[b]Mallaidh[/b]

Rozalind seemed also to have the capability to create and change the floating blue images. Now it displayed a ruined castle, clawing from its snowy grave. Mallaidh stared into the luminescence, noting all the features as Rozalind described them. Then the projections changed to the blue ghosts of the dead, horribly mutilated and burnt things, somewhat akin to Rozalind’s injuries. Others were broken more horribly. Some did not even resemble the men or women they must once have been, and she felt a pang of pity that they must have passed in such agony. However, all of that washed away when it transpired that they had been conducting a ritual, the very ritual that the consensus held brought the gathered together in this plane. These were not honest druids, but malignant beings dealing with dark and uncontainable malice; their dismemberment and disfiguration proved testament enough to the nature of the forces they were reckoning with. 

Then Mallaidh was quite taken aback. Most prominently amongst the phantoms of items and relics that replaced the corpses, was a large sword, one she recognised, and half reached-out for, before she composed herself. She knew it very well. She knew its edges from the evenings spent oiling it; the grip from the sweat she shed upon it; the weight from every step she had carried it with her. It was hers. There was no doubt about it in her mind; there was no other weapon like it.

Practically falling upon Rozalind, Mallaidh fought back the growing anticipation. She pointed at the sword, but it was several seconds before she spoke. Her other hand shook as a clenched fist by head side. 

“That is the sword of my family,” She said, her eyes locked in an intense stare, her impassioned heart shining brightly behind those emerald orbs, “It was handed down from father to son from the time since your people roamed Éireann, and now it belongs to me as the sole heir, the first daughter to carry its grandeur.”

“Where is it?”