Iridescent snowflakes fall lightly, adding another soft layer to the snow covered ground. They fall around her, but never touching her, as if respecting her guided wishes. The cold of frozen night does not nip at her soft face, nor the delicate skin of her exposed throat. The silver frost does not stick to her long eyelashes nor her flowing silky white hair. She stands in the once so very green forest, now blanketed in a white serenity of glistening crystals. The wind howls softly behind her, blowing her luxurious hair, but she does not feel the call of its chill. In her heightened mind, she is standing amongst the green elms of spring, the joyous colors surrounding her, the warmth of the two risen suns penetrating into her being.
Her ice blue eyes gaze out into the delicate swirling flakes, devoid of emotion, save for a light of irrevocable determination. The woods she now stands in are silent but for the harrowed whisper of the wind -- but she is not fooled, for in this forest comes an evil; an evil of immeasurable age and unfathomable power. Through the semi transparent veil of falling diamond flakes, she can feel its will, calling to her; but she will not answer. She will not bow to its mercy. His mercy. Or the lack thereof.
She is Linadriel Icestorm, a Snow Elf of the highest order, the last of her people. Within her, she herself holds power -- power passed down to her through the generations of her ancestors. She wears the robe of her mother and the enchanted flowing cloak of her father. In her steady gloved hand, she holds the Sword of Elestael. A sword that holds within it the memories of her ancestors. Indestructible from time itself, she feels its might resonating through the opal encrusted handle. She is ready. Ready for them. She no longer fears evil. She no longer fears death. Let them come.
Let him come.
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