Overshadowed by a range of mountains to the south, a sea of trees stretches far as the eye can see. The ground is largely even, save for the snow. A howl tears through the woods now and again, but the absolute silence of the dead wood all around is nerve-wracking.
You have 48 hours until the battle starts, and 2 week until it ends. No time-frame on daily posts.
Even a well-lit place can hide salvation
A map to a one-man maze that never sees the sun
Where the lost are the heroes
And the thieves are left to drown
Calm and Cold, and how they became Mithril.
Vengeance. The word echoed in Lillith Kazumi’s mind. It echoed above the chill wind that lanced across her flank as she marched intrepidly. It resounded over her heartbeat, deep and undulating with apprehension. It thundered, most worryingly of all, over the wail of the Greater Oni that followed the spirit warder unfalteringly. Little known to mortals and gods alike could sate their thirst. The death of Lichensith Ulroke, however, would appease it for a time.
Before vengeance, she had to survive. Out here, somewhere, he would be waiting. Even with her skills and the threads she wove together to cross paths with him again he was sure her arrival would be no surprise. A master assassin, after all, expected jealous rivals. Who the rival was when they set eyes on one another, however, would be quite the revelation.
“Never again will I lose my life to a slaver,” she hissed. Her breath froze, a billow of smoke from draconian nostrils.
The dead wood began to creak the further west she travelled. She was getting close at last. The leader of the Crimson Hand evoked death as much as she evoked the bitterness of jealousy and the wrath and ruin of rage and war. Her aura, anathema to her own senses, lashed out unseen for any remnant of life in winter’s grip. It found none, but claw marks appeared on wood and pinpoint tracks appeared in her wake; the legs of a crab and the pad of a fox. She snarled.
Berevar's biting breeze burrowed beneath Lye's leather attire. The assassin, reformed and reborn, found himself ill suited for the heat of the main battle. As he trudged through he endless seas of wood and frost, faint echoes of battle made their way to him. Hungry zealots clashed for a chance to prove loyalty, might, and prowess. A year ago, he would have stood amidst them with blood on his blades and a smile upon his lips. Now, he kept to the shadows and out of the fray. Where his boots took him remained a mystery to all but himself. Through the snow, Lye continued onward, a new goal in mind.
Until, the soft flow of wind carried a faint scent uncommon to the desolate tundra - a sweet, yet familiar aroma.
Lye reached to his back where the blades of four evils remain holstered.
"Famine," he whispered in a fog of his breath.
With a click, cold steel bit into the air and found themselves gripped in Lye's leather gloves. He stood offensively, eyes sharp to any movement, and listened. The assassin's mind reached to recall the face tied to the smell, but failed to remember. Regardless, it was not the aroma that drove him combat, but the aura of determination, resentment, and sacrifice.
It was the aura of vengeance, and it was close.
"All mortal men possess the capacity to do evil. Some are simply more capable than others."- Anonymous
The further into the wilderness Lillith travelled the more harrowing the landscape. Civilisation seemed to fall away with every step. Soon, the dead wood became a thorn weald, pristine and white and cleansed of colour. Only the sky; brooding, threatening, and sultry overhead afforded any illumination and hope.
"<We meet again,>" she said through grit teeth.
The oni simmered but remained contained. Lillith fought to keep her calm, choosing words, not weapons to strike the first blow. Though she could not yet see her prey, she knew, she sensed, and she expected him beyond a rise. Snow gathered around the trunk of a great tree, clawed, dripping with ichor, and a portent of doom.
"<New face, old hatred.>"
Lillith was not sure how she knew Lye was close. All the same, her stomach turned on its own accord, free of daemonic restraint and she bent her knee to sneak on. Tip toes, delicate footwork, desperation climbed her up the incline and at its crest, she peered over like tigress hunting. Sure enough, bladed, and as pallid as she, the man who had killed her once already in this lifetime was ready.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't cut you down where you stand!" Her voice projected with force, carried by a shrill wind that danced down the slope alongside her veiled threat. She stayed out of sight long enough for him to hear without immediately seeing the speaker. "One ideal to cling to that stays wrath!"
The Tigress ascended.
Closed for judging.
Even a well-lit place can hide salvation
A map to a one-man maze that never sees the sun
Where the lost are the heroes
And the thieves are left to drown
Calm and Cold, and how they became Mithril.
Lillith, no rewards given.
Even a well-lit place can hide salvation
A map to a one-man maze that never sees the sun
Where the lost are the heroes
And the thieves are left to drown
Calm and Cold, and how they became Mithril.
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