Fayth Of The Wind

         A dark hooded figure, clad in black, perched on top of the castle, amongst the stone gargoyles and the birds of night. The figure stood there, as if transfixed by the midnight sky, unflinching, unmoving, yet it was beauty at its best. Father time seemed to stop, as the light from the moon slowly highlights the smooth pale skin of the figure, defining the body of the figure; a womanly body. The hooded woman’s silken black hair danced to rhythm of the night wind; in a mesmerizing trance.
         Suddenly, her icy blue eyes snapped open, focusing on the horizon. “Ìst naf-darnü,” she whispered to the cold-gentle wind. At that moment, six dark-black shapes spread across her back in unison; six majestic black-feathered wings glistened by the moonlight. The wind shifted as she muttered another sentence in Wyndrunärí, an ancient tongue from old times. As the sentence was uttered, two of the wings entwined the woman’s legs and then seemed to emit a sound as if hardened by the wind’s shifting gale; clearly, the effect was to protect the legs. In unison of the bottom wings, the upper two wings covered the face of the woman but leaving the icy blue eyes exposed to the night. Crossing her arms across her chest, as the last remaining two wings spread across the horizon; absorbing the moonlight.
          “Guide me and protect me, mother, “another sentence in the ancient tongue uttered from her blue lips. With that said, she jumped.
          As air rushes across her pale face, her icy eyes never blink. Neither does it betray her fears nor her feelings as she spiraled down towards the lake below the over-looking cliff. Without effort or force, her expanded wings moved with one giant motion and lifted her into the sky. She glided effortlessly through the sky; headed towards Demytrius, The Fallen City of the Ashna-keldän.
          For eons have passed since the fall of the great Ashna-keldän, the ancient wind people; the winged-ones. Known better to humans of Elhna-moran as angels of the sky, to the elves as fairies, and many others to other various races and beings across the world. Blessed by the wind, Ashna-keldän is similar to human race apart from gifted by Mother-Wind; the Ashna-keldän bears a pair of white-feathered wings for flight on their back. Although, historian of Elhna-moran says that Ashna-keldan is to be diffriciate from the human race, apart from the wings, are their commonality of their icy-blue eyes and blue lips. In some beliefs, those features are symbolic blessings of Mother-Wind, Väelnaz.
          As it is, Fayth Vylewind, the last of the Ashna-keldän, prophesied to be the wielder of Naxtraz, Wind-Blade of the Fallen. The living-blade in which would be the one to defeat an ancient enemy. An enemy that has long violated Elhna-moran; and was the death of Demytrius and its people. An entity of both hatred and suffering; Half Wind-born, half demonyte, they called him Lucifyre. To Fayth once, she called him father.
         “I miss her, Zeraph,” she said, her hand clasping the gold locket around her neck.
         “And so do I, Fayth, so do I, “came a reply in Fayth’s mind.
         Shadowed by the night, another shaped seemed to appear next to Fayth. A black-raven was flying with next to her. Intelligent as the raven seemed, it gawked and then said, telepathically to Fayth, “We must head to Demytrius as so fast as we can, Fayth. They are waiting for us there.”
         “I can’t believe it has been awhile since we saw them. I guess it is time. Ìst naf-darnü.”
         Fayth and Zeraph glided across the sky silently. In her mind, only thoughts of the owner of the locket around her neck played through her head. Wrestling it with doubts, Fayth motioned her wings to wrap her body tightly as she dived towards the lake, spiraling down into the blue surface below her. Zeraph only gave a sharp look and shifted his wings and continued on flying. Fayth body collided with the water, creating a splash and sending ripples across the lake; interfering with the serenity of the lake. Exerting her full strength and her will, Fayth stretched her wings underwater, fighting the pressure of the gushing water that was trying to stop the extension of her wings. With force of the strong wings, she screamed and lifted her self from the depth. She soared as if born from the very depths of the lake and placed herself again next to Zeraph.
         “I wished you wouldn’t have done that. We got company,” implied Zeraph with authority. Alarmed, Fayth turned and her eyes focused clearly across the lake.
         Beyond the Lake Tel’Niarht, high above the sea of trees stood a ghastly figure. “Grungar,” uttered Fayth between clenched teeth. Grungar, one of Lucifyre’s generals of Dath Kel’Dymonte, The Demon army. A human once, Grungar was known for his brutal method of slaughter and torture through Magis, ancient magic, either towards an ally or foe. Captured by Lucifyre, at the Sea of Cinders, Grungar was tortured and killed only to be raised as a half-dead, a scorn-shadow with the purpose to exact pain and suffering towards all life-forms. Stench of death and decay lingered through the air as Grungar stood there eyeing Fayth and Zeraph with his glowing red eye emitting from his exposed cracked-skull. His body creaked and twitched as he propped his fingers to point to Fayth.
         “You have indeed grown, fallen-one,” Grungar said. “Nevertheless, your death will be swift.” A smile spread upon across his face, a sight of pure nightmare. He, as if entertained by the perplexity of the situation, withdrew a blade from the scabbard laid on his side. The blade, gleamed under the moonlight, made of devil-blue steel with a twisting pommel of sharp claws protruding into the skins of the wielder. Longer then an ordinary sword, the blade seemed to glow with a nightmarish-eerie feeling. Grungar clasp it and raised it in the air, a tribute to the dead.
         In that instant, Fayth knew what stood between her and Grungar. In his hands, lay Vyth, Blade of the dead. The sword was known to only be wielded by only one person, Lucifyre himself, until recently. “Do not look so surprised, fallen-one. This is a gift from himself to me. It will be an honor, to drench Vyth in your blood,” he sneered.
         “Do what you must, Fayth,” said Zeraph.
         Fayth motioned by Zeraph, muttered a few words in the ancient tongue. In answer, her six wings spread across her back, displaying a majestic being floating above the earth. She then took off her hood and ceremonial garb off, and what lay underneath was a sight to behold by the gods themselves. Fayth was wearing a majestic white-metal mail jerkin over her chest with straps of white leather across her waist and legs. Wrapped around her arms and legs appeared to be black leathered boots and elbow-length black gloves.
         “Oh my, aren’t you dressed well, Fallen-one?” Grungar spat.
         Focusing on Grungar, Fayth grasped tightly at her sword by her side. Willing herself, she withdrew Naxtraz from its scabbard at her side. With grim, she fought for control over the living blade that struggled in her hands. The blade itself, with life and ire, shattered the barricades of her mind.
         “You wish to wield me again? Fool.”
         “Wield you, yes. For what binds you to this world is me and I alone shall command what vengeance you shall unleash in it,” answered Fayth.
         “Very well, but be warned, I shall not yield to a weak Ashna-keldän,” came the reply in her mind. With that, the ringing of the blade stopped and her hand steadied as she poised for battle. Silence crept over the lake, as if the world has stopped as the two beings stared at each other. In her heart, Fayth whispered, “For you, mother.” And she lunged forward, sword in hand with wings aback towards her attacker.
         The silence shattered as steel met steel. For the only return of silence will come when the smell of blood is carried by the wind.