The first time I met Dara Aldora Griffiths Hart, she looked like a beautiful young woman, not even thirty years old, with golden blonde hair and stunning features. But even at first glance, it was clear she was far more than she appeared. Her demeanor was polite and reserved, pleasant and patient, but she was very private and wary of being noticed in a crowd. For a woman as lovely as she was, she took extra care to hide her beauty, covering her hair and her face and always wearing an imposing suit of steel armor that largely concealed her feminine figure. Any conversation revealed a woman far older than her flawless wrinkle-free skin would suggest. Her stories and experiences were those of someone who had lived a long and full life, always punctuated by a deep sadness and longing for home far to the north in the mountain-shielded villages of Endora. The stories that she shared were those of a humble but strapping farmgirl, not the warrior she appeared to be. I would quickly discover, however, that there was far more to this young woman than I could ever dream.
Adalard the Just
Armor of Sorrow 