He could have sworn it looked at him. Right at him.
In the northern edge of Ithania, nearing the Three Skags, there lies a pile of rubble, wind-blasted, broken apart by cold and ice, unrecognisable in comparison to the modest fortification of the past. Around three hundred years ago, nearing the fall of the old Elven Empire, a battle occurred here, spelling the end of the true Empire, and witnessing the birth of the Dark Banshee herself, or so the stories say. Old records on the actual events are vague; a mixture of Imperial Elven verbosity and Imperial Altalar patriotism make the true details of the event's proceedings hard to discern. Fact and fiction mix well and do not separate easily once ingrained. However, for a Silven who can see into the past, the written details don't matter.
In truth, Asher was only there to stop off. Sight-seeing, after leaving the Inheritor States, to finally lay eyes on the fields and ruins of where the last true Elven Emperor, Máellë Médûí, made his final stand against the Void and won. Archaeological records had confirmed the truth of the tales a long time ago. Broken, buried Elven bones and the remains of Void horrors told all there was to say; Médûí's army of slaves and Altalar had taken the battle to the Void Invasion. A broken and battered host of loyalists, mages and soldiers and inexperienced Varran with pikes shoved into their hands, had faced down the terrors of the Void, innumerable and corrupted, and won. Surveys and studies and sensationalised storybooks all told this same story, of the bravery of the Médûí the Eternal. Asher wasn't one to disbelieve; his past eight or so years were spent in the Inheritor States, reading and learning, writing, memorising the trends and fashions of the Imperial Elven language, all in the hopes of learning Altalar culture. He'd learned two new spells, and more about the old Empire than he ever could have gotten his skinny fingers on in the Crown City of Regalia.
"This is the place?" Lie'jje, his travel partner asked, finally breaking the silence.
"This is it." Asher responded, still staring out at the field.
"Underwhelming, don't you think? A pile of stones and a few miles of grass. Hardly the battlefield that my nanny made it out to be."
"You can go and look for an old sword in the mud, if you want," Asher suggested, offering a short shrug.
Lie'jje chuckled. Like Asher, he was a Silven, though rather than Asher's own silvery irises, Lie'jje's burned red and gold. He was a good seven feet tall, but looked taller thanks to his gaunt frame, a full-blooded Altalar unlike the half-Elven Asher. Lie'jje trotted forward a few steps, glancing back to Asher, then carried on walking. In the morning light, with the sun facing him, Lie'jje appeared like a gangly, horned silhouette; a tailed demon stalking onwards. A bird called out from behind Asher, settling itself on a battered rock. Its call was shrill, drawn out for a second or two. A second call came, the same. And then another, this time deeper.
The fourth call was drawn out, bassier, and further away.
The fifth was louder, blaring as if from some war horn. Asher had read about the war reenactments. It was too early for an activity like that, wasn't it?
By the time Asher had realised something was wrong, the silhouette of his friend was gone. In its place, he was faced with the scene of war. Left and right, soldier and contorted beast clashed, trading blows, screaming and crying and falling into wet brown mud. The ruins were gone, replaced by a small fortification from which archers sent hails of arrows. At the centre of the clash, a lone swordsman, decked in glittering splendor, stood against a being of pure darkness and hate. He could barely set eyes on it.
He didn't even know what he was looking at. Had some magic happened here? Was he witnessing the future, or some other course of events? He didn't know. All he did know was that he was seemingly ignored, rushed past by soldiers and demons, while he bore witness to one swordsman match an unfathomable darkness with his blade, but never best him. They went on for some minutes, striking and parrying, until something went awry. Asher didn't know what. He didn't feel anything personally, though the wide circle of soldiers, including that lone warrior, were thrown far back. He heard a scream, something shrill, from a woman in rags holding the dying swordsman in her arms. The beast paused, twisted and bent, and shoved itself into her body. It puppeteered her with all of the grace of an invalid running a marionette show, rising into the air, and then melting into shadows.
He heard another scream. Its source was unknown, unseeable. And then another, this one shorter. And then another, even briefer. And when he blinked next, he was on his back, seized up, with Lie'jje trying to shake him back into consciousness. He was saying something, but Asher couldn't quite comprehend it yet. He was still in shock; his mind was still reeling, trying to comprehend exactly what he'd witnessed.
A few seconds of thought and he knew what it was.
In those moments of the Dark Banshee rising into the air before disappearing, he could have sworn it looked at him. Right at him.
