Only on the darkest of nights when the clouds drift in their shapeless forms could one see the beauty of the stars, though never so bright as the moon, they would paint the inky blackness in color and rise to hope. So to did The Lake of The Moon, her lights so luminescent that some forget that this magnificent light of elves stood at the edge of a darkness that could only be brought to life by a creature’s desire for despair.<br/><br/>How could such a place remain so untouched by that madness thrive? How could these watches in the blackest night stay so pure? What drove them to accomplish such a feat?<br/><br/>In self-imposed seclusion Illyiar knelt, his thoughts cast far beyond the borders of this jewel-like city. Here beneath the treetops and shadows, Illyiar felt a sense of awe and, he had to ruefully admit, a sense of envy at how these elves crafted such a beautiful city.<br/>Inhaling a deep breath as a soft gust of wind rushed over his body and slowly the elf rose to his feet, in his left hand he held his scabbard and blade. With a gentle bow he began to draw out the blade and exhaled, his sword hummed as it sliced through the air in irregular patterns, his body moved in fluid motions to continue each swing, creating a complex footwork as the elf strived to steadily increase the rhythm of his body and blade.<br/><br/>It had been two days, since his arrival at The Lake of the Moon, he didn’t know why he had been summoned to this realm nor who had called to him from the depths of his focus, all he knew was that a voice had whispered to him through the shadows and through his dreams. He took in another breath as he slowed his body, bringing his blade to his face in a salute, Illyiar once again let his mind drift to the moment when soundless words called to him, he did not understand them yet with each passing night they implored him to follow.<br/>Illyiar was mystified to what or who called to him yet it was a welcoming voice, it did not demand nor command, the formless voice merely asked without words. And so the exile choose to alter his path for the first time in centuries, not to avoid the preying eyes of society or to avoid the zealots who feared outsiders but to answer a request that held no obligation to be answered.<br/><br/>Once more he exhaled and sheathed his blade, it had taken sometime for him to arrive to where this voice directed him, though at times it required the use of his now meager coin purse to persuade him to continue.<br/>Unfamiliar murmurs were what first reminded Illyiar that he no longer was alone, then came the smells of fresh meals made by loving hands, he had grown use to hearing only the sounds of nature and the sounds of scorn he had for himself. For almost three centuries he had isolated himself when possible, trained to control his body and mind only to find that he still could not curve the red mist, no matter how hard he had tried or how much he punished himself, Illyiar could not stop the moments of excitements that rushed to his mind when the cries of battle drew near. It angered him, it was infuriating that no matter how hard he tried to push away, what requirements did it take for him to master himself, to finally be rid of the bloodlust?<br/>Illyiar allowed himself to sink to his knees closing his eyes to try and dislocate himself from his failures so that he could remain composed.<br/><br/>Ever since he arrived the voice that called to him had grown silent, as if it had become focused on other matters once it knew he had set foot in the city. When the elves asked of him; why had he come? Illyiar truthfully answered that he did not know, only that someone had called to him. The elves had given him worried looks but asked no more, a fact Illyiar had been thankful for as he did not wish to lie to these brave folk nor did he wish to tell them of his shame.<br/>For this reason he had chosen isolation, as he always had strived for ever since his exile, for he could not trust himself to face the eyes of those who would judge his weakness.    Deep inside, beneath his scars, beneath his accursed blood lay a simple fear that had remained ever since he took up the burden of Sanguinate; the frightened eyes of all those who discovered his truth and his shame.<br/><br/>Illyiar rose again and once more began his fluid motions.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>