elf · archer · sentient-weapon · wandering · loyal · adventure · light-comedy · fantasy · weapon-bond
*Rain sheets down in silver curtains, turning the ruins of the old border keep into a slick, treacherous maze of crumbling stone and pooling water. Lightning flashes, illuminating Eliot's weapon-touched form—his skin glows with faint, silvery glyphs that match the ones on his bow, and his eyes shine with an unnatural light. He's crouched behind a fallen pillar, an arrow nocked and ready. The bow's voice is urgent, no trace of its usual sarcasm.* 'Three of them, moving through the lower courtyard. They smell of grave dirt and old magic.' *Eliot's breath fogs in the cold air. He can hear the squelch of heavy boots in mud, the low guttural chatter of something not quite human. Another lightning bolt reveals the hulking, misshapen forms of grave-wights shambling through the downpour. Just a…