[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Her call to hope had done little good... though her comrades seemed for the moment encouraged, the bitter coldness of horror eminating from the restless spirits still pierced deep.

Tasa shrunk into the rock, trying unsuccessfully to remain unseen. To hide from shadow... what folly, most especially at night. she chided herself. She raised her dagger, shimmering in the moonlight, in hopes that memory of flashing swords and cries of the Eldar would torment these restless spirits. Their transparent faces seemed cowed for the moment... she began to back off of her precarious perch, feeling with her toes, eyes never leaving those of her persuers.

She screamed high as an ice cold blade seemed to pierce her from behind through the tough muscle by her shoulder. It seemed to melt as she turned and she felt her skin, endowed as it was by the grace of Eru, begin to knit itself together once more. The blade was not of this world, and yet it cut so deeply. She marvelled for a moment, admiring the desolate sheen. Her attention was locked on the ghosted blade perilously for a moment that lasted an age. Time stood still as she glanced at the markings... she trembled, unable to respond to the memories that tore through her mind.

She had lost grip on her left blade... it lay by her feet once more. Blocking with the right, she swept toward the ground, intent on retrieval. Malris' voice cut the air and she reacted, turning her head to the sound. She felt hot iron tear her skin as blood welled from her jawline. She glanced at the blade, now glistening crimson in the light of fires. She blocked its second pass easily, pulling her leg up and outward, breaking several of her enemy's ribs with one motion. She slit his throat mercilessly before wiping the streaming blood from her face with one gloved hand. She glanced at his fallen blade before returning to battle... harsh marking adorned it... the hilt was carved as a skull with glinting eyes laughing at her from the depths. She spat is distaste and turned her mind from it.

She looked still to the blade that had swept through the night and into her flesh once more. Ghosted rubies smiled terror in the shadows of the fight. She shuddered again, remembering that battle. She could still feel the warm blood coursing down her neck to pool slightly in her collar before dripping harmlessly to the ground as she cut down orc after orc, though that wound had healed so very long ago.

The orc advanced slowly and Tasa looked up, startled back to the present. She was completely surrounded by a gyrating throng of unresting death. Her stomach reeled at the wrongness of it all. She uttered a desparate prayer to the Valar and steeled herself against the cold that she felt so deeply. She crouched, ready to fight to the last. Suddenly their attention turned. The orcs screeched at each other in their harsh words and turned against themselves. As they began to tear into each other, the wind tore through the group, spreading them far and fast. Momentarily safe, Tasa ran at full speed across the rough ground and toward her companions. Upon reaching Malris, she nodded understanding at the quick question in his eyes. He had noticed the new scar adorning her face, mirroring that of old. She glanced her own quiery to him and he nodded.

She dropped to her knees, swinging her pack to the ground. He stood above her on guard as she quickly traded her short dagger for her twin blades. She hoisted her pack once more to her blood-stained shoulder and rose spinning, her silver swords flashing through the night. She stepped down, prepared for true battle should it again arise, as she stood by her dearest friends' sides outside the gates.