Fear felt good. Fear felt glorious. Welt hadn't felt fear in a long, long time. He had forgotten how alive he used to feel. "We are most alive when between life and death," his father used to say before their first battle together. Now Welt is dead, and dread is the only remainder, albeit a poor one, of the boiling blood that gushes through the veins of a man alighting on shore, ax in hand, wind in hair.
He rode as fast as he could through the forest, not stopping for any lurking creature, foul or fair. His robes, its edges burnt, swirled around him, showing only sheathed ice on his belt and glimpses of armor. Headstrong he went onward, glancing only sporadically behind to see whips of flame licking the darkened sky, and tree tops shaken by mighty wings in the distance.
Then his horse came to a violent stop. He looked around, calm and used to this kind of feeling. He then picked a flower from a nearby tree, and seeing how it didn't wither in his damned hand, he knew someone with a divine blessing was near. And it was none other than... "A noble Macelady of Lilith," he said from a distance, only a chill seen rising from his mouth; "In such a monstrous land, with ent-folk. You women are brave indeed." His rotten horse neighed, disturbed by her holy presence.