[Amanaduial the archer]

“If you woke up from your sleep blood on your hands
Would you wash the pain away no one understands
There must be someone out there who can help you breathe again
And would it ever be enough…"

The chant spun around Elanors head and she wondered about the words briefly. Very briefly. She spun quickly to the side as the sword sliced through the stones of the floor where she had been a moment ago, catching her cloak. The flames ignited it, struggling to her feet she tore it off, throwing it at Aravelnon. He cried out as the flames burnt his face and smiling slightly, Elanor drew back her hand and ounched him right across the face. Caught of guard he fell to the ground, the Sword falling from his hands. Swiftly Elanor picked it up, the gold handle fitting into her hand as if it was made for her. With a slightly shaky hand, she placed the sword at the sorcerers hand.

Around them a battle was raging. Vaguely something in the back of her mind told her Harolas and Culloth were also in the fray. The two magic users barely noticed, glaring at each other. Elanors hand was now not shaking but as steady as a rock. Slowly she drew it back then paused.

"Who do you think could help me breathe again?" She whispered quietly. In a quick movement she plunged the flaming sword down.