The matrons watched her wordlessly. They didn’t stop her when she left the hall and exited the building, which she was thankful for. Birds chirped in the yard while she took care of her neccessary bodily functions in the outhourse. Then, as she slipped out the side gate of Illmater’s, she made her way towards the sounds of the market. There she could scrounge and beg for food and coins, but more importantly she could follow the promptings of her curse to find secrets.
It was a slow day. A dead dog yielded her a leather collar she could sell, but that was all. On the plus side, the voices had been quiet and the girl had even dozed a little on the cobblestones without dreaming. When she opened her eyes again, most of the market stalls had closed, and Mute dragged herself to her feet. It was time to go home. However, on a whim, she thought perhaps she would stop by the bazaar which stayed active through the night as well as the day and would therefore be open.
It was full of lights; lanterns, torches and dancing whisps created by the mages. Mute’s mouth twitched into a smile. It was warm in here too, with so many bodies and flames enclosed in one giant tent. A pair of guards, with hands on swords, gave her a hard look – the bazaar was a little less friendly to penniless orphans than the markets – so Mute moved on quickly. Her gaze lingered on plenty of of treasures she could never afford, items she would risk execution for if she dared to take them. Eventually she found herself in front of the Seer’s tent. Even in a crowd, an aged elven woman locked eyes with Mute and beckoned her forward.
Me? She gestured to herself disbelievingly. The elf nodded.
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