The night shone bright upon the night elven city of Darnassus. Some slept under trees, some in their doorless houses, some not sleeping at all. Mythilus Stormrunner paced her room, long turquoise hair tied back in a loose braid. Her ears twitched in deep thought about the dream she had just awoken from. She had been dressed in gold, a colour she thought rather brash, and stood atop a snow-capped cliff. She had carried a golden sword, sapphires embedded in the hilt. With this sword, she had placed it under a man's chin, his eyes wide with fear, and she had sapped away a golden light. What was it? The light of Elune? The 'Light' as a whole? The man's eyes had grown weary and closed slowly, and he had dropped at her feet. Not dead, but comatose. Perhaps waiting for Mythilus's bidding to rise again.
Mythilus stopped pacing. She knew where this cliff might be. She padded to her closet and threw open the doors. Strong, shining plate armour sat waiting inside it. She pulled on her leggings, her boots, her bracers. She pulled her hair out and let it cascade down her back. She preferred it free when she fought, and she felt that fighting was something on her agenda for this journey. She walked out of her room and into the warm Darnassian night. A Sentinel stood nearby, walking the perimeter of the inn opposite. Mythilus walked down the stone path to the stable, where her winged guardian, Nyhmbus, was kept. A great violet lion with a firey mane and long, thick wings. He let out a low growl of welcome as he saw his mistress approaching. Mythilus smiled and petted the great creature's head, stroking the soft fur. She armoured him, and mounted, taking up the reins and guiding him out to the open. When they reached the path, Nyhmbus spread his great wings, and shot upward into the midnight sky.
Mythilus flew a great length, stopping at each tiny city along the way to eat and water herself and her mount. She skipped Astranaar, her old home, because nearby chaos threatened the city and it saddened her that she could do nothing as yet. She could not help glancing down as she flew over and seeing a group of sentinels trying their best to curb a small fire. Nyhmbus's wings beat steadily and quietly. The night air had grown colder as they traveled, snow now starting to dot the ground, and trees tall and deep green, as opposed to the purple leaves of Teldrassil. Mythilus looked ahead and indeed saw a cliff. She steered Nyhmbus upward, so he would be able to simply land on the cliff without circling around. He flew up, and then glided down, landing with a soft crunch on the snowy top of the cliff. Mythilus dismounted. She stepped forward, cold wind whipping her hair back. The sun was rising slowly on the horizon, turning the sky lilac and pink. On the edge of the cliff, there was something glinting in the snow. Mythilus walked over to it and knelt down. The hilt of a golden sword, encrusted with sapphires was stuck deep in the snow. Her dream had been a prophecy of sorts; perhaps this was her destiny. The elf clutched the hilt, and with a mighty pull managed to rip it from the ground and hold the shining blade over her head.
A tingling began to flow through her, from her hands to her feet. Golden armour, scaled as if made of dragonhide, began to form over her body, her own armour dropped away as the golden replacement ran over her breasts, her waist and her long legs. Mythilus smiled to herself. Against everything she believed, against her own culture, she would wield this sword and this magic to her own imagination and with it, she decided then and there, she would finally have power. The corruption of the Dragon Blade, forged from the bones of the Heart of the Aspects, had already grasped her brain and was using her body to incarnate itself as a mighty force more powerful than anybody could ever have imagined.