Nawain/Logs/20240917

The little Rakash sits a few feet from the edge of the cliffs of Siergelde, star-flecked eyes fixed on the golden light atop the ominous spires, though her mind continues to dwell on a different cliff in a different place. A massive tree looms in her mind’s-eye, crowning branches withering and blooming over and over as a lilting female voice echoes deep in her being. As familiar as a mother’s heartbeat or a hug from a friend was that voice, and as vast as the darkness behind the stars it echoed. She would never forget the clarion-call of Enelne’s voice, the soul-shaking weight of Their attention.

Her fingertips rest lightly on the blade in her lap, tracing the glowing verdant lines along the massive nodachi. She was Their sword, but she didn’t have a target, and she didn’t like the feeling. Should she be training harder? Talking more, or less? Listening to the wise people she was suddenly surrounded by? Twisting mana in the new and exciting ways she kept begging others to do? Was anything she did actually making a difference? 

Almost subconsciously, her hand creeps towards the hilt of the nodachi as her gaze drifts down over the spires in the distance. Soon. It was coming soon. They needed to be ready. The urgency of the message pounds louder than her heart as her grip tightens until her knuckles go white. 

Nawain growls and shoves herself to her feet, bringing the blade to a ready stance, then whipping it into a flurry of blocks and sweeps against nothing. As her muscles ache with the speed of the thrusts, she reaches deep into the holy mana all around her, spinning it in arcs and loops, wrapping herself in golden threads. With recklessness born of desperation, she claws at the hidden power within the moonlight and the deep well of the elements, sharpening her mind, hardening her body.  

Finally, with a bellowed, ululating howl, she falls into a crouch at the edge of the cliff, teeth bared as she stares at the encased Clans. The golden mana streams fall away, untapped, and another echo of Her voice sings its way through the cleric’s thoughts. “You fight for Us. You struck a heavy blow against those which wish Us harm. You have purpose. We name thee Our Repentant.  Breathe deep, remember well, and know that You are Ours, and We are Yours.”  

She inhales deeply, pulls out a worn whetstone, and starts scraping the nicks and burrs from the blade before her with measured rasps as she whispers into the wind. “I am Theirs, and They are mine. I am Nawain Augtaire, sword of the Gods and Enelne’s champion. In Her name I am remade for the hardest things. In Their names I rally the faithful. In Their names, we shall triumph.”