Brenda
The air tasted apple-crisp as the sky lightened with pastel hues. Pine, woodsmoke. And promise laced the wind. Within minutes, as Lysira watched, the sky transformed to an odd periwinkle blue at the base of the mountain, then blended into subtle tones of azure so pure it brought an ache to the warrior's heart. 
The high, piercing cry of a hawk hung on the rafters of wind. Lysira hefted her saddlebag against the toned muscles of her back and started up the path to the pass. Snow crocus broke the ground at the base of the trail, white buds pushed forward by stiff green leaves, seeking the elusive heat of the sun. 
She had sold her horse in the village nestled at the base of that white, majestic monolith, the path upward being too steep for even a sure-footed mule. The promise of a cave stocked with supplies mid-way up the mountain set her pace, quickened by the simple joy of a beautiful day.
As her climb progressed into the afternoon, a shift in the air drew her gaze to an advancing full-bellied storm. It darkened the right side of the sky with roiling fury that bespoke of some mage tampering with the weather. She had reached the section of the trail that proved as treacherous as described when it bent to hug the side of the mountain in a perilous drop. 
The wind gusted suddenly, raking snow against her skin and eyes. She pulled the ermine-hemmed hood down against it, watching both the placement of her feet and the turn of the path around sharp peaks of boulders ahead.

The sound of skittering rocks gave her mere seconds to respond as a shape leapt toward her, silent as death. She had a half-breath to observe a flash of red eyes and scent the rancid stench of a clotted pelt before the warg hit her. With instinct as inborn as it was trained, she dropped on her back. One shoulder hit her pack the other a jagged rock as she used arms and legs to catch the body of the warg and use its momentum against it -propelling the creature right over her and off the ledge of the mountain. 
Barely taking a breath, she sprang to her feet and drew her broadsword. Wargs never traveled alone and she was rewarded with the snarls of four more beasts as they leapt from the craggy surfaces above her. Heart pounding, she slammed herself back against the rockface of the narrow ledge, letting the pack drop with a crunch into shale at her feet. *Elah*, she prayed, *I need some help here.*
Bernice
The biting wind lashed against Øðacre Fjándiveiðr as he trudged through the blizzard, seeking the refuge of a promised cave. The periwinkle hues above twisted into ominous shades, foretelling the coming environmental disturbance. With each step, the half-giant's massive form battled against the howling tempest, his gunmetal eyes squinting against the biting snow.

His journey led him to a particularly treacherous section of the trail, where the path clung precariously to the mountain's side. As the wind howled louder, a sudden eruption of sounds reached Øðacre's ears—the clash of metal, the snarls of unseen foes. With a swift determination, he pressed forward, guided by the echoes of the struggle.

There, on the narrow ledge, he witnessed Lysira's agile dance with the wargs. The red eyes and rancid stench fueled Øðacre's resolve. Without hesitation, he drew one of the bearded axes from his belt, its gleaming edge contrasting against the desolate surroundings. The wooden round shield strapped to his arm, a steadfast companion.

As Lysira faced the relentless assault of the wargs, Øðacre descended into the fray. His silhouette, obscured by the swirling snow, emerged as a formidable presence. With a primal roar, he swung his axe with calculated precision, the weapon cleaving through the air to meet the gnashing fangs of a warg. The wooden shield became a barrier against their relentless attacks.

In the midst of the blizzard's chaos, Øðacre and Lysira stood side by side, their weapons a symphony of steel cutting through the storm. The collaborative dance of fate unfolded against the unforgiving backdrop of the jagged peaks , as two warriors fought as one against the silent threat of the wargs.
Brenda
She had a half moment of shock as a towering figure came out of the swirling spray of the blizzard as if in answer to her prayer. Confused as she was to where the path dropped in that blinding white, he seemed to step out of the mists of the void beyond the cliffs like a god. She had another second to fear his intent until he set into a fierce attack on the wargs, just as she was forced to address the creature that was launching itself at her face. Her vambrace caught it across the jaw, stopping its impact, jarring her shoulder, while her sword sliced outward across its ribs, the white of bone flayed beneath an exposed flap of its pelt. It dropped to the ground in a spray of blood and howling wrath, then was simply hurtled off the cliff by the sweep half-giant's shield.
Another beast launched itself at his unprotected side, but she was already lunging forward to drive her blade with all her force, the steel sinking right up to the hilt into its writhing torso. The weight of it carried her forward into the spraying snow as it fell. She shoved her foot against its chest, and yanked her blade free, spinning with a two-handed swing at a shadow, nearly blinded in the whiteout.
Bernice
With each swing of his bearded axe, Øðacre carved a path through the storm, his movements synchronized with Lysira's relentless assault. The clash of steel against fur and the howls of defeated wargs echoed through the blizzard, a cacophony that reverberated against the unforgiving cliffs.

As the whiteout subsided for a fleeting moment, Øðacre's piercing eyes scanned the surroundings, ever vigilant for the next threat. The scent of blood mingled with the crisp mountain air, a testament to the battle they waged against the wargs on the narrow ledge.

In the quiet intervals between strikes, *Øðacre and Lysira communicated without words, their synergy palpable in the rhythm of combat*. Together, they stood against the storm, an indomitable force in the heart of the mountain, as the blizzard raged on, swirling around them like a testament to the chaos they faced.
Brenda
Her breath heaving great pumes of air, she backed up against Øðacre, her sword clasped in both hands, eyes searching for the next shape of moving darkness to lunge out of the snow. The wind seared her skin, lifting her braids from her shoulders, seacrystals chiming in the sharpness of that howling gale. But it seemed nothing lived now but the two of them on that precipice. She shuddered, every muscle in her body quaking with effort, yet still she waited, not risking the lowering of her blade until she was absolutely sure of their safety. 
She could feel his alertness behind her, the shift and crunch of boots against shale and snow.
"Think we've killed them all?" She lifted her voice against that scowling storm so he might hear her. There was a definite note of brogue within the cadence of her voice, a husky tone that carried the weight of one used to giving commands.
Bernice
Amidst the relentless tempest, Øðacre stood steadfast, his massive frame a shield against the biting wind. Lysira's breath, visible in the icy air, mingled with the seacrystals chiming in her braids, a symphony of resilience in the heart of the storm.

As she backed against him, sword clasped in both hands, Øðacre's focus remained keen. Again he scanned the surroundings, muscles taut with readiness. The howling gale seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the crunch of boots against shale and snow as a reminder of their shared presence on the precipice.

With a stoic nod, Øðacre acknowledged Lysira's question carried by the wind. "Aye, I believe we've cleared the mongrels from our path," He replied, his voice a deep resonance amidst the mountain's echoes. The remnants of the battle lay silent in the snow, the wargs defeated and the storm beginning to relent.

The collaboration between Øðacre and Lysira stood as an unspoken testament to their shared prowess. As the storm subsided, the mountain, witness to their struggle, seemed to exhale, the howls of the defeated wargs fading into the quietude of the now comparatively tranquil landscape.
Brenda
"We should get to the cave," She shouted. 
The blizzard was becoming a force into itself. Her cloak was whipping in the wind, threatening to strangle her, so she twined it around her arm and lowered her head into the gale. She found her saddlebags and hefted it once more onto her back, groaning with the effort and pain. Something in the muscles there was strained or wounded. She kept her sword free, ready for an attack, then moved ahead of the giant to point out the trail and get them swiftly out of that storm. 
Fortunately they did not have far to go, perhaps twenty minutes climb, before the cave mouth opened like a black maw in the white.
Bernice
"We should get to the cave!" Lysira's shout barely cut through the escalating force of the blizzard. Øðacre nodded, his gunmetal eyes locking onto her determined form. As the relentless wind threatened to strangle her, he stepped forward, shielding her with his imposing and hulking body.

With a swift motion, Øðacre took the saddlebags, transferring the weight from Lysira's weary shoulders to his robust frame. A shared understanding passed between them — a silent agreement to ease her burden in the aftermath of their battle against the wargs.

Lysira, now freed from the encumbrance of the saddlebags, tightened her cloak around her for warmth. The fabric billowed against the wind as she lowered her head into the gale, sword ready for an unseen threat. Øðacre, carrying the bags, followed her lead. Despite the strain evident in her movements, they pressed forward together, their resilience cutting through the storm.

Guided by Lysira's presence, Øðacre trudged through the snow-laden landscape. The black maw of the cave loomed ahead, a beacon of refuge against the storm's fury. As they reached the entrance, Øðacre, towering and resilient, followed Lysira into the shelter. The echoes of their triumph lingered in the air while the blizzard raged on beyond the rocky confines, the cave providing a momentary sanctuary against the relentless tempest.
Brenda
She half turned as she felt him lift the saddlebags from her form, looking up briefly, then back into the press of the storm. She was grateful for his help, that ache in her shoulder easing immediately with the weight leveraged elsewhere. When she entered the cave, the wind's howl became a fainter bellow, and the absence of it rang in her ears as if it were a real sound. She took a moment to search the cave as far back as the dim light would allow. The last thing they needed was to talk into a den of wargs .. Or worse. Though she could not see into the very deep recesses of the cavern, she at least sensed there was nothing living anywhere near at present. 
She quickly found the supplies piled against one wall and struck flint to a torch, cloth wrapped around the bound twigs of applewood and soaked in oil. She turned then to lift the light, the yellow glow illuminating the giant of a man. Her gold eyes swept over him from foot to head. Not even her clansmen, Firebear, could boast this one's height, or massive girth of shoulders. She approached him with thankfulness in her expression.
"I owe a debt to ye, stranger. I think I would have been lost to those fiends, had ye not appeared when ye did."
Bernice
Øðacre acknowledged Lysira's gratitude with a nod, his stoic expression softened by the warmth of her thanks. The torchlight danced across the cavern, revealing the rough-hewn walls and the hidden recesses that seemed to harbor secrets untold.

He followed Lysira's gaze, gold eyes flickering across his massive form, and though words were not his favored means of communication, a silent understanding passed between them. The storm still raged beyond the cave's mouth, but within its shelter, a quiet moment lingered—a respite earned through their collaboration against the wargs.

Lysira, her demeanor a blend of exhaustion and determination, spoke again, "I owe a debt to ye, stranger. I think I would have been lost to those fiends, had ye not appeared when ye did." Øðacre inclined his head in acknowledgment, a silent acceptance of the shared fate that had bound them against the mountain's fury.

With a gesture towards the supplies, Øðacre conveyed his readiness to assist. Together, they organized the provisions within the cave's confines. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced upon the walls, and in that quiet sanctuary, Øðacre and Lysira found a moment of respite, a brief interlude before the challenges that awaited beyond the rocky shelter.
Brenda
She acknowledged his nod, guessing then the type of man he was. She had been silent once, a vow after a great loss. She sank to her knees besides the cold stones of the firepit, filled with the charcoal of spent fires and set about shaving tinder from a branch into the burnt wood. It took a minute of striking flint before she blew to life the small flame before her, slowly adding twigs to feed it to a new life. Finally she was adding larger branches and had a warmth and light that she could take a moment to rest and search her shoulder with stiff fingers. Something strained, but perhaps not torn in those sinews and muscle. She dragged her saddlebags, not even having the strength to lift it now and laid it near the flames. Within she drew out two flasks of brandy, tossing one to the giant. Without waiting, she uncapped hers and drank freely, eyes closing at the pure pleasure of the fiery liquid coursing down her throat. It eased the rawness of her throat. 
With a long eased breath, she cast her gaze upon the silent man. 
"I am Lysira Farraige, of Clan Síoda, Taoíseach of clan Gaiscíoch. Ye have my debt, should ye ever call upon it. I will come freely to aid ye." This was spoken in a more formal tone, a vow - her gold eyes holding a solemn steadiness, an intensity that would not be broken.
Bernice
Accepting the flask of brandy from Lysira, Øðacre expressed his gratitude with a nod, his towering presence a silent acknowledgment of the shared moment. As Lysira drank deeply, the dancing flames illuminated the cavern, casting shadows that mirrored the echoes of their journey through the storm.

Lysira, her eyes reflecting both the burdens of leadership and unwavering determination, revealed her identity. "I am Lysira Farraige, of Clan Síoda, Taoíseach of clan Gaiscíoch," She declared with a formality that resonated through the cave.

In response, Øðacre, standing like a stalwart guardian, decided to reciprocate. He spoke in a low, resonant voice, "I am Øðacre Fjándiveiðr, a Valkür, borne of the great Marble Staircase." The flickering torchlight played on the runic tattoos etched across his battle-scarred skin, creating an intricate dance of shadows.

With this introduction, Øðacre nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the bond forged in battle and shared hardship. The unspoken connection lingered in the quiet of the cave—a testament to the alliance formed in the crucible of adversity. As the storm raged outside, within the rocky refuge, Øðacre and Lysira found a moment of rest and a connection forged in the crucible of survival.
Brenda
"Well met, Øðacre Fjándiveiðr." Her tongue did not trip over that name, but spoke it as one familiar. "Beannaím duit mar ghaiscíoch i ngaol." A different language that he spoke, surely, one he might not know, though in her heart she felt he might indeed. 
There was a certainty to her words. Their battle had formed a bond of steel and sinew, muscle and flesh - something woken in a primordial understanding of fighting for one's life. A brotherhood of the warrior that surpassed any race or creed. 
The wind blew into the cave with a sudden spiraling of snow, but stayed within the entrance and did not reach their resting area. She fed the fire more wood until it roared with heat, and took a moment to revel in its warmth and inspect her injuries. Strained muscles, and that shoulder... But nothing serious. A gouge of flesh on her forearm where her vambrace had split when it had struck the warg caught her attention. That piece of armor was removed and cast aside, useless now.
After a minute riffling in her saddlebag, she produced a pungent smelling salve. That balm was applied liberally to her forearm then she wrapped it in a cotton strip. 
Her eyes wandered over him, considering if he also needed or wanted that healing ointment she possessed, lingering over the marks on his body of runic tattoos. The fire cast a play of golden light over his muscle and sinew. She could only wonder at his strength. She had seen him fight, or more rightly, had been aware of it in glimpses during their battle. He'd fought with alacrity for his size, and power, yes. A skilled warrior that had shown honed and precise movements that her own clansmen would have sung legendary praise over. 
"Where does yer journey take ye, Øðacre? Have ye a quest or do ye wander as I do in these harsh lands?"
Bernice
Her words, spoken in a tongue both familiar and foreign, resonated within the cave's confines. The intricacies of her language, laden with meanings beyond literal comprehension, held a weight that Øðacre, the masterless Vörðr, respected. Øðacre met her gaze and replied, "Chan eil tomhas sam bith aig an urram sin" — a phrase from the same language, expressing that she has honored him beyond measure. As the fire's warmth enveloped them, the bond forged in battle seemed to deepen, transcending spoken words.

Lysira, tending to her injuries with a practiced grace, cast a contemplative gaze upon Øðacre. The dance of flames played over the runic tattoos etched into his battle-scarred skin, each mark a testament to battles fought and challenges overcome. The unspoken question lingered in her eyes, prompting Øðacre to consider whether he, too, needed the healing ointment she possessed.

His response came in the form of a nod, a silent acknowledgment of shared wounds and the unspoken camaraderie formed in battle. As Lysira applied the salve to her forearm, Øðacre contemplated her question about his journey through these harsh lands.

"My path is that of a wanderer, Lysira," Øðacre spoke, his voice low and resonant. "No set quest guides my steps, but the call of the wild draws me forward. In these lands, where the howl of the wind echoes the untamed spirit within, I find solace and purpose."

His stormy eyes met hers, conveying a depth of understanding that transcended mere words. "And you, Lysira Farraige, Taoíseach of clan Gaiscíoch, what drives you through these unforgiving realms? Is it a quest, a duty, or the pursuit of a warrior's journey?"
Brenda
Seeing he did indeed have injuries, she moved to hand him her salve and the roll of bandages if he needed it. Then she rummaged again in the saddlebags, drawing out a loaf of rich brown bread, several rounds of cheese, a few apples and dried meat. These she set before them both on a cloth, along with a flask of water they would have to share. These offerings seemed meager, but it was all she had. She tore the loaf of bread in half and extended it to him. 
All of this she busied herself with as he spoke, his voice like a great bear's echoing in the cave. It made her smile to herself.

"Sira..." She looked up. "My friends call me Sira." Her gaze held his for a long moment, an indication of what she considered their standing to be, then went back to her preparations. 
"Myself.. I'm headed ta Felfatheas, land of the elves. I've heard of a smith there, someone of great renown. I've a mind ta have a weapon mended." 
She paused to consider if she should show him, then decided she would. Out of the saddlebag she drew an item wrapped carefully in cloth. She set it on a large, almost flat boulder near the fire, and unbound it to reveal two pieces of a beautifully crafted elven sword.The blade had been snapped just below the cross guard. It would have taken a tremendous force to destroy a weapon of this calibre. There was a moment when he might notice the gold of her eyes shimmering to an emerald green as she gazed upon it with some grief. 
"I'm hopin' ta find this elven smith. I've been told his name is Ethendalin."
Bernice
Seeing Lysira offer the salve and bandages, Øðacre acknowledged her kindness with another simple nod. As she busied herself with the provisions from the saddlebags, he couldn't help but notice the warmth of camaraderie shared over simple sustenance. Lysira's smile and the name she revealed, "Sira," Resonated like a melody of friendship in the cavern's embrace.

"Myself... I'm headed ta Felfatheas, land of the Elves. I've heard of a smith there, someone of great renown. I've a mind ta have a weapon mended," She explained. The anticipation lingered as she unwrapped a carefully bound item, revealing two pieces of a broken Elven sword. The shattered blade spoke of a grief that mirrored the shimmering transformation of her eyes from gold to emerald green.

"I'm hopin' ta find this elven smith. I've been told his name is Ethendalin."

Øðacre, moved by the sight of the broken sword, recognized its Elven craftsmanship immediately. The delicacy and precision of Elven work was evident in every detail. He marveled at the beauty and mourned the loss it represented. "Sira, this be no ordinary weapon. 'Tis Elven, and it speaks of a skilled hand that shaped it. I'm sorry for its fate."

In a gesture of shared hospitality, Øðacre retrieved some dried elk from his own supplies. Additionally, recalling the alcohol Vysira had given him earlier, he offered it to her. "Here, Sira. Elk and a sip of this might ease the heartache."

As they shared the provisions, Øðacre continued, "I've heard tell of Ethendalin, a renowned Elven smith, but our paths have never crossed. His skill is spoken of with reverence. If anyone can mend this blade, 'tis likely him. We could seek him together, if that suits your path."
Brenda
*No ordinary weapon*. By the blood... Did he ever speak the truth in that. He had no idea the ordeals she went through to receive that blade. To see it broken, laying there, was like looking at a lover who had been struck down. It wrenched her heart and the emotion that wove its threads through her being then was near impossible to keep from her expression. The gold in her eyes shimmered and the emerald hues almost seem to illuminate from within. *Tilisain*...' Ar son na beatha a tugadh i seirbhís do rí'. 'For the life given in service to your king'. 
She took that drink from him, nodding as the grief ached in her throat, and took a long swallow. It seemed to ease her enough to gain control, her jaw setting with clenched teeth. 
When he offered to go with her, the resolution in her eyes returned. She offered him a stiff nod of her head and wrapped the blade up swiftly. 
"I would welcome yer companionship. Tis kind of ye to offer when ye've already set me in yer debt this day. I'm of a mind to repay ye fer both."
Bernice
"*Tilisain*...' Ar son na beatha a tugadh i seirbhís do rí'. 'For the life given in service to your king,'" She whispered, her eyes reflecting a profound connection to the broken elven blade. Øðacre, witnessing the depth of her grief, felt a resonance with the weight of her loss. As she took a long swallow from the offered drink, the tension in her jaw slowly eased.

When she accepted his offer to accompany her, Øðacre made it clear, "Ye need not feel indebted, Sira. In these lands, where the howl of the wind carries tales of survival, helping a fellow traveler is no burden."

With a steady gaze, he continued in his people's tongue of Valkür, "*Uansett hvor du kjenner til skade, betrakt den som din egen; og gi dine fiender ingen fred.*" It was a saying passed down through generations, meaning, "*Wherever you know of harm, regard that harm as your own; and give your foes no peace.*"

"In my world, we believe in standing against the storms together," Øðacre explained. "There's a strength in unity, a shared resilience that outlasts the fiercest tempests. So, Sira, your journey is mine, and we'll face whatever lies ahead as kin on this path through the unforgiving realms."
Brenda
*In my world, we believe in standing against the storms together,."* This struck like a spike to her heart. So very similar to the Sioda vow, where they were sworn to protect their own. No allowance for a mate, nor children, they were pledged to defend the island and the Galaige till the death. And what did she do? - Bond with the very dragon she was paired to ride. So her banishment ensued. How could a simple event that thrust the two of them into this cave together, force her to face that past again? She shoved it aside though when he said he would take up her journey as his own. He should know her story of the blade then... The elven blade of Tilisain. 
"I will accept yer offer, Øðacre. I will share yer strength an' be a sword at yer back in defense." She reached forward, offering her hand to him in a grasp of kinship.
Bernice
Øðacre clasped her offered hand in a firm grip, the unspoken bond of kinship solidifying in that shared moment. The warmth of the cave and the flickering flames seemed to echo the newfound connection between them.

"I am honored, Sira," Øðacre responded with a nod, his gaze reflecting a depth of understanding. The resonance between their paths, though forged in the crucible of unforeseen circumstances, felt as inevitable as the wind that howled outside.

The storm outside raged on, but within the confines of the cave, Øðacre and Sira found solace in the alliance formed in the face of adversity. The echoes of their shared stories, spoken and unspoken, wove a tapestry that transcended the blizzard's relentless fury.
Brenda
She gripped his forearm, and the strength he might feel in her grip was no small thing, but perhaps oddly in par with his own. No simple human, this one. An onion to be peeled who's history had many dimensions. She met his gaze with steady intensity before she let go and settled back to her spot by the fire, stretching long legs out. That shoulder pained her again and she rolled the joint, trying to ease it into a more comfortable position. 
"Will ye want to hear how I come by the sword, then?" Some mirth danced in her eyes at the question. What warrior didn't want to hear a story about a sword? Still... They were tired, and had just engaged in a fierce battle. Perhaps the man wanted to sleep. Perhaps he wanted to watch the fire in peace without her prattling on with a story. They had the whole night ahead, and the shrieking of the wind hinted at no early release with the promise of the dawn's light. Still, she knew a warrior's silent walk often meant solitude was preferable, so she waited for his reply.
Bernice
Øðacre acknowledged her offer with a nod, a silent agreement etched on his weathered face. As the dance of flames cast flickering shadows, he began the deliberate process of unburdening himself from the armor that had seen them through the battle. The metal pieces clinked and settled beside him, revealing the wear and tear of countless encounters. With each discarded layer, a sense of liberation emerged, shedding the constraints of war for the relative ease of the cave's warmth.

His eyes, usually steely and focused, softened as they flickered over the firelit cavern. The dance of flames mirrored the dance of tales, and he found solace in the narrative unfolding alongside the comforting crackle of burning wood. As Lysira prepared to share the story of Tilisain, Øðacre leaned back, the cavern's embrace providing a sanctuary from the unyielding challenges outside. The warrior's silent demeanor belied a readiness to absorb the threads of her past, weaving them into the tapestry of their shared night.
Brenda
Her eyes settled on the fire as she thought back to a time very far in the past. "Tilisain is the name of the sword, and it was given ta me by the Elven High King Aertheril of Ethcabar. She wondered how far Øðacre had traveled or if he had been to other worlds, and if knew just how long ago that elven king might have lived... No matter that she didn't look a day past her mid twenties. Aetheril had lived over seventy years ago, but not in these lands.
"There was a great uprising in those days." And how much was she willing to tell him? Would she tell him it all started with a warg attack, much like the one tonight? She let her gaze slide over to consider Øðacrea. There was something about him, some way that he met her gaze, that look in his eyes. She knew she could trust him, that is integrity matched her own, that his honor would be unquestionable. 
Her eyes went to the fire again. "It all started with a warg." Her jaw set in a determined line. Determined to tell the tale. It might be the first time she had ever told it completely, and not in fragments when she could speak of it. 
"I was on my way to an island city, a place of great art an beauty. I had made camp an' the man I traveled with, a Muirru who... Och, that is another tale, truly. He had gone ta hunt an' I climbed this hill of boulders because I heard a brook burblin' down. Beneath a willow I found a fairy pool. Twas just twilight, an' the shadows were silver an' shiftin'. There were fairies present, just as I suspected, but before I could offer them a gift, a warg sprang out of the forest." 
She grew silent for a long moment, reliving that battle in her mind. The golden color of her eyes shifted to emerald as she spoke: "He tore me up vera bad before I killed him."

She shook her head slightly, the braids and crystals moving over her shoulders. "I dinna know what happened then, but a little girl found me on me horse. I think Mokole must have put me on it, an' could not go into the village fer fear of - he was unusual to look upon - ... So she an' her family cared fer me." She swallowed, her eyes fastened on that fire. "I stayed some months... An' left finally, only ta return an' find the village decimated... " She couldn't go on and took a steadying breath, her gaze moving to Øðacre. 
"I canna go on with that part ..." She sighed. "Long story short.. Orcs had slain them all. So I spent a year destroyin' every tribe in the lands. It forced them out of the realm an' a battle mage named Gil'reath gathered them into an army an' returned to attack. We stopped him. But ye see, twas my fault they all died. All of them... Because I cleansed the land of orcs." She gazed at the wrapped sword in her hands. "The High King gave it ta me in service fer protectin' the lands... But I carry it in remembrance of all that died because of me." She hadn't even told him how it came to be broken... But she was spent and too overcome by guilt to continue.
Bernice
Øðacre listened to the tale woven by the dancing flames and the flickering shadows. The depths of Lysira's history unfolded like the pages of an ancient tome, each word resonating with echoes of pain and sacrifice. The cavern's warmth seemed to hold a breath, absorbing the weight of her narrative.

Her eyes, reflecting both the firelight and the embers of memories, met his with an intensity that conveyed a profound trust. Øðacre could sense the burden she carried, the weight of decisions made in the crucible of survival. As she spoke of the warg attack and the subsequent events, his own eyes, usually stoic, softened with a subtle understanding. The elven king Aertheril of Ethcabar became a figure of antiquity, and Øðacre wondered about the vastness of the worlds she had traversed.

The confession of guilt, the acknowledgment of lives lost in the wake of her choices, hung in the air like a solemn hymn. Øðacre felt a kinship in the shared burden of responsibility for the outcomes of one's actions. The wrapped sword in her hands, a relic of both honor and regret, spoke volumes without uttering a single word. The quiet cave held their shared history, and Øðacre, with a respectful nod, recognized the sanctity of the moment. As the embers glowed, so did the echoes of stories that bound them in a silent understanding, transcending the boundaries of time and realms.