Night of the Hunter

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So much blood.

Everywhere, blood.

It followed Doum’wielle wherever she traveled. She saw it on her silvery skin, skin that spoke of her mixed elf and drow heritage. It followed her in her dreams, each night, every night. She saw it on the footprints she left in the snow. She saw it on her keen-edged sword-yes, on the sword most of all.

It was always there, reflected in the red edge of the sentient weapon, Khazid’hea.

A thousand times had she stabbed that blade through her brother’s heart. His screams echoed between the beats of her every waking thought and filled her dreams, sweet music to the sensibilities of Khazid’hea.

Her brother Teirflin had tried to stab her with that very sword, with her sword, as she slept one day. But she had been quicker.

She had been better.

She had been more worthy.

She felt the blade entering his chest, easily shearing through skin and muscle and bone, reaching for his heart so that the delicious blood might flow freely.

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