At forest’s edge, Gwenddydd the sorceress closes her eyes and steels herself. More psychically attuned than her warrior kin, she doesn’t simply hear the faint screams of the doomed and the dying from out on the killing field; she feels their pain and woe like slivers of ice thrust into her consciousness. She feels the pain and sorrow of warriors like Blodwyn, their misplaced confidence evaporated like morning mist. She senses the terror and agony of Rangers like Carys, as they suffer the agony of the brutal wounds inflicted on their bodies by cruel Goblins. She experiences the desperation of young Elves like Aeronwen; unwilling sacrifices robbed of their future by an ancient bargain made aeons before their birth. She tastes the bitter rage and denial of older Elves like Iola, as they suffer an undignified and lonely death in the wet mud; sent to their doom by the basest and meanest of all the sentient creatures spawned by the darkness.
Watching too, are the Glade Knights, awaiting their turn to be called into the battle. They need no magical intuition to see that there are more Goblins defending the fort than any of them had expected; that the battle hangs in the balance.
They know the time is fast approaching when they will be sent into that storm of arrows, to finish with steel and strength what bows alone have failed to deliver.
bodak
2025-03-04 19:48:05 +0000 UTCbodak
2025-03-04 19:31:49 +0000 UTCPicardJean-Luc
2025-03-04 19:26:03 +0000 UTCBeerman
2025-03-03 22:37:20 +0000 UTC