Out of Character:
Closed to those with prior permission


The first of the spring zephyrs spawned in the mountains of the Twilight Peaks that separated Raiaera from Alerar. She was a playful and sprightly sylph with inner warmth about her that had not been felt before that year. Eagerly she swept eastwards from the impassable snowbound slopes, completely ignoring in her childish excitement at being set free upon the world the multitudes of dark masses gathering in the valleys before her.

Faster, ever faster she built up her momentum as she raced down towards sea level, breaking free of the slate grey peaks out onto the open plains. The last of the winter snows withered at her passing; she dipped down to caress the blighted earth, urging and coaxing what scant life remained within to be brave and show itself to the outside world. Against the necromantic tendrils that sought to bind and corrupt her, she adopted the guise of an invincible valkyrie, sweeping them mercilessly before her path until they retreated to the fastness of a half-finished tower of black obsidian and she could pursue them no longer. She tarried at its base, concerned as to its purpose, but then destiny called to her and soon she left it behind.

The joyous bubble of a river than had broken free of its icy restraints reached her ears, and she changed direction slightly to chart its course eastwards across the heartlands of Raiaera, at the base of a great green forest that reached for as far as her eyes could see on the northern horizon. For long stretches upon the flat lands she could make out the scurrying figures of small bands of warriors, all converging towards a single rapidly growing mass. As she approached at speed, she was soon able to make out that the single mass was in fact a disciplined congregation of smaller formations, each awaiting in readiness to cross the river at what obviously was a fording point. An unseasonable chill tickled her spine at the sheer numbers of the army below her, and once again she sought to tarry, instinctive fear warring with childish curiosity.

One figure amongst all those on the ground beneath her dominated the rest, if not in size then in the sheer presence of its spirit. Clad in black rags darker than any night, its true form disguised behind layer upon layer of concealing spells and runes of warding, every last minion moved to its will like slaves to an emperor. Abruptly it seemed to notice her presence, glancing upwards with shapeless dark orbs to pierce her with its glance…

No…!

Primeval fears of shadow and flame, far more ancient than even the eldest of the memories she harboured, ravaged her fledgling mind with greater violence than any rampaging tempest. She screamed, a wordless, soundless scream, and fled towards the distant coast. Whatever warmth she had managed to retain in her arms was lost in that one moment of pure terror; by the time she arrived at Anebrilith, she was but a suggestion of her former self, a frosty whisper barely felt amongst the forlorn banners of the besieged battlements.

***

The Forgotten One was not the only presence to take note of the harbinger of spring. Barely five minutes march into the tree line on the northern bank of the River Escaldor, an Elf had her face upturned to the murky sky, her eyes closed as she sniffed daintily at the chill. She wore a sky blue cloak over a full suit of silver-plated mythril, an intricately wrought scabbard at her waist holding her weapon of choice – a single-edged curved blade with a flute-like hollow worked into its core. It was said that she could draw her sword, incinerate a necromancer by weaving its innate magics, and then replace it into its scabbard, all within the blink of an Elven eye. And that was saying nothing of what she could do with bow, spear, or even her bare hands.

Her name was Nalith Celiniel, and by High Elven standards she was a young warrior. Her rank was High Bladesinger and Lady General of Raiaera, and she was both the only known survivor of the pre-war High Bard Council, and the ranking officer amongst what remained of their armies.

“Arwenamin.” My lady, a voice addressed her from behind. She recognised it as belonging to one of the select cadre of veteran Bladesingers who had survived the opening battles of the war and now acted as her trusted lieutenants and dedicated bodyguards. “Our scouts report that the foe has crossed the river and begin to probe the forest.”

“Good,” she spat, her regal refined features writhed in an expression of extreme disgust. Her distaste for everything non-Elven was well known, but her hatred for the undead that had ravaged her homeland and murdered her comrades was nothing short of legendary. “Let them come… today, we are ready.”

Arrayed behind her, deployed in concealment amongst the dark boughs of the evergreen conifers and oaks, was a redoubtable force of Raiaera’s finest. Rangers checked the strings on their bows, whilst Bladesingers tuned their weapons and prepared their voices for the battle ahead. Wanderers stood aloof and wary, Bards gave their blessings, and Tel Aglarim regulars girded their loins and steadied their hearts.

To her fore, the thick foliage disguised one of nature’s cunning traps… a funnel of rock and sheer cliff that guided all potential attackers from the river into the narrow mouth of a treacherous defile. It went without saying that the steel-tipped bolts of the ballistae she had brought at great trouble from her winter camp at Eluceliniel were aimed squarely down its length, ready to skewer any who marched forth through it. She had other tricks up her vlince sleeves as well, of which one in particular…

“Where is the human?” she asked harshly, and there was no need to qualify the person in question with a name. Only a handful of the younger race had survived the plagues that had heralded Xem’zund’s advance, and she could count on three fingers those who had actually made a contribution to the war effort. Godhand Stryker was the first name on both of those lists, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had to honour him by actually making use of it.

“Chafing, my lady,” her subordinate replied with a wry wrinkle of his nose. It was not easy dealing with the powerful warrior.

“Tell him that as soon as the fighting begins, he may do as he wishes.” At the very least, he might take out one or two of the undead commanders… with any luck, who knew? Whether he survived or not was of no concern to her, but she did count her blessings that, with a great deal of patience, she had managed to convince him to accompany them on this march. A pity he is not an Elf, she thought to herself. Else he would make a good hero.

It never quite struck her that he was already a legend.

The taint of necromancy hung heavy over the forest now, eating away at the sanctifying wards like some corrosive acid. Between the acrid stench of decay and the proximity of the unholy power, the back of Nalith’s head throbbed as if it were already under attack from the sheer force of Xem’zund’s will. She knew that the spellcasters in her ranks would be fighting hard to keep the effects of the nearing miasma from paralysing her troops.

In the distance a shadow moved, then two. Undead, for no Elf would be so careless.

Nalith bared her teeth in a feral snarl, lithely ducking down to join her bodyguard. Rank upon rank of battle-hardened faces tensed as she bade them wait, whispering again,

“Let them come. This time, we are ready.”