Going Home
Posted: Thu Jan 01, 2026 10:23 am
The dawn of her leaving Tremalking came pale and uncertain, as though the Light itself hesitated to watch her go.
Eight years she had waited.
Every ship that came and went. Every trader’s rumor. Every season that turned without word from him had been weighed—and set aside. She had measured the cost of staying against the cost of leaving, the promises she had made against the vows she still carried.
Each evening she stood barefoot on the stone lip of the harbor, listening to the Sea Folk bells chime with the tide, scanning every returning sail for a familiar figure. Sundar was Daishan—strong, disciplined, loyal to her and the Red Eagles of Manetheren. Men like him did not vanish without reason.
The island had taught her stillness; age had taught her that recklessness was not courage.
But now, the waiting had grown heavier than the leaving.
****
The long, deep blast of the harbor horn reached the tiny house, brushing against her sleep.
Tahla stirred, drawing the blankets closer as the soft purring of One-eye rose from the weight at her feet.
“I told you I would always find you,” a voice laughed in her dream.
“You cheated,” she replied, glaring.
“But that is one of the many reasons you love me, no?” came the response.
Two sharp blasts of the harbor horn tore through the dream, scattering it like mist.
Tahla woke with a quiet sigh, wiggling her toes beneath the cat’s weight. One amber eye cracked open, regarded her with mild offense, and closed again. Smiling, she freed her feet and stretched, joints clicking softly in protest.
“Old man,” she murmured, “I am feeling my age of late.”
Stepping outside, the morning chill wrapped around her, carrying the sharp tang of brine. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sky, the rosebud inked at her neck—its petals dark and just beginning to part, a restrained flame stirring —warming faintly beneath the rising light.
Shivering, she headed back into the cottage to retrieve her shawl, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. At the hearth, she coaxed the embers to life, poured water into a cast-iron pot, and prepared her morning kaf—bitter, grounding, steady.
She headed back outside, kaf in hand, and sat barefoot on the porch.
Her gaze drifted to her ankle, where a fragile chain of reeds and dried grass had been tied by an island child years ago. Careful hands had repaired it countless times. To be a child again, carefree, she thought—when the only weight one carried was a gift freely given.
The harbor horn sounded once more, long and low.
Something inside her shifted.
For eight years, all she had done was wait, sustained by hope. Now, standing still seemed wrong—purposeless, endless.
Clarity settled over her like armor.
She knew the core of who he was—thoughtful, deliberate, a man who did what was necessary without noise or waste. He was not someone who would simply vanish without cause. His favored daggers were gone as well which gave her pause. Wherever he had gone—into shadow, silence, or darker snares—he would not walk alone. Not while she still drew breath.
****
Tahla moved slowly through the house, touching everything once more: the carved lintel Sundar had shaped, the woven wall-hanging she had finished during their first winter, the low table where they had shared bread, laughter, and long silences earned through time. The house still smelled faintly of him—leather, oil, and salt carried in from the sea—though the scent had thinned, as memories do.
In the back room, the chest waited.
Made from consecutive bands of oak and sungwood, solid and unadorned, its lid was held fast by two silver latches, fashioned as roses in full bloom. She knelt before it, her fingers tracing its worn surface, and released the latches. As she lifted the lid, the silver roses caught the morning light, glinting softly and the small rosebud tattoo at her neck, only just visible, mirrored the gleam of the latches.
Marked in the Red Eagle way, not for beauty, but for remembrance—love that endured fire, loyalty that survived.
Inside, every item was known by heart: her wedding sash, red embroidered with the Eagle of Manetheren; the twisted silver ring received from a Sea Folk Windfinder; the smooth stone etched with Courage Endures; the dagger Sundar had pressed into her palm the night she first admitted fear of the sea.
At the bottom lay the most precious—a strip of red cloth torn from his armband, a silent vow that had not worn thin.
Tahla closed the chest gently.
“I will come back,” she whispered. Hope still needed a name.
****
By midmorning, the chest had been sealed and placed in the Mayor’s keeping. Each relic—the sash, ring, dagger, and armband strip—was to remain untouched should she not return.
She touched the outline of the stone tucked into her pocket. Courage Endures. She would need much of it for where she was going.
The Mayor, solemn, rested his hand upon the lid.
“You place a great trust in us,” he said.
“With all that I am,” she answered. “It is not to be opened or passed to another.”
“I swear it,” he said.
Only then did she turn away.
She boarded the Sea Wind, her cloak wrapped around her, her sword secured across her back, the promise of heavier weapons that awaited her. She held firm at the rail, eyes fixed on the horizon, ignoring the creaks of the ship and the crew’s calls, a fast-receding Tremalking behind her.
The island was already a part of her memories, of the dreams she would carry with her. Dreams that ended at dawn were behind her.
She was choosing motion over memory, carrying Manetheren’s fire in her blood. The sea stretched wide before her—merciless, uncertain, threaded with years of unanswered paths.
Yet, she was not sailing into the unknown.
She was returning to memory—the hills and stones of her childhood, where the Red Eagles had first taught her what it meant to stand.
She was going home.
Eight years she had waited.
Every ship that came and went. Every trader’s rumor. Every season that turned without word from him had been weighed—and set aside. She had measured the cost of staying against the cost of leaving, the promises she had made against the vows she still carried.
Each evening she stood barefoot on the stone lip of the harbor, listening to the Sea Folk bells chime with the tide, scanning every returning sail for a familiar figure. Sundar was Daishan—strong, disciplined, loyal to her and the Red Eagles of Manetheren. Men like him did not vanish without reason.
The island had taught her stillness; age had taught her that recklessness was not courage.
But now, the waiting had grown heavier than the leaving.
****
The long, deep blast of the harbor horn reached the tiny house, brushing against her sleep.
Tahla stirred, drawing the blankets closer as the soft purring of One-eye rose from the weight at her feet.
“I told you I would always find you,” a voice laughed in her dream.
“You cheated,” she replied, glaring.
“But that is one of the many reasons you love me, no?” came the response.
Two sharp blasts of the harbor horn tore through the dream, scattering it like mist.
Tahla woke with a quiet sigh, wiggling her toes beneath the cat’s weight. One amber eye cracked open, regarded her with mild offense, and closed again. Smiling, she freed her feet and stretched, joints clicking softly in protest.
“Old man,” she murmured, “I am feeling my age of late.”
Stepping outside, the morning chill wrapped around her, carrying the sharp tang of brine. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sky, the rosebud inked at her neck—its petals dark and just beginning to part, a restrained flame stirring —warming faintly beneath the rising light.
Shivering, she headed back into the cottage to retrieve her shawl, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. At the hearth, she coaxed the embers to life, poured water into a cast-iron pot, and prepared her morning kaf—bitter, grounding, steady.
She headed back outside, kaf in hand, and sat barefoot on the porch.
Her gaze drifted to her ankle, where a fragile chain of reeds and dried grass had been tied by an island child years ago. Careful hands had repaired it countless times. To be a child again, carefree, she thought—when the only weight one carried was a gift freely given.
The harbor horn sounded once more, long and low.
Something inside her shifted.
For eight years, all she had done was wait, sustained by hope. Now, standing still seemed wrong—purposeless, endless.
Clarity settled over her like armor.
She knew the core of who he was—thoughtful, deliberate, a man who did what was necessary without noise or waste. He was not someone who would simply vanish without cause. His favored daggers were gone as well which gave her pause. Wherever he had gone—into shadow, silence, or darker snares—he would not walk alone. Not while she still drew breath.
****
Tahla moved slowly through the house, touching everything once more: the carved lintel Sundar had shaped, the woven wall-hanging she had finished during their first winter, the low table where they had shared bread, laughter, and long silences earned through time. The house still smelled faintly of him—leather, oil, and salt carried in from the sea—though the scent had thinned, as memories do.
In the back room, the chest waited.
Made from consecutive bands of oak and sungwood, solid and unadorned, its lid was held fast by two silver latches, fashioned as roses in full bloom. She knelt before it, her fingers tracing its worn surface, and released the latches. As she lifted the lid, the silver roses caught the morning light, glinting softly and the small rosebud tattoo at her neck, only just visible, mirrored the gleam of the latches.
Marked in the Red Eagle way, not for beauty, but for remembrance—love that endured fire, loyalty that survived.
Inside, every item was known by heart: her wedding sash, red embroidered with the Eagle of Manetheren; the twisted silver ring received from a Sea Folk Windfinder; the smooth stone etched with Courage Endures; the dagger Sundar had pressed into her palm the night she first admitted fear of the sea.
At the bottom lay the most precious—a strip of red cloth torn from his armband, a silent vow that had not worn thin.
Tahla closed the chest gently.
“I will come back,” she whispered. Hope still needed a name.
****
By midmorning, the chest had been sealed and placed in the Mayor’s keeping. Each relic—the sash, ring, dagger, and armband strip—was to remain untouched should she not return.
She touched the outline of the stone tucked into her pocket. Courage Endures. She would need much of it for where she was going.
The Mayor, solemn, rested his hand upon the lid.
“You place a great trust in us,” he said.
“With all that I am,” she answered. “It is not to be opened or passed to another.”
“I swear it,” he said.
Only then did she turn away.
She boarded the Sea Wind, her cloak wrapped around her, her sword secured across her back, the promise of heavier weapons that awaited her. She held firm at the rail, eyes fixed on the horizon, ignoring the creaks of the ship and the crew’s calls, a fast-receding Tremalking behind her.
The island was already a part of her memories, of the dreams she would carry with her. Dreams that ended at dawn were behind her.
She was choosing motion over memory, carrying Manetheren’s fire in her blood. The sea stretched wide before her—merciless, uncertain, threaded with years of unanswered paths.
Yet, she was not sailing into the unknown.
She was returning to memory—the hills and stones of her childhood, where the Red Eagles had first taught her what it meant to stand.
She was going home.
Just an OOC note that this post is a backstory to why Tahla is back as I have had players asking me if the player of Tahla is leaving mud again