A Sword's Mettle

[Satoshi]

"Tell me again about your dreams, Reinamar."

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It was a warm, sunny day on the island - the young boy could see across the entire island: every war galleon practicing maneuvers on the water's glass-like surface, archers tightening their bowstrings and testing their newest crafts, swordsmen dancing the graceful ballad of death, a thousand warrior-wizards practicing regimented formations and spells as a single unified voice of pure arcane might. A heavy hand on his shoulder brought his focus back to the task at hand, followed by a curt reminder.

"Reinamar, you are supposed to be practicing as well. You have a Duty to fulfill, and I will not be around to teach you forever." The child looked up at his father, staring into the much older elf's lightly purple eyes. They were hard eyes - stern, commanding, demanding - and yet, they also held deep sadness and longing. The young boy had inherited much from his mother, but his body was already showing signs of the older soldier's build that he would grow into. And those lavender eyes... Reinamar gave a soft nod, and took the longsword that his father held out for him. It was not made of mithril, so it was heavy and lacked finesse. He had to hold it with two hands still, which seemed to please his father more than disappoint him.

"One day you will hold the Ancestral Sword, Vinisair, but for now this will do. For now, we will practice basic Mithril Heart maneuvers and we'll work on more Blue Eagle maneuvers later. Steel yourself for your enemy's blow, and allow him to see a subtle opening. It is dangerous, but by luring the opponent into striking where you want him to you will be able to strike harder and deeper."
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I saw a great mountain, proud and ancient, torn asunder by fire and greed. From its ashes poured orcs and shadows, and a river of blood. From the river, a great Tower rose before that reached high into the sky. At it's base, a sprawling city formed - it's people traversed the blood river, deep into the forest of shadows and twilight seeking wealth and power. The Tower grew dark next, and a great rift split the tower and city in twain. That was my first dream.
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Elgine Goldheart stared at Reinamar, her face inscrutable to him as he awaited her response. He had traveled so far from home, he could feel the tension in the air as he wondered if it had all been meaningless. A wordless voice reassured him that he had come to the right place, making the skin on the back of his neck tingle. "It's true that some who seek the blade temple experience dreams and visions, but I cannot tell you what they mean. Some are mere flights of fancy. Some are portents of Sehanine, yet to come."

[Satoshi]

"There is a reason this Duty is yours. Beyond these idyllic isles is a world full of strife and suffering. Great nations have fallen, their proud people but a memory of a bygone era. It is our Duty to remember. It is our Duty to avenge."

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They stood face to face a few feet apart, their similar eyes locked in intent focus. Both of the bronze-skinned elves were clad in the steel of war, elegant plates and sun-tanned leather straps wrapping athletic muscles and lithe bodies. The older of the two was a hair taller, not more than an inch perhaps, but with centuries of experience that inch of reach could decide the entire battle before it even began. He wore a mithril helmet that rode the bridge of his nose up and back to his short cut hairline where a riveted chain coif protected his neck from a lucky blade. In his hands he bore the ancestral blade of his House, a beautiful mithril courtblade that shone brilliantly in the midday sun. It had an elven curve to it's length, but it was much thinner and balanced than any falchion or human greatsword.

The younger elf bore a broader greatsword that lacked the intricate details of the courtblade, but would be no less deadly in it's intent when it sang through the air. Upon his brow sat a simple golden circlet, long locks of shimmering silvery-gold hair pulled tight into a warrior's knot. The rune-symbols emblazoned on the band brought a slight smile to the older warrior's lips - he knew that the enchantment was worth as much if not more than the mithril plate and chainlink that guarded his own life. Raising the courtblade into a defensive position suited for feinting, he spoke a single curt word.

"Begin."

In an instant, both were a blur. The younger elf did as he often did and whirled directly into the conflict with a spinning slash toward the midsection. The older warrior feinted back and to the right, thrusting under and up toward the armour gap of the breastplate where it ended and the underarm plate began. His opponent continued through his motion instead of attempting to correct himself, keeping his footing he could twist enough so that his breastplate deflected the courtblade's deadly tip. The elder took a few quick steps back, his opponent coming back around in a fluid motion that brought his greatsword once more to the ready. They were back at the beginning of the dance.
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I saw ancient elven warriors dance great blade-ballads in The Creator's name, dressed in the finest mithril armours and weilding blades of every length. They were powerful, proud, and peerless - and they grew arrogant. Corellon grew displeased with them, and they became shamed and their blade temple forgotten. And yet, it endured the slow march of time even as the nation around it fell to ruin and darkness - a dim spot of light in the shadow. After what seemed like an eternity the light began to grow. The blade temple was illuminated by the inner light of a Teu'Tel'Quessir crusader. Beside her - no, all around her - I could *see* one of the ancient warriors, whispering to her the ancient ways of the temple and the lessons he learned from countless lifetimes.

And then I saw one staring at me, even as I watched the dream unfold. He spoke, and said, "That is Elgine Goldheart. You will find her in Cormanthor, at the heart of reclaimed Myth Drannor. Seek her out, and Know Yourself."
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"You do not understand, Reinamar. Our Way is a Forgotten Art because The People are ashamed of what it has done in the past. Much like the H'ei'Yal Drathinmaleé, our history if not all glorious and honorable. We are not Vyshaan, but our House name is synonymous with Loyalists of the Battle of Gods' Theater. They will fear you. They may even hate you. But you cannot let that jade you and make you bitter to the suffering of The People. We cannot change the past, but we can fight for a better future. The Retreat is ending, whether The People acknowledge it or not. We will return to the Ancestral Lands, and face the ancient enemies - and they will need our Sword. We are born for the inevitable War. It is our Duty to seek out the storm, and turn back the wind. We are the Bladewind."