Virmehn was upon the ground then, blade poised towards her, ready to strike. Not much time now, she wouldn’t be able to escape, it has to be said. Warn, protect. No, too late. A life was snuffed out as quickly as the blade struck home—her grasp firmly upon the hilt of another. She would not be able to free that, no. She was never going to.
Sister Briar expected darkness when the blade came, but she awoke in a glade. A clearing, all a flutter with life. It was odd. It was calm. It was home. Moreso than anything else she had ever known. Rising upon unsteady feet, she was not overwhelmed. She was not dead. She was alive, wearing fresh clothes, and she felt… vital. She felt free. Content.
Striding forth, one step after another, she’d explore, but more importantly, she would find herself lost. A briar patch was before her. Was it always there?
It matters little. But it held something.
Peace. Clarity. Rest.
The elf was wrath, was rage. But, she was loyal.
Loyalty to herself and her fellows and her duty, loyal enough to risk her own life to strike against one who outmatched her, unfortunately.
Upon the briars she rested. Her identity faded, ebbed away, gnawed by time and by peace and by knowing that she had, at least, served her purpose.
Loyalty remained ever after.
---
A shift, a change--a body buried by friends, hidden away where no hands would rip her from her rest--but that was not meant to be. Stolen, ferreted away, gone from the embrace of the earth and the tree. What could this be?