Ancient legends spoke of the beauty of the elves; that they were born in the mould of divine perfection and generously blessed by the Gods themselves. Like any other flawless tale though; they heaved little truth along the way as they leaped from slippery tongue to eager ear and continued around the realm through a constant repeat. Once in a while a storyteller would tweak and upgrade the spoken saga into something grander for the next man to hear, spreading more awe and fascination than the previous version. 

Valerian Mithanil was a stark contrast walking further and further away from the crooked fable. Like almost any other man ever fighting upon a battlefield, the retired Sergeant had been deeply marked by the high price of battle. Sweet Lady Luck must have smiled down on him that day, as the facial injury he had fallen for had been a gruesome one. Whatever outer splendour he had possessed prior to the battle, had been lost in the swing of a sword. The damage had been made in an instant, but the healing process had taken a lot of time. It had taken years to battle the infections from the poor needlework done by an aspiring healer, and the brutal wound had after many close calls, closed itself with a red and purple hue covering his healed skin. The scaring ran deep, as pieces of his flesh had gone missing from the impact blow, leaving the surface even more uneven for the needle man to work with. 

How he had succumbed to the injury where after a couple of decades utterly trivial in his opinion, as shame wished to push the memory from the face of the earth. A portion of embarrassment was the one of the leading reasons for the fact that he concealed the damaged, right side of his face using the crimson headscarf. Pulling down the worn and sun bleached fabric just enough to hide the hollow eye socket. Another product of the heavy damage, and the scaring did continue below and further down his chin. Only stopping just by the right side of his upper lip. 

Suffering such a massive trauma had been the end game for Valerian, albeit many different reasons had added up to the final collapse. What allegiance the soldier once had pledged to their foolish Queen had been left on the battlefield, but it had taken him months to come to terms with his own failing morale and loyalty. Half-believing that fighting for the rebels and their light at the end of the tunnel would ignite his desire to fight for what was right, he had joined their troops on top of mount Memnon. The few months spent up there had been even harsher than before, as food was even scarcer and the rough winds froze the old keep. A third of them had starved to death on top of that mountain before the snow finally began to melt, but it was not all for naught. At least not for Valerian. He remembered the first time the spirit had whispered into his ear. Soft, low words begging to be heard; a calm plea for help he had consciously ignored in the beginning. Then one day, while digging graves for meagre skeletons, she had whispered yet again.

And this time he had listened. 

She claimed to have no name this phantom of the world, but after appearing in a silhouette of fresh, powder snow for the first time, Mithanil had come to call her Yrsnö, meaning [i]drifting snow[/i] in the old elven language. 

In the great time of uncertainty that they lived in, the fair spirit had given him a purpose to continue with life. She had offered something real – something that made sense and something that he was willing to pick up arms for. Naturally, he had questioned his sanity in the beginning of their relation, but Yrsnö had been meek and persuasive, and after finishing the first quest all doubt that he possessed had been rightfully purged. Bringing back the deer from the afterlife had been evidence enough that the spirit was real and that his sanity was indeed intact. 

Numbra the Deer had been the start for many wonders to behold and the Phoenix Vale had been the ultimate result of their esteemed collaboration. It had taken them close to a decade to complete the protected vale and when he had ventured from the sheltered place, it had been a young forest to be proud of. However, the Phoenix Vale was just one little dot on the map and Yrsnö was keen to have him keep going. Wishing to save the world, she once again sent out the retired Sergeant beyond the valley and onto the path for the next big thing. Having stayed at one place for so long, it was a nice change of pace to see the world beyond the mountains again. Having once been a valued scout for the Queen’s army, traveling came to him easily. However, wayfaring in enemy territory demanded some extra finesse and like any man with some sense in his head, he stayed clear of any larger roads that would lead him to civilization. 

Entire landscapes had changed due to the massive deforesting that had plagued the land for many decades. Lengthy and far-stretched plains were all that was left to gaze upon. A forest sheltered one from snooping by passers, but out in the open one was completely exposed both to man and the elements. It was one of the many reasons to why he chose to take rest during the bright day and travel during the cold night, using the devouring darkness as protecting cover from any curious soul. 

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Having just ridden up a large hill, Valerian brought the red mare to a sudden halt when he noticed the turbulence down below on the other side. The full moons brought plenty of light to the scenery together with the twinkling stars, and he could see four shadows moving about. He studied them for quite some time and eaves dropped in on their conversation as sound moved far too easily over the open plains. 

It was not curiosity that had him carefully nudge the mare back into motion, but need. He had been starving for the past few days and he would not evade from taking the role of a bandit to come over a bit of food. Barely halfway down the kind hill, he stopped the mount yet again by pulling on the dry reins. Having only a long stone throw between the source of calamity and himself, he took the bow from his back and the first arrow from the quiver. He had figured out the fighting parties, and saw no problem with evening out the odds. 

The archer felt the tightening of the bowstring, the variation in the calm breeze as he gazed down the spine of the arrow. Then he slowly relaxed his fingers after watchfully taking aim, and sent the death sentence on its way. He watched as it hit the exposed area between the shoulder and the neck of one of the dwarfs. The arrowhead dove into the crude undershirt, split the even thinner skin and etched itself fully into the muscle, bone and cartilage of the dwarf’s body. The man fell immediately and became temporarily lost in the high grass. 

The second arrow was sent on its way almost as quick as the first one. It hit the second dwarf right in the head, splitting his skull wide open. Despite having lost his depth perception with the loss of his right eye, years of hard practice had restored the precious ability somewhat. He would never be the same marksman with two eyes to rely on again, but he was still damn good. 

With his comrades on their way to the afterlife the third, and last dwarf backed away in shock from both the girl and her fancy sword. As he glanced up on the hill, their eyes locked momentarily before a third arrow swished through the cold atmosphere. The man fell like his brothers, but the archer did not stop in his actions. Having placed a fourth arrow on the tight string, he took aim on the last living person on their minor battlefield. He had the bow drawn, ready to end her just as quickly as the others. Upon gazing down on the young lady, he saw her as an oddity. She wore no clothes fit for a traveller and looked generally out of place, which was the profound reason that kept the fourth arrow still on the string. 

“State your name and why you are here.” He hissed in demand. “Speak quickly!” Anger sparked from his eye and tightened his jaw. Too little interaction with individuals of the same kind had honed down his social skills over the decade and only added to the slight sting of paranoia.