Liriel eyes the city of Rathir tiredly. Tilera strides before her, eyes fever-bright and exuding an aura of confidence.
The General may feel confident about this but Liriel doesn't. The Ljosalfar sighs, resting her right hand on the pommel of her longsword. The sylvanite blade thrums with electrical energy.
Beneath her breastplate, the totem she's carried with her since Allestar (since before) almost sings, the sound eerie and at the same time comforting.
The song goes unheard by mortal ears apparently. The Ballads Fae had told her such, regarding her with curiosity when she ascended to the throne of the Court of Ballads when the king had fled rather than face the Maid of Windemere. It was rare for a mortal to hold such a totem. They were created from pure spirit, the feelings of a particular Fae and were gifted only to those closest and dear to that Fae. The totem was of Winter make, or so Hallam the White had said.
Something pulls at her very spirit, and-
— a flash of silver eyes glittering in a dark face, amusement and a shared vengeance between two warriors, firelight and the scrape of whetstones over blades, cold air slashing at her cheeks, sword sinking deep into a dark-eyed Tuatha, voice hoarse from screaming —
Liriel shakes herself, re-focusing on the cityscape. She needs to repair her shield, among other things before leaving to speak with Elund Carth.
Magic flows through her very veins, through the veins of her people, her ancestors. Reaching for that magic is more instinct now than it had been in her previous life. The staff at her back needs repair, the focusing crystal cracked from a run in with an Ettin War Priest at the edge of Acatha.
The blacksmith takes one look at her staff and raises dark eyebrows. "I'd get a new staff, miss," the Dokkalfar advises, setting the staff aside and examining the large dents in Liriel's azurite shield. "Crystals can't be repaired by anyone who isn't a master sage-crafter. The only one here is normally at the Scholia Arcana but left on business last week. All the other master craftsmen are devoted to supplying the war effort."
Liriel bites back a curse as her totem shudders against her heart, sharp energy lancing through her skin.
—Irritation, annoyance, cursed Tuatha, strike fast from the shadows, hurry—
"Do you have a recommendation then?" Liriel asks, when the pain and anger that is not hers fades to a dull ache in her chest.
"Marisal over there, she sells a few staffs," the man says jerking his head towards the scowling Dokkalfar woman yelling insults across the room at another Dokkalfar male.
"They're married and they still argue every bloody day," the blacksmith complains, hammering at the dented shield. "Anyway, if you leave this with me, I'll have it ready by day's end."
"Thank you," Liriel says, taking her staff back and moving towards the weapons merchant.
She leaves the shop with a lighter money pouch and a new staff heavy across her back. The white focus crystal had cost a bit more than she would have liked but the merchant wouldn't budge on the price after an hour of haggling so Liriel had just let it be.
She had been offered a prismere crystal but Liriel had felt revulsion at the mere idea of using prismere in one of her weapons, bile rising in her throat as she shook her head and chosen another focus instead.
—glowing shards of crystal, a voice booming overhead, bright malicious eyes, a thunderous roar—
Liriel tastes blood as she ascends the steps to the higher parts of the city. Her totem has been flaring with power ever since the fight with the Niskaru tyrant in the far reaches of the Forsaken Plains.
It's been bringing back bits and pieces of her memories as well. Small things, sometimes simple and other times sharp and harsh. She's not actually sure if all of the memories are hers. They don't feel like it, all quicksilver edges and pain and sorrow.
The star-shaped charm, made of a sanded and polished wood, thrums quietly against her skin. The gem in the center is a brilliant blue-white. Like a breath of pure winter crystalized, Liriel has always thought.
It is the only thing she carries from the ruins of Allestar that is hers. She awoke to darkness and death and the singing of the totem. How she had kept it, she is unsure. Its gentle song had brought her out of that darkness, a light that had illuminated her path forwards.
Now, the totem quiets as she stands at the highest part of Rathir, overlooking the strait. The fortress of Mel Senshir is a dark, forbidding shadow in the distance.
Soon, she says silently, soon the siege would break and she could enter the land of the Winter Fae.
—Through the hallowed halls of Seasons and song, through the Vengeance, Pride, and Sorrow, echo the footfalls of the Greaves of the Faehunter—
The burst of song is sung in a low male voice that echoes through Liriel's mind, bringing with it a sense of comradery, and the warmth of a fire after a day scouting through the marshes and wetlands of the coast.
She knows with a sudden clarity that she can find that in Klurikon, beyond Mel Senshir. Something is waiting for her, something bright and born of Winter.
I am coming, she says, Wait for me.