Veldranyn Dawnbringer Shadow Warrior - Shadowlands
Shadow Warriors are cool. They're all fucked up inside, and proper mental. They're a very gray culture, Shadow Warriors. They're between black and white. Not evil, not good. They're like.. uhm. VERY evil, because they're so vengeful. But they're good. Like Batman.
The wind roared in the Shadowlands as a lean, cloaked figure stood high on one of the cliffs, his eyes stalking across the battlefield in the valley below. Magic sheared the very air, visible cracks being seen along the keep of the Dark Elves known as Spite's Reach. Frowning, the figure brushed his cloak to readjust his shoulder pads, showing a slight hint of pale skin as he does so. Tied around his frame was a large, heavily decorated Elven bow. The phoenix king's emblem hung limply from the lower side of the ancient oak that made the gracious curve of the bow. Blinking, he pulled up the red hood from behind him, lifting it over the exquisite metal covering and protecting his face, his eyes burning with the vengeance of the Elven god, Nagarythe.
Far in the valley below, chaos ensued. Dark Elves threw volatile magic around as if it was water, disintegrating nearby bushels and foliage. High Elves danced around their blades gracefully, cutting a swathe of destruction through the Shadowlands. A lone Witch Elf strode with pride towards the battle, her battle gear tightly clad on her Dark Elven form. A vile, emerald liquid dripped from the two blades held idly in her hand. All of a sudden, light flashed around her, whizzing noises ripping through the noise of the nearby war. Seconds passed, before the young Dark Elf slumped to the floor, blood pouring from sections of her body cleanly sliced through, as each one of her muscles spammed. After an agonizingly long time, the Elf lay still, her eyes clearing of any life.
From the shadows of a nearby overhanging cliff, the lean figure emerged, bow in hand, pulling a sharp, jagged arrow taut in the fine string. Glancing around, he knelt before the Dark Elf, letting the bow lose pressure as he reached forward and closed her eyes with one hand. Muttering lightly, he stepped back up, returning his gaze towards the battlefield once again. Adjusting his feet, he stood there, like a young tiger learning to pounce, before setting off in a sprint, muttering an Elven prayer under his breath as he prepares another arrow, pulling the string taut and letting it loose, firing it into the throng of war. He would rather die defending his land, he thought, as he himself became the hunted.
Far in the valley below, chaos ensued. Dark Elves threw volatile magic around as if it was water, disintegrating nearby bushels and foliage. High Elves danced around their blades gracefully, cutting a swathe of destruction through the Shadowlands. A lone Witch Elf strode with pride towards the battle, her battle gear tightly clad on her Dark Elven form. A vile, emerald liquid dripped from the two blades held idly in her hand. All of a sudden, light flashed around her, whizzing noises ripping through the noise of the nearby war. Seconds passed, before the young Dark Elf slumped to the floor, blood pouring from sections of her body cleanly sliced through, as each one of her muscles spammed. After an agonizingly long time, the Elf lay still, her eyes clearing of any life.
From the shadows of a nearby overhanging cliff, the lean figure emerged, bow in hand, pulling a sharp, jagged arrow taut in the fine string. Glancing around, he knelt before the Dark Elf, letting the bow lose pressure as he reached forward and closed her eyes with one hand. Muttering lightly, he stepped back up, returning his gaze towards the battlefield once again. Adjusting his feet, he stood there, like a young tiger learning to pounce, before setting off in a sprint, muttering an Elven prayer under his breath as he prepares another arrow, pulling the string taut and letting it loose, firing it into the throng of war. He would rather die defending his land, he thought, as he himself became the hunted.
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