This was written by my oldest son quite a few years ago
(I think 5th or 6th grade)
I have his permission to share with everyone.
Arya was raised by her uncle after her parents were executed by the Imperial government. This happened when she was six, all of the children treated her like an outcast. She was always the outcast of the town. Her parents were gone, but their legacy lived on. Parents that were common farmers turned criminal by looting a guard commanders house and burning the stables down. It took the convincing of the entire town to keep her from being killed due to her parent’s crimes. But keeping her alive was a mistake. She had been in secret teaching by her Uncle ever since she could control a blade. Her Uncle was a stocky, muscular man, used to the heavy battle axes and war hammers the brutes of the Imperials would use so often. Since he was used to such different techniques it was a rough start, but he succeeded in teaching her the basics of stealth and one-armed combat. She had become a deadly instrument in her own right. Her archery was unmatched by any in her Hold. A master of lock picking, pick pocketing, all the elements of a legendary thief at her fingertips. By the age of 15, she had surpassed even her uncle’s expectations.
It was four days before her coming of age when it happened. She had gotten sloppy. She had for so long been like lightning, never striking the same place twice. One day she got cocky. The tent of a Nobleman stationed just outside the city walls. The same man that she had robbed months ago. This time he was prepared waiting for the thief to return. He had found her and was about to cry for the guards when by instinct she unsheathed her mothers knife and slit the mans throat before he could utter a word. Her first kill. What could she do now? She couldn’t leave empty handed. The commotion had woken some of the soldiers outside. She grabbed the man’s trinket box, wrapped it in her cloak, and made her escape under the wall through a private entrance. As she pulled the brush back over the entrance, cries echoed from the camp.
She needed to hurry. She barely had to time to get back into her home and get undressed to convince the guards she had been there the entire time. She had gotten out of her robes and leather armor and hidden it under the wooden planks of her kitchen. She donned her ragged robes and awaited their arrival. There it was. A couple minutes after, the guards, swords drawn, waiting for her to open the door. She had barely enough time to unlatch the door before they forced their way in, knocking her to the floor. This wasn’t the average guards. These were the elite. The night black velvet and ebony chain mail armor. The golden crest of the Brotherhood of the Damned on their sleeves. The one faction she didn’t want to be associated with had now invaded her home. Their weapons forged of the finest steel available, held at the ready in case of any counter-attack. They seized her, picked her up from the floor, bound her hands and feet while their leader gagged her. She was helpless for only the second time in her life. The first when she was a child held at knife point. She was just about to fight back when — Skjor.
Where was her Uncle? Her only family left. Her eyes darted around the house frantically. “Aha, looking for your dear Uncle are you now? Tsk, tsk my dear Arya, now you know who we are. You know we can’t leave any loose ends. The only reason you’re alive is because we have some questions for you. Mason, if you will.” *Thump* With the sound of a hilt smashing against a skull, Arya lost consciousness…
Written by Christopher J. Ambrosio