"Awakening- Prologue" by Elizabeth Fitzgerald

Angry war cries split the tranquillity of the glade, shrieking out from contorted mouths to ring loudly in a set of pointed elven ears. With a casualness that belied her interest, Ariel watched the barbarians charge. The jagged remains of her longsword sat idle in her hand, tip down, oblivious to the wall of fury and muscle bearing down on her. It was strange how desperate they seemed to prove themselves, she thought, as one of the fanatical warriors singled her out from her companions.

Long braided hair streamed out like a series of banners as the barbarians rushed forward, their tattooed faces twisting into fierce masks of unrelenting hatred. But the Pryde of the Banshee’s Loft had faced far more formidable enemies and had emerged victorious, despite their extreme youth. Ariel had no doubt they would again.

Confidently, she met her opponent’s war cry with one of her own- a spontaneous melody that seemed to wave together the raucous sounds of battle around her, heightening Ariel’s awareness of her situation. Her opponent was drawing close now, enough so that Ariel could see the bruises that he had suffered through recent trials. His longsword- whole, unlike hers- was held firmly overhead in two hands, ready for a massive downward blow.

No doubt it was a strike that would have removed her from the fight had it landed, Ariel conceded, stepping easily aside at the last minute to avoid the attack. The hardened muscles that corded the barbarian’s arms gave mute testimony to his sheer strength- a strength Ariel may have matched, despite her slight frame. But although she was unusually strong for her form, her greatest advantage was the speed and fluidity of her movements. Her rhythm and grace had oft been referred to as striking, even among her own kind, and it was this that aided her now.

Poised perfectly on the balls of her feet, she pivoted as the barbarian charged past, her broken blade arcing out with the momentum of the movement to slice eagerly at the back of his neck.

But to Ariel’s surprise, her strike missed its intended target, as her opponent halted, spun and charged into her attack with a speed she had not expected. Instead the serrated edge of her long sword bit deep, tearing with appalling ease between collar bone and neck, through jugular, muscle, wind pipe and oesophagus, severing his head with one clean and startlingly quick blow.

Shocked, the song that had rung out so merrily from her lips died instantly, as the corpse that stood before her collapsed at her feet, spewing out a warm red torrent from the fatal wound. Silence swiftly descended over the glade and when Ariel wildly looked about her she discovered that the battle had come to a complete standstill, with both barbarians and children of the Banshee’s Loft staring at her in mute horror and accusation.

Only one looked on her with pity in his eyes. For a single moment, an expression of sympathy crossed the half hidden features of the Master of the Banshee’s Loft. Then that too was gone, buried under cold neutrality as if the fleeting emotion never existed.

Bloodied sword slipping from nerveless fingers, Ariel turned and fled the training ground of the Furies’ Heart.