~ First Movement – Overture ~

***

Snowdrops floated like vagrant wanderers from the heavens overhead, aimlessly meandering upon the ash-strewn wasteland. Momentarily their combined efforts obscured the worst of the devastated Raiaeran city from sight, dampening the heavy stench of death and decay under the purity of their itinerant paths. The hour was nearly midnight, though the low-lying clouds secreted away the moon and stars as if they were precious jewels destined to languish forever at the back of a safe; the silence was almost absolute, only emphasised by the thick blanket of white that had cast itself over the ruins of what had once been Trenyce.

The last few days had been fresh and warm, heralding the arrival of the reborn spring. The snowfall seemed to symbolise that Lady Winter herself realised this, and had gathered her powers unto her for one last show of might before she finally relinquished her grip.

The majority of the occupants of the rubbled buildings paid the weather no heed, crystals of cold clarity that built up on rotten flesh and motionless shoulders. Those who commanded this undead army either blessed the snows for the twin advantages of concealment and time it bought them over their bitter High Elven foes, or cursed the wintry wet for the chilly stiffness it inflicted upon their brittle bones. Only one soul in the entirety of the city luxuriated in the beauty of the frozen petals, watching on in innocent delight as they concealed the morbid desolation of the undead stronghold.

It was not long before she stepped out into the stillness, her long flowing robes distinctly outlandish in their folded weave as they blended seamlessly into the snow-strewn cityscape. Her shoulder-length hair was a stark black against the whites and greys that surrounded her, the colour of the shadows that undulated at the very edge of her vision. Her light tread left crisp footprints as she slowly ventured towards the centre of the tree-lined clearing, revelling in the sensation of fresh snow beneath her feet and the faint signs of life that flowered in the hearts of the drab foliage.

Spring has called to them, and they respond, despite all that has happened… she murmured in her mind, upturning her delicate features so that she could taste the snowdrops on her alabaster skin. One landed neatly on her pale lips, melting away into a gentle smile. Winter serenades them with one last lullaby before they wake…

Her mind was focused in a pleasantly blank equilibrium, devoid of all the fear and worry and trouble that had plagued her over the past few days. She felt for all the world as if she too were one of the petals floating on the breath of wind, gliding through the darkness as if guided by the wings of destiny themselves.

In the centre of the clearing the young woman paused, inhaling deeply of the frigid air before slowly releasing her breath. A sustained blast of foggy steam escaped skywards; she watched it leave her behind, mingling amongst the falling snowflakes before disappearing from sight. For a long time she did not move, allowing herself to be overcome by the pervasive peace that cocooned her in this brief moment of eternity. It was all so… quiet.

So… tranquil…

Suddenly she stabbed the staff she held into the snow-lined earth. Bleached brown and exquisitely slender, it quivered there in the mud before finally settling into position like a makeshift flagpole, a lonely marker of human presence amongst the monochrome splendour of the winter-touched night.

Taking two steps away from the staff in the direction she had come, she once again stopped still, closing her luminous black eyes to her surroundings. Her thoughts whispered to her like predatory sirens seeking to banish her concentration, but with effort she managed to silence them and maintain the mirror-like calm of her soul. Once again her mind was poised as blank as any slate, savouring the now in breathless anticipation of the next moment.

Eyes still closed, she folded her knees beneath her and settled into the snow, ignoring the bite of the cold through the cotton fabric of her trousers. One slim hand reached out to rest on the hilt of the short kodachi she wore at her waist, trembling imperceptibly at the palpably murderous intensity emitted by the ornately decorated weapon. It was as if the finely forged steel was seeking to influence her with the very aura of its presence; an elegant, beautiful sword it may have been, but it was first and foremost a killing tool.

Long moments passed by as she seemed to hesitate, composing her thoughts in a succinct poem of the type favoured by the courtiers of her homeland. Around her the snow continued to pile, the shadows continued to loom, and the wind whispered in her ears as it blew soft flurries against her face.

Snow falls from spring skies,
Winter’s breath upon my face,
Night flees before me.

When she moved again, it was with the swiftness of a swallow in flight. Her blade seemed to literally leap from its saya, and her eyes flashed open with resolution and intent. Her initial stroke sliced open everything in its path… air, night, wind, snow, and even the very silence itself.

Rising to her feet in one fluid motion, Yuka Kanamai began to dance.