>>6204448You walk upstairs, each step reverberating through your spine, even if your stride is soft — as if you were flying, as if you were watching yourself from afar, gown flowing around your trained frame and your curvaceous profile, finally reaching for the door that leads to the tower’s library.
“— oof,” you sigh. That’s it. You are almost there, and this is the final step.
You close your eyes, conjuring up images you haven’t thought about since three years before, when you pestered Master for a better recount of Kishirra’s adventures than you could find in the scriptures and legends. This was before you became enamoured with Bragia’s simpler heroism. Over time, the recount of her incredible prowess made her feel like something untouchable, a paragon impossible to reach. You might as well used Carnaval as a measuring stick — or Bradiamante of old.
But Master’s words when he recounted the start of her adventure — you are sitting on the golden grass, wind playing with the cape covering your hair as you listen to his words, leaning forward in rapt attention. Kishirra is walking across the ice-scoured mountain paths, each crag a promise of a fast slip and a slow death amidst the rocks, ere her spirit rebuilt itself a new body, painful strip of flesh after painful strip of flesh.
And amidst the wind and the ice crystals, she is thinking of a guiding light, of a dark foul cave covered in black snow, and of something stirring inside it like a dead tongue rising again to taste the evil in the air — and at the root of that tongue, a weapon.
A poleaxe of Kiengir manufacture.
Her first adventure.
Her first deed led by Ansàrra.
Her first victory.
You knock on the door.
[cont.]
long as fuck updates are back, frens. get ready. 