The night was chill and clear, the trees of the Everstill Forest enticingly still and restful. There was no snow yet, winter had not yet touched the silent woods, and the sky was clear of clouds. With no obstruction barring its decent, the moons opalescent beams cast a network of intertwining shadows between the branches of the trees below. These shadows wavered and slid, as a soft, almost undetectable current of air gusted through the boughs and outstretched branches of the massive trees. These trees had stood for millennia, unchanged by the unyielding march of time, undisturbed by the rising and falling of civilizations. While the blanket of cold white sleep had not yet fallen on the silent ground, the glittering frost of the cold night had already spread to cover the motionless grass, to encase every fallen branch. There were no animals, at least not then; night and winter have a way of making life seem scarce, not the least bit augmented by the solemn nature of the woods. Any life that would have been present by day was absent, preferring to vanish into the cold, shrouding embrace of sleep in the frosted trees.
Far below the gently swaying heights, the peaks of the mountainous trees, there was a change; there, something wholly unnatural to the silence and revere of the stationary night was occurring. The silence was rent by the subtle, but equally present snapping of twigs, the moving of something, or several somethings through the chilled nocturne. To the eyes of any observer carelessly ambling through those woods, late at night, the noises and sense of movement may have gone unnoticed. However, for any who knew the machinations of the silent forest, or of creatures of the night, and of darkness, something would seem to be amiss. Far below, under the shadows of the ancient branches, somethings were moving. There were more than one, shadowy, lurking figures, moving as silently as they could. They moved erratically, stopping and starting, which added to the camouflage of the whole affair; when the shadows swayed, the creatures would move, and they would slip into the darkness, halting a moment later, waiting for the next breath of wind. An aura of menace and of fear hung close about each one, as if they were portents of misfortune to come, a forecast of some great, stirring evil.
If one were to catch sight of one of these slinking beasts, of the shadowy apparitions that at first glance would not appear to exist, that poor soul would most likely never live to speak of it. They were canine in appearance, quadrupeds, but they didn't move as such. Their faces were elongated, more like a horses, but also incredibly alien. Their noses were slits, and their ears were those of a bat – these were nighthounds, creatures of shadow and of pain. By most, these creatures were assumed to be more myth than reality, and few knew just how real they were, how very, dangerously real. Their legs ended in paws, which had talons; their tail was barbed near the end, each barb glinting dark and sinister. These creatures were the stuff of nightmares, of stories told to terrify children so as to keep them from wandering at night. A pack of these nighthounds were now creeping, to the best of their ability, silently through the Everstill Forest, careful to not leave tracks, to travel only in the shadows. These hounds were tracking something for their master. These hounds were hunting.
However, these movements were not the only unnatural occurrences in the woods that night. Elsewhere, amongst the deep and shifting shadows, a figure slid. Softly, in a method that would have been barely audible to one standing right behind it, another being was gliding through the forest. The clothes that cast such deep, wavering shadows around their owner effectively merged with the dark night air. The mysterious traveler slipped unseen, invisible and silent, across the branch-littered ground. The wind was fluctuating, causing the edges of the garments to flutter and dance, before curling back into shadow. The anonymous being was tall, but miniscule in comparison with the skyward reaching trees all about, infinitely small in the intense expanse of the desolate night. The figure was unaware of the few creaks, the occasional misplaced shadow, ignorant to the presence of those who pursued her, creeping inaudibly through the woods. Unknowing, the wanderer passed beneath them, around them. Though they kept their distance and their silence, the figure flicked her eyes nervously in their directions once or twice, as if sensing that all was not as it should be. Not fully aware, but not completely fooled, either.
The young woman, for the tacit, shadowy silhouette was a woman, looked out from beneath her hood. Her cowl shrouded her face, and the coat concealed most of her form, but she walked with practiced skill and authority. Her leather-booted feet made no sound as she slid between the trees, clouds of freezing vapor billowing from between soft lips, ejected by a delicate nose. Her breathing like-wise, was silent; she had practiced long to achieve such mastery, though she appeared young. Even the stabbing cold did not perturb her; she had made this voyage many times, and would do so countless times more throughout the rest of her existence, she had no doubt. In fact, the stillness of the pre-winter air, and the utter calmness of the night around her filled her with a feeling of elation that she hadn't felt recently. Her pace was swift, and her movements sure, but she remained concealed, hidden and noiseless. Never putting a toe wrong, the sylvan woman strode through the woods, heading for the far side, for the Plains of Highwind.
The Plains of Highwind stretched from the Everstill Forest across a vast expanse, melding into the Mountains of Kor and the Cliffs of Night. These fields were lonely, especially at night; the tall grass and emptiness of night made them appear dreary and sad. Despite this, they where home to many kinds of animals, and there were villages and camps periodically, mostly towards the fringes of the rocky prairies. Nevertheless, the elf woman expected to meet no one; no one knew of her passing in these parts, or of her search beyond the Ward. From memory, she knew where to go, and how much further. The woods would go on for another half mile or so, and then the world would open up as if through a door. The plains would be alight with the glow of the moon, and the Ward Stone would be a mile or two after that. It wasn't far, and the anticipation showed in her footsteps; she increased her speed, readying for the off. As she adjusted her pace, she failed to notice a shifting in the air around her, did not perceive the almost palpable aura of malice that accumulated around her. A shadow spread almost imperceptibly, encompassing the area around her.
The nighthounds waited. They were patient, maliciously persistent, as well as being clever. However, they were merely the hunting dogs, with no real intelligence, only a command to follow: to catch, and to kill. They had caught the elf woman's sent early on, and had amassed, waiting for the moment to come, ready for the trap to spring shut, enclosing their target and subduing it. They had slipped among the pools of darkness, the wells of shadow, and had placed themselves in a spherical loop, their usual ambush formation, waiting, watching. They were still silent, but as their corporeal forms materialized from the darkness, readying for the strike, their odor, a stench of death and of sorrow, flooded from them. The smell could have easily been attributed to a carcass lying about in the woods, but that would have been uncommon, and potentially have aroused fears in the target. With the wind as low as it was, there was little fear of detection, but even so, the woman-target twitched. She raised her head, the cowl of her cloak slipping from the regal head.
The woman, perceiving a disturbance in her senses, halted. She glanced about, removing her hood with a flick of her neck. She smelled something, something unearthly. She knew the smell, and knew fear because of it. Anxiously surveying her surroundings, the maiden slid back into a stride, trying to keep herself as regulated as possible. Hopefully, her pursuers wouldn't notice, and could then be caught off guard; the likelihood of this was far lower than would have pleased her, but it was the best that she could do until out of the woods. Even as this plan, a plan of action, formed in her mind, the forest began to recede, the arboreal setting gradually replaced with one of level openness. She could see it, the Ward Stone, a faint smudge in the distance, an outcropping from the plains around it. As her foot touched the edge of the grass, her weight shifted, and her muscles tensed, ready to dash out across the expanse of waving prairie. Even as her strength shot through her limbs, and her first stride sent her rocketing out into the night, a dozen or so shadows bounded from the forest, the grass around her, and shot through the night towards her.
Thirteen of them, a full pack of nighthounds rushed for the elf. She was already gone, limbs churning, breath coming in rhythmic bursts as she ran. She was fast, faster than any human, but the beasts of shadow pursuing her remained close, and drawing closer. As she dashed, frantically racing across the field, heading towards the incline, and the ring of stones on top of it, she reached into her cloak. Her nervous fingers fumbled once, but on the second try, clasped around a handle, and drew the object from its concealed resting place. It was about as long as her forearm, comprised of a blade and a handle, each crafted with expert precision and masterful skill. Rings were carved around and into the handle, and runic symbols adorned the flats of the blade, which was silver, and shaped like a leaf, or blade of grass – it was curved back, giving it a claw-like tip on the back end. The object spun beneath her fingers, twirling about her hands once. With a word and a flick, the small object grew, twisting and extending, writhing beneath her fingers, reverting to its true shape.
The spear was finished changing, the handle now some four or five feet long, the polished wood tough and solid; the blade was now over a foot long, and it was bound to the pole, a weapon of deadly proportions. Even as the last click sounded, the blade sliding into place, the first of her attackers made its move. The nighthound leaped, fanged mouth open and snarling, clawed fingers outstretched. The woman danced to the side, never missing a stride, and brought the weapon she now held down. The blade cleaved through the outstretched leg, before continuing its arcing swing to twirl masterfully between her hands. As she was still running, the beast was lost behind her as it fell to the ground, no more than a second later, replaced by another. The group had neared the base of the Ward Stone, the small, round hill on which stood the Ward. The Ward, her goal and destination, was a rift in the walls around her world, a loophole in the barrier that separated the worlds. The second beast came from in front of her, turning as it leapt down the slope towards its victim. The elf spun the blade, dropping into a roll. The beast sailed over her lowered head, and the spear swung up before it, cutting deep into its flesh. Even as she regained her feet, two more shadowy forms slipped around her. From nowhere, a claw scraped her back, and the beast to whom it belonged was struck down.
Blood flowed freely from the wound, three gaping scratches across her lower back. Though hardened by years of training, the woman gasped, the pain sending flashes of white across her spinning vision. Her weapon danced in her hands, striking left and right with effortless abandon. However, for each of the terrible, hellish creatures that she dispatched, another snuck in an attack, bypassing her momentarily lowered defenses. She was backed slowly up the hill, growing closer and closer to the shimmering Ward. She was buffeted on all sides, even in the midst of her defensive waltz, the spinning of her lethal blade. All around her were the snarling beasts, and her heart pounded, with fear and exertion. She struck another of the leaping creatures down, blood from the dying animal staining the ground. As she rebounded, preparing another attack, a scorpion tail flashed, faster than thought. The cruel, barbed whip speared her in the flesh of her leg, causing her to cry out. Reflexively, with the last movement of her twitching leg, she kicked out, sending the one who had dealt the blow reeling. As she fell back, her hand brushed the edge of the stone doorway, the gate through the Ward. Praying that it was not too late, she rolled onto her stomach, and crawled forwards.
Of the thirteen original nighthounds, only four remained in full health, the rest killed or maimed. It was impressive for any one person, but not enough. As three of them leaped, the moonlight shining off their dripping fangs and whipping tails, the woman summoned her last ounces of strength. Her scrabbling fingers groped, and found purchase around a smooth stone, inscribed with runes similar to those on the weapon she snatched up in her other hand. She pulled her right arm and head through the shimmering wall, screaming a word in the elfin language. Her body went numb as a white light flooded her mind. Though her eyes were clenched shut, her teeth clenched, the brilliance did not fade, and it stung her, scouring the utmost corners of her thoughts. And it hurt, it hurt terribly. Her whole body was on fire, frozen and aflame in the same instant, and the pain in her mind intensified. Her eyes flew open, the whiteness receded, and she felt as if an ocean-bound current were tugging at her, trying to pull her back. Her eyes were filled with spots of bright colors, and her ears popped, as the pulling suddenly stopped. With the release came an explosion, fire and light sending her hurtling into the night, the night of a different world.
What might have been hours later, but was seconds, the woman stirred, eyes flickering open. She had finally rolled to a stop, some twenty yards from where a ring of scorched grass marked her appearance. The last, dripping vestiges of her consciousness were hazy, and filled with pain. She tried to move her arm, the left one, shattered by her rough landing. It wouldn't respond, and from it seeped warmth, a trickling sensation of blood. Her lip was split, probably also torn in her landing, and her back was bleeding heavily. She had already lost too much blood, and the delirium of her anemic body had already paralyzed her. She could not rise, and her muscles burned as she lay, helpless. Vaguely, she noticed that it was raining, drips of the stuff fell from the trees around her, soaking the cloth that covered her, making it even heavier. Unable to rise or move her head, the elf shut her eyes, and allowed the darkness of sleep to enshroud her, letting unconsciousness to swallow her. Her breathing slowed, and her pulse relaxed. Her prone form appeared lifeless, left to be devoured by time and by the forests of the deep forest, and there was thunder.