The Conquest of Mytheyr

Vath stayed close to Teren during the battle. He was awkward with his borrowed sword, but his knives didn’t have enough reach. They’d just get him killed. Teren, however, killed a thrall every five seconds with his spear. There was always a ring around Teren that was clear of enemies, and Vath tried to take advantage of that, getting a hit in when he could.

Vath felt overwhelmed, helpless and useless. Here he was, hiding behind someone else and just hoping he didn’t die.

“OI!” barked a voice. “What are you doing, boy!?” Vath looked for the source of the voice and saw a spectral Dark Elf. He was unusually tall, even for an elf, and had long black hair in a pony tail that reached his knees. Intense blood red eyes were brought out by his red and gray clothes, simple but obviously very rich. He seemed familiar, somehow. His face wore an expression of extreme annoyance. “You’re not supposed to be here! Do not think they brought you this far for a frivolous reason!”

Vath just stood there in surprise. The ghost groaned and ran towards him. Vath flinched as the ghost raced right through him. The ghost kept on running until he reached the end of the hall.

“Well!?” the ghost roared over the loud din of battle, “Are you coming?”

Vath hesitated for a brief two seconds. Then he jumped past Teren and cut his way through the hall. He didn’t stop to wonder why the sword no longer felt so heavy and awkward, or how he suddenly knew how to use it, or why it was faintly glowing. He just followed the ghost through the battle, slaughtering anything that dared to try and slow him down. Why was he filled with such a sense of urgency? Why did he feel like he couldn’t move fast enough? Why did he feel like he was almost too late?

The ghost stopped in front of a set of double doors, and disappeared in a wisp of smoke. Vath heard a sharp cry of pain from within the room. He dropped the sword, which had become heavy once again. He threw open the doors, and saw Morgan falling.