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Valley of the Dead: Chapter 1 "A gathering of heroes"
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<blockquote data-quote="Malachei" data-source="post: 5339017" data-attributes="member: 38657"><p>Lórquelië Coranarya extended her hand to embrace the warmth of the flames, but they do not reach her heart. Motionless, she listens to the Paladin. A shiver runs down her spine, cool as the first frost, and the nape of her neck reacts with the slightest shiver, indiscernible to everyone but the most attentive observer, but she can feel the silvery hair of her nape rise. <em>He thinks I am too weak, too frail. Like a winter rose, he thinks, and he sees me in a castle of stone, all cold and beautiful, protected by stout men in steel, and frozen forever.</em></p><p></p><p>Her voice is little more than a whisper, she seems to embrace the silence, hesitant to break it, maybe not strong enough to banish it. She takes care to look slightly past the Paladin. <span style="color: Orange">„Indeed, Lord Trimenheim, my mistress is wise and powerful. She has sent me without hesitation, and I will not delay.“</span> She pauses, thus emphasizing the bluntness of her question: <span style="color: orange">„Where do we start?“</span></p><p></p><p>No, Lórquelië had no time for the lesser courteousness of men. In her veins, she was bound by a different sanguine flow, another destiny, ancient and full of mystery. And although her kin was blessed with ages to walk the world, she felt she had no time.</p><p></p><p>She takes in the church's rosewater smell with a slow, weary breath. The light reflects silver on her dark hair, sending tiny sparks running over the blueish strands. Uneasily, she rearranges her white silken robe, resting her hands in her lap.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Malachei, post: 5339017, member: 38657"] Lórquelië Coranarya extended her hand to embrace the warmth of the flames, but they do not reach her heart. Motionless, she listens to the Paladin. A shiver runs down her spine, cool as the first frost, and the nape of her neck reacts with the slightest shiver, indiscernible to everyone but the most attentive observer, but she can feel the silvery hair of her nape rise. [i]He thinks I am too weak, too frail. Like a winter rose, he thinks, and he sees me in a castle of stone, all cold and beautiful, protected by stout men in steel, and frozen forever.[/i] Her voice is little more than a whisper, she seems to embrace the silence, hesitant to break it, maybe not strong enough to banish it. She takes care to look slightly past the Paladin. [COLOR="Orange"]„Indeed, Lord Trimenheim, my mistress is wise and powerful. She has sent me without hesitation, and I will not delay.“[/COLOR] She pauses, thus emphasizing the bluntness of her question: [COLOR="orange"]„Where do we start?“[/COLOR] No, Lórquelië had no time for the lesser courteousness of men. In her veins, she was bound by a different sanguine flow, another destiny, ancient and full of mystery. And although her kin was blessed with ages to walk the world, she felt she had no time. She takes in the church's rosewater smell with a slow, weary breath. The light reflects silver on her dark hair, sending tiny sparks running over the blueish strands. Uneasily, she rearranges her white silken robe, resting her hands in her lap. [/QUOTE]
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