[center] [h3]Islara Yelren & The Sparrows[/h3] The plaza of Hathforth, on the day of Duke Willowsteel's execution [/center] [hr] [center][b]IX: Budding Flowers Over Graves[/b][/center] [justify]The stirred pot was now starting to boil over. Stone-faced, Islara observed the display of ice magic from the Queen’s advisor. The biting blizzard would soon rid them of their only advantage. With her plan essentially foiled, one can only imagine the anxiety that gnawed on the woman. But she felt no such thing. She turned to Duke Willowsteel, her free hand urgently ushering him up the dragon. “You must depart. Now.” A steely gaze landed on Raiden. Islara would give him a solemn but firm nod. “Go. I’ll buy you time.” She’d made her peace long ago, before this mission. She swirled a pellet on her tongue, tucking it underneath. The duke’s life was important, far more important than hers. No doubt would word of his rescue quickly reach the Nordor demesne. Perhaps such news, of knowing that their ruler yet lives, would finally embolden the people of Nordor to rebel. She brandished her dagger, the lingering smoke cloaking it in a temporary haze. [i]It’s too early to dwell on defeat[/i]. Just one emotion streaked across her face. [i]We haven’t lost yet[/i]. But if she [i]were[/i] to fall here, it would be on her own terms. She would make sure of it. The smoke had now completely dissipated, revealing her figure, along with Raiden’s and the dragon’s. The Queen’s guards were closing in, their hastened steps grinding against the concrete of the execution grounds. One of the knights had even attempted to ensnare them in a trap. [i]Clever[/i]. However, the net would burn away, engulfed by a mystical flame, before it could touch them. “Looks like we made it in time!” A familiar voice called out to her from the stands. It was a young man with brown hair. He wore a breastplate with the insignia of the Sparrows. A blue flame hovered on his palm, gathering in size and intensity. He would toss it in the direction of the guards, and it would burst in a deadly conflagration, leaving a desiccated crater in its wake. Contrasting the skinny young pyromancer was the muscular man emerging from the aftermath of the firestorm. He clutched a broadsword with his right hand, the tip of the blade trailing along dirt, creating lines and other patterns. There were those among the Queen’s guards who survived the blast, and they would surround the man in a tight formation. But the giant would shake them off with nothing but a flick of his weapon. “Damn it! Don’t underestimate us, interloper!” A lone knight would start to engage him head-on, blade overhead, preparing for a downswing. He too would fail, bisected from the torso by his foe’s broadsword. His blood and entrails were splayed out on the ground unceremoniously. A [i]squish[/i] could be heard as his killer continued his pace, the metal on the man’s feet pressing against intestines and other organs. The other knights around him froze in place. So, the man quietly passed them by. After all, if they moved, twitched, even slightly, the fate that awaited them was staring them right in the face. Meanwhile, on the raised platform where the execution would have occurred, Islara armed herself with another dagger, forming a pair. She leveled her previous one at Duke Rhinecliff. “So, the ruler of Odonfield now licks the feet of this… ‘queen’ too? How shameful.” Scathing criticism spilled from her lips like a waterfall off a cliff’s edge. Piercing eyes would shift towards Advisor Urimyar. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten, elf. The suffering you’ve inflicted… On me, on [i]us[/i]… I will inflict it upon you tenfold.” Those were the final words that Islara exchanged. In the next passing moments, she would lunge forward with superhuman speed, intending a beheading. And she would have succeeded too, if not for another blade putting a stop to hers. Sir Hayworth stood in front of Advisor Urimyar, his steel locking Islara in a standoff. He pushed ferociously against the would-be assassin, sparks flying amidst the struggle. “Apologies for my tardiness, Sir Vulluin.” Islara scoffed. “Ha! Agrovia as well? Have the territories of Arrowfell grown soft?” An obvious taunt. But Sir Hayworth would ignore it. Something more pressing was on his mind. [i]How... is she matching my strength?[/i] Sir Hayworth was by no means holding back. And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, Islara, too, would push harder. The assassin had forced a stalemate: a stalemate that would not have been possible, if not for… Prying eyes would spot a ring on the woman’s hand. A Seed. She was being empowered by a Seed. [i]So that's how it is[/i]. Sir Hayworth would change tactics. “Guh—!” In a blink of an eye, Islara was sent flying backwards. Sir Hayworth had expelled a stream of mana from his sword, surging forth unexpectedly like a wave. Unable to resist its flow, Islara found herself ultimately swept away by it. “Sir Vulluin,” Sir Hayworth began ominously, addressing the elven man behind him. “She is dangerous. We must not let her reach the Queen.” Islara would soon rise to her feet, held up by her companions, who now stood side by side with her. Sir Hayworth looked them up and down, a grave expression wrinkling his face. “Not her, nor the pyromancer, or that warrior.” Islara let a brief smile tug at her lips. Now all the attention would be on her. On [i]them[/i]. [/justify]