Sacrifice: Winter, Part 2

Name: Milla Latcher, aka Winter

Race: Unknown; Gifted.

Age: 46

Appearance: 22

Hair/Eyes: Pale Blond, almost white; Iced Violet

Height: 5'8"

Personality 2: Winter/Milla - Insane and tortured of mind for both what was done to her at the hands of the enemy and what she was taught and told and programmed to do by the commanders of those like her. "I see the blood upon my hands"

Bio 2:   Winter/Milla - They told my family that I was gone; they were informed of my death. I was trained since my most special birth along with those like me to be sent off to war to near certain death at the hands of the enemy.

            I was once a very beautiful woman in my youth. I am immortal, but in my youth I was very beautiful. I smile as I relate this to you. I was always very pale and I remain still so. I am tall and slender. I remain so. I am blond. Very blond. Silky white blond. I love my curls; they hang so lovely down my back, just past my slender hips.

            My skin is pale. Very pale. My eyes light violet. One is. The other is not. For there is no eye any longer, but once they were very beautiful. I will tell you the story. In battle one morning in the early morning after many years of torturous war that plagued my mind each hour, someone, wielding an ax, and another a sword split open my face, from my forehead to my jaw and cracked open my skull. My eye socket shattered.

            The enemy took me. I was once very beautiful. I sigh. I close my eye briefly. I wear no patch. They kept my destroyed eye. They put it in a jar at my dungeon bedside while I healed. I was dead inside as I recovered.

            I once had very beautiful wings. They were white and very lovely. They plucked my wings. Ripped out my lovely white feathers. I was dead inside. They returned black from the flesh that was scarred. Some did not grow back at all. I miss them. My wings are horrid. I am saddened.

            My hands are long and elegant. My nails were clean. No longer. They are pale. Long scars cross their backs and around the wrists. They are healed, but deep dark red. I look at my hands and I cannot help but still see the blood covering them, my own, or someone else's. I do not know. Is it there? Is it not? I do not know. Do you see it? Is it standing beneath my nails? I have done nothing. I swear this to myself. Do you believe me? I am dead inside. Do not forgive me.

            I came home. I wanted the love and acceptance of my family. Needless to say: I expected it. I believed that they would still love me, my aging parents and my siblings. How wrong I was. How wrong!

            They took me in, this family of mine, sheltered me unto the light of day! They gathered a mob against me, this family of mine, this mother who bore a thing so close to divine. Once she who was proud and honored, now despising lovely me! Lovely I say. I laugh as I tell you this. I laugh.

            In her little wooden house she was so proud that her daughter was defending her people. She wept when told that I was dead. I laugh. She sent mobs to chase away or kill me when I so grandly returned home, my horrid wings whose stringy black feathers moving with the nights breeze. I slept soundly the night in my old bed before I was betrayed by fear... and hate.

            So grand was my return. Again I laugh. Laugh at this notion.

            Those who rescued me from my prison entombed...believed that I would die. Hoped that I would die. Die while in their care. They told my lovely family not... that I still lived.

            They rescued me. I made them take my eye as well. I carry it with me. Always. They hoped that I would die as they thought. I lived. I recovered. They had to set me free into the world... bearing the hope that someone else would do the deed for they.... As they could not bear to, not bear to kill the thing that had fought so valiantly for their cause for so many endless years. And so they set me free with good hopes... into the wilderness to die, but I found my way home... in all of my lovely glory.

            When they set me free they took back the clothing they had loaned to me and replaced it back with the rags and armor scraps that had once been my glorious uniform in which to fight for my people, now my uniform that had rotted away in the dungeon over the years passed.

            Perhaps it would have been best, had come soon my demise in that such filthy dungeon in which rotted away my life, for then I would not be here to flee from those who once so loved me, who once so doted upon mine name, flee from those for whom I gave my life.

            I was born Milla Latcher, the oldest of two children in a poverty stricken village in the land of my home. The war had been going on for generations with the land to the North, fought by those who cared to fight, and fought by those taken from their homes by force, ones such as I.

           It was then, when I was fourteen a searcher came to the village and took me away to be trained with several others seemingly more than average... faster, stronger, and magically inclined individuals, to be sent off to die for the the great cause, deemed so by our King....It was an honor of course, we were heroes.... though none ever came back from this war, they just were rehabilitated and sent back into the fray until finally death would claim them at the hand of the enemy or when rehabilitation was no longer possible... and we would die at the injection of our own physicians, and so I saw go... all those who had been with me in the beginning.

           At first it was an honor to be chosen... as I grew older I realized that it was a death sentence in which neither I nor those like me had any choice. Forgive me, for I rant.


                                                        I am quite sane, I assure you.