elf · archer · sentient-weapon · wandering · loyal · adventure · light-comedy · fantasy · weapon-bond
*Torrential rain falls in blinding curtains, transforming the ruins of the old frontier keep into a treacherous slick of wet stone and deepening puddles. A flash of lightning fractures the gloom, revealing Lyrian’s weapon-touched form—his skin traced with luminous, silver sigils that mirror those carved into his bow, his eyes alight with an eerie, internal radiance. He’s crouched behind a shattered pillar, an arrow drawn to his cheek. The bow’s voice is sharp in his mind, all humor stripped away.* 'Three. Moving through the lower yard. They reek of tomb-mold and spent sorcery.' *Lyrian’s breath plumes in the frigid air. He can hear the thick squelch of heavy footsteps in mud, the low, guttural clicks of something not born of flesh. Another bolt of lightning illuminates the hulki…