Out of Character:
He was surrounded by faceless stone and heavy rank air, in an oppressively small room with no paths in and only one way out. The cavern was no more than a pocket of claustrophobic darkness deep within the Raiaeran earth, lit by a single brazier that flickered erratically despite the complete lack of wind. The arcane flame was a beacon as well as a source of light, reaching out into the war-torn homeland of the High Elves in search of suitable souls to complete its anointed task. With each individual it ensnared it grew gradually weaker, the murmurs of its fate-borne whisperings fading away like haunting echoes into the shadows.
For the moment, however, there was only one figure in the room, a motionless young man tucked away in the far corner like an unwanted ornament. He sat with his legs folded beneath him, on the cold hard floor facing the brazier; the flame reflected upon the armour of burnished gold he wore, playing upon the spectacles nestled on his brow and dancing in the depths of his darkly sensitive eyes. Beyond the object of his silent contemplation was a single doorknob embedded into the rock face, although there was no visible door to match it. It was easily identifiable as a portal, and Ingwe Helyanwe had no doubt as to where it led.
He felt distinctly uncomfortable seated in the shadows, decked out as he was head to toe in the Regalia Valora, the ancient relic that had been entrusted to him by powers far greater than he. Ingwe disliked the feel of metal against his body at the best of times, and although the mythril was far lighter and more flexible than the vast majority of armours he was used to, it seemed to cling to his clammy skin with every breath he took. The remainder of his attire was completed by the staff propped up against the wall by his right hand, along with the shield resting against his thigh and the twin daggers he wore on his back. Part of him felt slightly overdressed in such resplendently extravagant finery; the other part knew that there could be no such hesitation when preparing to face one of the Forgotten Ones, the Dread Lord Xem’zund himself.
He sat within one of the last of the Necromancer’s strongholds, a hidden crypt deep within the Raiaeran soil beneath the Lindequalme. Ingwe didn’t know how it had been built, or how it had been found, or why it had been deemed appropriate that he should find himself there. All the young man knew was that beyond the innocuous-looking doorknob lay Xem’zund’s final resting place, to which the lich had been driven to after the fall of the Obsidian Spire and the siege of Narenhad, and his defeat at the hands of Nalith and Prince Turgon on the banks of the River Escaldor.
Neither did Ingwe know who had placed the beacon in this small hidden chamber, or how they had managed to smuggle it so close to the Forgotten One’s lair, or whether or not Xem’zund was aware of its presence and had taken the time to prepare a lavish welcome for them all. What he did know was that it had taken over twenty assorted Bards and Magi nearly two days to decipher the song in their heads and then prepare the ritual to send him to his current location. Such was the effort required that Ecthelion had warned that they might not even be able to track him, much less communicate, once he left the Legion of Light behind. Ingwe had only smiled gently and bade them take care, to concentrate on their own destinies as he would on his.
It was the job of himself, and that of any who joined him in that small chamber before the fire in the brazier sputtered and died, to defeat and bind the powerful demi-god who lay in the chambers ahead. Only then would Raiaera and its peoples be allowed to embark upon the long and hazardous journey to recovery.
He had no doubt that his companions would soon begin to arrive, drawn to the crypt like moths to the flame in any manner that fate saw fit.
Until then he closed his eyes and clutched gently at the pendant upon his chest, and allowed his thoughts to roam as they would… the path he had walked until the present, the dreams he held for the future, the battle that he would soon be asked to fight…
… and those who had given him the strength to come thus far.
He would either redeem their faith in his abilities and prove himself worthy of returning to see them once again, or he would die trying.
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