A Fawn Renewed

((CLOSED TO PHILOMEL))

An invitation was sent to Philomel van Oort. It read, "A challenge awaits you at the Citadel in Radsanth. A man named Max Dirks seeks an audience and a battle to awaken the 'horse' from her slumber."

A twenty one year old Max Dirks sat cross legged in the center of a blank 30x30x30 room in the Citadel. He was adroit in his classic outfit: a perfectly laundered white jumpsuit covered by a black trench coat. Though not visible, his twin Berettas were safely holstered to his shoulders. His appearance was a far cry from the grizzled old man who barely survived 'the end of all things.' A lot had happened since then. No one outside of her family or her guild had seen the fawn Philomel in sometime, but Dirks had no doubt she would show. When she did, she would be greeted by a plain room with an impressive secret. Here, she would find no bounds on her power, just as Dirks had no bounds on his own.

Horse? She was no horse! Fury filled the mighty warrior as she stormed into the room, letter that had eventually reached her in her hidden fortress screwed up in hand. Violently she threw it in a wad at the feet of the man before her, eyes ablaze, jaw set. Indeed, the man had dragged her from her retirement, built up a fury within the faun, essentially forced her hand ... Yet here she was.

The ball of paper rolled until it hit his boot toes, as she came to stand opposite him, legs fiercelessly steady and set apart, hand resting on the hilt of her mighty sword Nameless. Her hair was pulled tightly back, the now purely chestnut brown hair long and matted, and no makeup to hide the scars and old wounds. She was fitted with her drakescale and chain breastplate, but aside from that was all without adornment, the old jewelry gone, the practicality of motherhood having taken over everything.

"You," she hissed. "Max Dirks."