Quoted By:
That night, the brigand's daughter dreams of fire. She dreams of billowing smoke and ash-colored cinders: the once-heard voice of a devouring flame.
She watches the embers rise with tearful eyes.
"Gone," she whispers. "We remain, but not for overlong."
The crackling cinders offers no reply, but the wind speaks of:
>[ADMONISHMENT] [Riskier but decisive]
>[FORGIVENESS] [Conservative but hesitant]
>[HONOR] [Character-specific]
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When the daughter awakens from her dream, she follows the biting wind until she stands at the border of the treeline. She does not recall the names of your wounded heralds or the sensation of glass-ice beneath her feet. But she does recognize the patterning of the branches and trees laid before her.
The old hunter makes both his presence and profession known with a jostle of his quiver.
"You saw the mottled trees."
"I did." she replies. "and the arched ruin they protect, and the...."
"Bring your father's blade and mail. It was shown to me as well."
