Whispers in the camps.
Stories.
Proclamations of those who, by their own admission, should never had made it back alive.
Never any sign of her with the assembled forces...
A spectre. A phantom who taken up the sword of an Aerai against the cursed ones.
And truly, for it seemed that of all the Aerai, for all they said of their telepathy, none could feel the presence of another one of them out there.
They say she dwelt in the ruins of Ilmarin, a lone temple in the forest, just a few kilometers from Nórë Sérë... a place almost hallowed in solemn reverence by the Aerai. Some of the allied forces, however... they say that place is haunted, and so is anywhere near there.
One was never safe in the dark. Not this dark. And not even here, in this sacred place. There in the great hall of a long forgotten temple of her people, she found herself met with almost a dozen unwelcome guests. Most of them were monsters, but she could see those cursed brethren of hers - and only for them did she utter a single warning.
"Turn back," she commanded, grasping her sword and drawing it free from its sheath.
At her back, a grand image of Astra stood tall, her arms and eyes beholding above.
They were silent, not so much as a hiss, and they moved upon her.
Steeled was her gaze. Blazing was the magic in her eyes, peeking from behind her helm. Her sword was alight with electric power, unleashed only in brilliant, controlled strikes with every blow. One dark monster fell, and then another. Clashing blades with one of her fallen kin, though sorrowful, was swift. They too, fell.
And nearly as quickly as they had come upon her, the monsters had found their end.
For a moment she looked upon those who had been cursed by the evil in their land, and she bid their souls a peaceful sleep. And then there in the midst of all those she had slain, she knelt. She set her sword there before her. She lifted the helm from her head, and set it there just beside. And then she laced her hands with her index fingers pointed up, and her thumbs as well. Her elbows dropped, her chin lifted, and her eyes became closed.
And quite some time did she remain like this, reciting this plea again and again.
And then she stopped. Her elven ears rarely failed her, and always she trusted them. But in her gut she trusted far more. She hadn't heard anything, but she had felt something. She took in a deep, relaxed breath. Her hands fell onto her lap.
Stories.
Proclamations of those who, by their own admission, should never had made it back alive.
But she saved them.
They could not say who. Her face was covered by the mask of a dark helm, and a shadow cast by her hood. But her sword glimmered as one of the Aerai's did, and it slew even the most terrible foes like lambs to the slaughter. But never so much as a word.
Never any sign of her with the assembled forces...
A spectre. A phantom who taken up the sword of an Aerai against the cursed ones.
And truly, for it seemed that of all the Aerai, for all they said of their telepathy, none could feel the presence of another one of them out there.
They say she dwelt in the ruins of Ilmarin, a lone temple in the forest, just a few kilometers from Nórë Sérë... a place almost hallowed in solemn reverence by the Aerai. Some of the allied forces, however... they say that place is haunted, and so is anywhere near there.
One was never safe in the dark. Not this dark. And not even here, in this sacred place. There in the great hall of a long forgotten temple of her people, she found herself met with almost a dozen unwelcome guests. Most of them were monsters, but she could see those cursed brethren of hers - and only for them did she utter a single warning.
"Turn back," she commanded, grasping her sword and drawing it free from its sheath.
At her back, a grand image of Astra stood tall, her arms and eyes beholding above.
They were silent, not so much as a hiss, and they moved upon her.
Steeled was her gaze. Blazing was the magic in her eyes, peeking from behind her helm. Her sword was alight with electric power, unleashed only in brilliant, controlled strikes with every blow. One dark monster fell, and then another. Clashing blades with one of her fallen kin, though sorrowful, was swift. They too, fell.
And nearly as quickly as they had come upon her, the monsters had found their end.
For a moment she looked upon those who had been cursed by the evil in their land, and she bid their souls a peaceful sleep. And then there in the midst of all those she had slain, she knelt. She set her sword there before her. She lifted the helm from her head, and set it there just beside. And then she laced her hands with her index fingers pointed up, and her thumbs as well. Her elbows dropped, her chin lifted, and her eyes became closed.
"To thee, Nykios, I slay these: these servants of the dark,
forgive me, forgive my failure.
Open the gates of your halls -
let my offerings be for those.
Punish not for my failure
for deeds left undone
...
forgive me."
forgive me, forgive my failure.
Open the gates of your halls -
let my offerings be for those.
Punish not for my failure
for deeds left undone
...
forgive me."
And quite some time did she remain like this, reciting this plea again and again.
And then she stopped. Her elven ears rarely failed her, and always she trusted them. But in her gut she trusted far more. She hadn't heard anything, but she had felt something. She took in a deep, relaxed breath. Her hands fell onto her lap.
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