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This is the prelude of a story I'm writing about one of my Role-playing Characters. She's a knight named Beatrix Brightblade. She has a special purpose she's still unaware of. I'd tell you, but that'd spoil the story. I'll post chapters here as I write them~

Prelude

The night sang as the raindrops fell from the blackened sky. The rumbling of thunder echoed overhead and the clouds lit up like a raging flame as the jagged lines of lightning whisked down to the earth. There was no silence; in fact, there was anything but silence. Yet with all the chaos in the clouds above, the true darkness was yet on the solid earth below, for a war was about to erupt.
On one side there had amassed a massive force, drenched in the smell of death and decay. Soldiers risen from the depths of the next life, with spears and blades in hand, stood in formation upon formation at the base of a great plateau. Their frail figures were but vague images of what they once were. Flesh had rotted away for most of them, becoming a pale yellow skeleton worn with age. Others retained some humanity, but their eyes were white and soul-less, an their skin was marred beyond recognition. Yet they stood as any other, not breathing, only staring into the black night and the lands beyond them.
On the other side stood but one figure. A woman, slightly middle age and adorned in a white dress-like battle suit. It meshed against her chest and had no sleeves, and then down below her belt it fanned out like a dress with the front cut away. Bits of armor plating lined her waist and parts of her left arm, and a hefty metal gauntlet embraced her left hand, wrapping up the side of her arm to her elbow. Long, curly brown hair spread across her head, covering nearly forty percent of her face and dropping down just above her breast line. At first glance, one would have thought that she was a noble, but they would not see the sheath hidden inside her dress, where rested a long, articulately crafted sword with seven glowing orbs melded into it's hilt.
The wind slowly began to pick up speed, throwing her hair away from her face and revealing a soft, gently textured skin. Her head itself was slightly more round than one might have thought, with a tiny chin and a small, rounded nose. Her eyes were a deep brown, matching perfectly with her hair, although there was a faint glow of yellow in their cores, making it look like fire against the darker color beyond it. And finally, her soft, supple lips drew across her face, coated with a thin layer of liner.
She was a beautiful sight to behold, and yet her face wore the hardened expression of a warrior. Her face sang of glorious battles and even her muscled forearms and legs gave her the impression of one schooled in the ways of war.
As she stared coldly across the field before her, she looked to the trees, the lakes, the streams. Soon they would all be gone, consumed by the uncaring force of hatred and aggression. The trees would become blackened shards, barely able to stay vertical. The lakes would be tarnished with soot and decay as the power from the canons choked the very life out of it. And the streams would turn red as the blood of both the living and the dead would quench the life-giving water itself.
This is what had been wrought by greed and suffering. This is what her life had become, or at least had become apart of. She had sat by once and watched as cities burned and people were bled dry, but now she had within her the power to end it.
Once upon a time, though, even she was once the child of a mother; a mother she had watched die in front of her eyes as the howl of chaos ripped across her town and laid waste to all that dared stand against it. The story of this warrior, this paladin of hope, begins a long time ago, in a happier time where the dead did not yet rise anew, and where bloodshed was only caused when one cut themselves preparing meals. It begins rather simply, however. It begins with laughter.