Quoted By:
Dawnlight shines over the mottled trees. Two pairs of eyes overlook a rubble-strewn clearing.
Below, the mid-winter air thins and frays as it hisses through a procession of toppled arches. The hunter smells the coppery scent of wind-flung blood; he sees shredded fabric tumble in the wind like dried grass.
His well-honed instincts compel him to go no further, but the knight's daughter does not heed his hurried warning. Her raw enthusiasm - and affirmed faith - carries her downward to the base of the clearing where the frigid wind tugs against her weighty armor.
The wind abates. Sunlight flares above the arches. There is a momentary after-mirage - a faded sketch of a thrice-wounded herald who once guarded more than a field of shattered limestone.
<...>
The bereaved wind cuts. The daughter cries out in shock, her father's tabard shorn.
The wind cuts again. The daughter cries out in denial, her linked armor broken.
The wind cuts a third time. The daughter invokes a vow of desperate honor as her exposed hands begin to weep red.
The wind pauses.
<...G...NE...>
>ROLL 1d6 + 1 [HONOR] for survival, best of 3. DC: 3, 5
>WRITE-IN?
