It looks like this.
Close to the bank of the river, a cluster of trees spread their branches above a pool of shade. In the gathering darkness, the figure hidden there is motionless, almost invisible in the gloom. A lone bird sings its farewell to the sun as it soars overhead. The wind casts a series of ripples across the surface of the water, breaking and re-breaking the reflection of the trees. All is still. If you did not have the ears of an elf, you might almost think it was a peaceful scene.
But Nirhen can hear them coming. She smells their foul stench on the air, hears their grunts and shouts, hears even the thud that their heavy footsteps make on the blameless ground. Still, she waits, a silent, silhoutted figure, sword in hand. She resists the urge to rub the smarting cut on her arm. She had wanted to draw them on more quickly – make them think that they were gaining, and the day-old trail was still fresh. Given their speed, it seems to have worked, although she cannot be sure whether their haste is down to her success or their own stupid rush to catch the apparently wounded target ahead.
She does not even know what happened to draw these rats out of their hole. She had turned back to the mine as soon as she heard the commotion, but by the time she arrived, whoever had been there was gone, and there was only a seething mass of angry orcs, making any close examination impossible. It was only once they had retreated from the day's light that she had found the signs: a torn scrap of black cloth snagged on a broken piece of wood, and smudges of blood, marking a trail. If she could follow it, so could the orcs, always keen on the scent of their foes' blood, and so she had set herself ahead of them, using the day to find a suitable spot to wait. She has failed her company in her absence, and now at least one of her own, one of the few still clad in the Order's black, is hurt, and all of them are in danger. But she will not fail at this.
“It's all in your timing, daughter. You have to learn patience! Choose the right time to fight, and make it your own.”
She is among them even before they realise that this is the end of the trail, blade flashing as she cuts down two before they have even turned to see what hits them. They are not a large group – apparently she can be grateful for their complacency at least. Even so, the fighting is fierce. She only manages to dispatch another couple before they recover from their confusion and press her back against the tree she had previously used for cover. But this is a dance Nirhen has been dancing for hundreds of years, for generations upon generations of her kind, and one she has never lost yet. They are slow where she is quick, they are enraged and stupid where she is ice-cold and calculated, and against her conviction of victory, none of these creatures can be allowed to stand.
None do.
The fight is over, and she is left tasting blood. She stands among slumped corpses and dying orcs, smeared with the blood of both, and yet knows that she is the cleanest that she has felt in some time. This, at least, was easy, uncomplicated. These creatures are evil, and posed a risk to their company, and now the risk is done. The blood staining her sword, smeared across her hands and clothes, is blood which can only be welcomed. This was right.
Limping slightly from some blow, she makes her way over to the river, easing herself down into a crouch so that she can wash the blood from her blade and face. Her hauberk is more than simply stained – she finds a long rent in one side, although the blade that tore it has barely grazed the skin below. It is a surface wound, the blood already drying, and significantly less troubling than the damage to one of her last remaining hauberks. None of her other minor injuries is as troubling.
Nirhen leans out over the surface of the river, splashing water methodically up and over her hands, face and neck. The last of the wounded is dead, and there is silence by the riverside once more. She lingers for a long moment, combing water through her long hair with her fingers and watching the ripples slowly fade from the water until a face slowly takes shape, no longer obscured by gore. The dark-haired, dark-eyed elf, fresh bruises already blossoming along one side of her jaw, seems almost a stranger.
“I scarcely recognise you,” she had laughed, one slim hand held out in greeting. Before all the world had shattered.
Impatiently, she splashes a hand through the reflection, scattering ghosts and images alike, before levering herself a little gingerly into a standing position. She takes a moment to twist her hair out of the way once more, before setting off, gritting her teeth against the discomfort running causes. It is time to rejoin the group.
