Dark Clouds and Bright Hopes
Silver, blue, and white flashed against a grey backdrop of overcast sky—Manorrah’s silken cape was flapping in the wind. She was poised atop a low rise which provided substantial reconnaissance of the surrounding country. The dense woodlands around Ruffingham were behind them, and in its place was a rolling prairie dressed in a smatter of thickets. Nothing short of invisibility would permit an enemy to approach their camp without being detected by the vigilant eyes of the elven princess. From her vantage, she saw that Naznoak was still sleeping, and the early-rising altar was practicing with the glaive.
The tranquility of the moment gave Manorrah time to reflect on the events of recent days. The living altar was, in many respects, exactly as she had envisioned—humble, devoted, pure, and pious—but in other ways proved to be quite unexpected. In retrospect it was a silly notion, but she never anticipated the altar would be so subjective, so…susceptible. This did not diminish Manorrah’s deference, however, quite the opposite, it heightened those feelings, for it was all the more impressive that the yedenite altar was committed to chasing her perilous destiny.
Naznoak was a pleasant surprise as well. Sure, he lived up to many zemju stereotypes, but his actions demonstrated noteworthy virtues as well. Whether driven by zeal in service to the gods, or by the irresistible call of Suuma’s Curse, Manorrah could not completely tell—perhaps it was a blend of both—but his courage and kindness in the defense and care of the altar was inspiring. The princess bemoaned having to part ways once they achieved Nuuthrogh.
Dark clouds over Ermoc had been rolling towards them since before dawn. Symptomatic flashes of white light, and the low-pitched rumbles which followed, grew ever more fearsome as the storm neared. Manorrah’s shimmering shawl flapped wildly as the force of the wind intensified. Billowing over the camp, the clouds contracted a sickly green tinge. Raindrops exploded on the unyielding surface of Manorrah’s ornate steel breastplate. A particularly abrasive crack of thunder jolted Naznoak from his sleep. Reflexively, he gripped the axe resting at his side. Undeterred by Tylaruun’s rage, Manorrah and Troshander held their ground. With nowhere to hide, there was little else to do but wait for the storm to pass.
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