The lower decks of the elven dreadnought were a labyrinth of living, breathing wood and whispered fear. Warrex moved through them not as a man, but as a shadow given form. He activated his Sound Magic, previously unnamed, but Roy insisted it be called "Midnight Snack Run", and his heavy footfalls made no sound on the pulsing, bark-like floor. His figure seemed to blend with every shadow he passed, he was an unseen blade in the heart of the enemy.
Rounding a corner with fluid, economical movements, he flattened himself into a darkened alcove as a two-elf patrol hurried past, their faces pale with a mixture of terror and fanaticism.
"…heard the Iron Demon's golems have already breached the main deck," one of them whispered, his voice a high, nervous whine. "And the She-Beast… they say she is a monster of pure, unadulterated rage."
"Silence, you fool!" the other hissed, slapping his companion on the arm. "Lady Brinevein's Children of Purity will deal with the mongrels. Have faith in the purity of the Line."
A grim, humorless smile touched Warrex's lips as he slipped from the alcove, his axes held ready. A few corridors later, he encountered another stealthy figure moving in the opposite direction, clad in the dark, form-fitting leather of an elven scout. They saw each other at the exact same moment, a brief, silent tableau of two predators meeting in the shadows. A flicker of surprise, then dawning, absolute horror, filled the elf's eyes. Before he could so much as draw a breath to raise an alarm, Warrex had closed the distance. One hand clamped over the scout's mouth, the other drove the butt of his axe into the elf's temple with a single, brutal, and entirely silent motion. The elf went limp, and Warrex gently lowered the body into the deepest shadows.
He pressed on, his senses on high alert, a predator in his element. He found his first key target in a small, heavily guarded chamber off the main hold, an elven mage, his eyes closed in deep concentration, his hands glowing as he maintained a crucial section of the ship's defensive wards. Two guards stood at attention by the door. With a predator's patience, Warrex waited. When the guards shifted their weight, their attention momentarily wandering, he struck. Two thrown axes, spinning through the air without a sound, buried themselves in the guards' chests. They collapsed without a cry. Warrex stepped over their bodies and, with a swift, clean stroke of a reclaimed axe, ended the now-panicked mage's life. The defensive ward outside flickered once, then died.
The constant, low thrum of the living ship vibrated through the soles of his boots, a slow, deep, and vaguely unsettling heartbeat. He passed a sealed hatch marked with an ornate, spiraling rune. A low, rhythmic chanting seeped through the wood. Inside, a high-ranking elven priest was leading a ritual to bolster the ship's regenerative capabilities. A vital target. Warrex produced a small, alchemically treated wedge from a pouch, silently working it into the seam of the hatch. No lock could resist it. A faint click, and the way was open. The priest never even looked up from his scripture before Warrex's axe ended the chant, and the ship's faint green glow dimmed for a moment.
He continued his silent, bloody work, his path now taking him through a narrow crew corridor. The air was thick with the cloying scent of elven incense and raw fear. He overheard two guards muttering frantically just around the bend.
"...no sign of them. All three of her children have vanished. Lady Brinevein will have our heads if we cannot locate Lyra and her brothers before this is over."
Warrex filed the intel away. Brinevein's own children, her personal guard, were missing in the chaos. An exploitable weakness.
In a large, circular chamber near the ship's stern, he saw him. A pale, almost ethereal elf, his eyes a solid, milky white, the irises blending seamlessly with the sclera, giving him an unsettling, otherworldly appearance. He was clad in elegant, flowing silks, adorned with jewels that, strangely, made no sound as he moved. He was a phantom made flesh. A lesser elf approached him, bowing low.
"Commander Halation," the elf said, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and reverence. "I am sorry to disturb an exalted Child of Purity, but none of the advanced units have returned from the main deck. What are our orders?"
Commander Halation turned his head slowly, his gaze unsettlingly blank. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a soft, cold whisper that seemed to absorb the sound in the room. "Fight."
A primal chill ran down Warrex's spine. The aura emanating from this "Child of Purity" was immense, a palpable pressure that screamed of a power far beyond his own. A direct, stealthy assault was suicide. He ducked back into the shadows, his comm unit in his hand. "Eryndra," he whispered, "I have a high-value target for you. A chamber in the lower deck. Hostile, extremely powerful. And very, very creepy."
Warrex remained hidden in the dusty rafters of the circular chamber, a silent predator observing his mark. He had relayed the target's position, and now he waited. He didn't have to wait long.
A section of the living wooden wall exploded inward in a shower of splinters and debris. Eryndra stepped through the newly created doorway, dusting off her gauntlets with an air of bored impatience. Commander Halation, the pale, ethereal Child of Purity, turned to face her, his expression a mask of calm, aristocratic disdain. He drew a long, paper thin blade that seemed to be forged from solidified moonlight.
Halation's milky white eyes, devoid of pupils, fixed on Eryndra. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a soft, cold whisper, strangely stilted, as if he were translating his thoughts from a more ancient, formal language.
"I can perceive it. The confidence. A formidable... energy... emanates from you. It is likely I cannot achieve victory in this confrontation." He paused, tilting his head with an almost bird-like curiosity. "However, I am also strong. My purpose, therefore, is to sufficiently weaken you, so that when you inevitably face her Ladyship, she will have a less strenuous… time of it."
Eryndra crossed her arms, a smirk playing on her lips. "So you're the warm-up act? If you know you're going to lose, why not just run away? Or, you know, surrender? Save us both the trouble."
A flicker of genuine confusion crossed Halation's pale features. "Run? But… where would I run to? Outside, there is… water. I cannot swim. I was born of the forest, near the great Horia's lake."
Eryndra nodded, her expression dead serious. "I see. That's actually a really smart and logical reason. Guess you're stuck here then."
From her comm unit, Roy's voice crackled, dripping with pure, unadulterated exasperation. "Eryndra, he lives by a lake. He can probably swim. He's either lying or an absolute moron."
Halation, who seemed to have finished processing their brief exchange, took a ready stance, his moon-blade held before him. "The prerequisite social niceties have been concluded, correct? We may now engage in glorious combat, yes?"
"Finally," Eryndra grinned, her own battlelust ignited.