Mirallia Historia: The Fall

Screams of pain filled the air as your god's holy magic flowed through your infernal fingers and knitted together the gash in the soldier's flank, “Fight on!” You command, as you lift yourself back to a stand with longsword in hand.

The war had been going for far too long, but you continued your fight. While you, yourself, weren't of elven origin the warriors who fought under your command were, and you needed to ensure that your god's people made it out alive. With a raise of your hand your voice slipped into the tongue of the fey, a holy light shimmering around you, when you lower your hand you then swing it in front of you twice, each time the light dimmed as part of it was shot off in a ray towards one of your foes. Seeing you return to the fray, even if at range, inspired the vanguard to push them back with renewed vigor, the lissom forms of your elven cohorts straining with the exhaustion of war,

Then your eyes widened with horror, yelled for your warriors to take cover as a fireball sailed past you into the ranks of archers behind you. When you looked back the entire line had been decimated. Glaring towards the offending caster and diving into the fray. Your offhand glowed with eldritch power as you tapped into your diabolical heritage. Splaying your fingers as you releasted the power, a surge of the eldritch blast launched out into a cone, denying a good number of warriors with their rights to live, and others suffering severe wounds...

But you didn't stop.

You continued pushing, gritting your teeth as lightning arced through the crowd, striking you clear in the chest, “No-one... kills... my charges...” You groan as you pushed forward, the blades of your foes cutting into your skin past your holy green chainmail. Once more the infernal energies within you screamed for release, your eyes darkening, the more damage you suffered the greater it grew.

Then the release. You let out a scream of pain and exertion, the darkness escaping your eyes as well, focusing on shaping the power into an explosion you utter in your ancestral tongue, “Fear the power... of Utterdarkness.” And upon the end of your invocation the energy darkened as it shot out of your form as a sphere of energy decimating those around you and launching them from their feet, the enervating power weakening many of the soliders of who survive.

In the aftermath you find your hand resting on your stomach, wounds bleeding out across your body. Out of further healing spells you grit your teeth as you look at the offending caster. “You... Your end... is here.” You growl out, gripping the longsword in your hand and frowning. Spotting quickly that the bastard was readying another fireball you bow your head, “My lord... Shield me from fire.” You wishper, the last spell available to you wreathing yourself in a holy aegis.

Then you charge, uncaring of the fireball that struck your breast and had been reflected back. Your blade soon found the soft flesh of the mage's skin, and with pure divine-powered rage you tore the blade out of his body, slaying him quickly.

Then... pain. Cold. Both raced through your body unbidden as you looked down at your body.

The last wound was mortal, an Awl Pike's tip emerging from the lethal strike, “Zaeis...” You murmur, visions of your chosen mate and children he gifted you filling your mind, “Kiralu... Teirchiel...” Your body dropped to your knees, your ears, but not your mind, registering screams of horror and dismay at your fall, “I'm... Sorry...” Your final words as your body hit the floor. Your vision blanked. Cold filling your body with no hope of return...

That night there was no laughter in a household fostered with it. That house sat, alone in the city, in quiet mourning of you. Of the warrior mother whom was slain...

The first of the famed Mirallia line.