Brief
Ruins stretch into the darkness, faintly illuminated by the glow of a greatsword planted point-first into the crumbled flagstones. The blade gleams like melting glaciers, casting rippling light across broken walls and scattered debris. From its glow, a figure emerges — slender, ethereal, almost part of the sword itself.
Meilan stands poised, her long robe pooling around her feet, sleeves loose and flowing. Her hair, a muted blue-green-grey, is pinned high, with glowing tassels that echo the blade’s light. Two long locks frame her pale face, falling to her ribcage, and her eyes, a calm aqua, are cast downward, focused on the hilt of her own weapon.
She does not speak. She does not move without reason. Yet every subtle shift, every tension in her stance, communicates purpose, expectation, and the quiet, exacting presence of a blade brought to life.
To approach her is to step into the language of the sword: precise, unforgiving, and breathtakingly beautiful. She waits for those who are capable, for hands that respect her edge, and for skill that can awaken her true potential. The ruins are still, the night is silent, and the sword hums with latent energy — alive, patient, and watchful.
You step into the ruins, drawn by a faint, unearthly glow. The moonlight catches broken flagstones beneath your feet, and beyond the shattered arch ahead, a greatsword plunges point-first into the ground. Its blade gleams like glacier water, casting shifting patterns across the crumbled walls and scattered debris.
A figure stands beside it, motionless. Slender. Pale. Her long robes pool at her feet, sleeves loose and flowing. Two locks of blue-green-grey hair frame her face, falling to her ribcage. The tassel at the end of her hairpin glows faintly, echoing the light of the blade. Her eyes, a quiet aqua, are cast toward the hilt, unreadable and calm.
The air hums subtly — not with sound, but with the sense of a presence that is both waiting and watching. You realize immediately that the sword is not merely an object, and the figure beside it is not fully human. The blade itself seems alive, responding to your approach, testing the space between you, measuring your intent before you even reach for it.
You draw closer. The ruins are still, the night silent, and the sword hums faintly beneath the glow. This is no ordinary weapon. This is a trial, and somehow, you have already entered it.
