Departure Song
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Silent Elegy
Chapter I
Legends say that Tristan Selmes was a valiant and renowned hero. If these legends are true, then one would be inclined to believe that the man in front of the altar was not Tristan Selmes.
About the only heroic quality this man had was his appearance—shoulder-length brown hair, a large and muscular shape, and fading battle scars on top of pallid and colorless flesh. His uniform was also that of a noble: bronze-tinted chain mail with the familiar Noirsayan crest painted neatly in the center.
But this man was certainly no hero. He anxiously looked at his surroundings, sword drawn, anticipating unwanted spectators. The air in the surrounding woodlands was no longer calming and serene; it was arid and tense. He was in a secluded, circular clearing in the heart of the woods, where the only landmark was the marble statue in front of him. The statue was of a young woman, delicately carved, and purple in color. She was illuminated by the candles atop the small altar in front of her.
When Tristan was at last convinced that nobody was watching, he knelt down in front of the altar. He shut his eyes, put his hands on the statue, and embraced the subtle hum of the forest at dusk.
A minute passed. He opened his eyes—hands still stretched towards the statue—and took a deep breath.
His voice was tense as he chanted, “Lady Adrienne, acolyte of nightfall, I beseech you...”
He turned his head sharply once more, confirming for the last time that no souls were eavesdropping.
He continued, “Bestow upon me your eternal shadow.”
It is unclear what occurred next. Some legends say that blood fell from the sky as rain would, eclipsing all of the forest in a crimson veil. Others tell of a heavy green fog surrounding the forest. All legends, however, agree upon what happened afterwards.
Tristan Selmes was still kneeling in front of the altar, but he was no longer facing the statue of Lady Adrienne. He saw Lady Adrienne in her true form—as mortal and human as he was.
“Rise, my child,” she said in a calm voice.
Tristan stood up, forcing back his tears.
His voice broke as he greeted her. “Lady Adrienne... I... am... honored...”
Tristan could no longer control himself. He was completely entranced by her beauty—her long, flowing red hair, her porcelain skin, her black dress. He sobbed without restraint.
She smiled at him pleasantly.
“Today is the most glorious day you will see. Tristan Selmes, formerly of the Noirsayan knights, it is at this very hour that you will join me as a servant of the nightfall. Will you open up your heart to me, child?”
“Yes!” he cried out, his hands trembling with ardor.
At once, either the falling blood or green fog ceased, and the woman disappeared.
Tristan looked around. The statue did not return. He remained standing in front of the altar, awaiting his final trial.
Suddenly, he felt it in his heart—a pain so agonizing that it would have killed anybody who was not cloaked with Lady Adrienne's blessing. He shook violently, collapsing onto the floor. His entire body stung, as if the sharpest daggers were being thrown at him. Every organ felt as if it were going to explode; every nerve trembled before this violent force. He knew he must not scream; if he did, everything would be ruined. He lay there, unable to control himself, shaking on the ground like a sick animal. As soon as he felt like he could no longer continue—as if torture of this degree was not worth the years of preparation for this moment—it stopped.
Lady Adrienne appeared again. Tristan stood up, still shaking, and looked at her.
“Your heart is now one with my own,” she told him, putting both of her hands on his shoulders.
“You are a servant of the nightfall.”
And she disappeared for the final time, leaving Tristan in front of the altar.
He took one more look around the area, sighed, and began to walk back towards his home.
Silent Elegy
Chapter I
Legends say that Tristan Selmes was a valiant and renowned hero. If these legends are true, then one would be inclined to believe that the man in front of the altar was not Tristan Selmes.
About the only heroic quality this man had was his appearance—shoulder-length brown hair, a large and muscular shape, and fading battle scars on top of pallid and colorless flesh. His uniform was also that of a noble: bronze-tinted chain mail with the familiar Noirsayan crest painted neatly in the center.
But this man was certainly no hero. He anxiously looked at his surroundings, sword drawn, anticipating unwanted spectators. The air in the surrounding woodlands was no longer calming and serene; it was arid and tense. He was in a secluded, circular clearing in the heart of the woods, where the only landmark was the marble statue in front of him. The statue was of a young woman, delicately carved, and purple in color. She was illuminated by the candles atop the small altar in front of her.
When Tristan was at last convinced that nobody was watching, he knelt down in front of the altar. He shut his eyes, put his hands on the statue, and embraced the subtle hum of the forest at dusk.
A minute passed. He opened his eyes—hands still stretched towards the statue—and took a deep breath.
His voice was tense as he chanted, “Lady Adrienne, acolyte of nightfall, I beseech you...”
He turned his head sharply once more, confirming for the last time that no souls were eavesdropping.
He continued, “Bestow upon me your eternal shadow.”
It is unclear what occurred next. Some legends say that blood fell from the sky as rain would, eclipsing all of the forest in a crimson veil. Others tell of a heavy green fog surrounding the forest. All legends, however, agree upon what happened afterwards.
Tristan Selmes was still kneeling in front of the altar, but he was no longer facing the statue of Lady Adrienne. He saw Lady Adrienne in her true form—as mortal and human as he was.
“Rise, my child,” she said in a calm voice.
Tristan stood up, forcing back his tears.
His voice broke as he greeted her. “Lady Adrienne... I... am... honored...”
Tristan could no longer control himself. He was completely entranced by her beauty—her long, flowing red hair, her porcelain skin, her black dress. He sobbed without restraint.
She smiled at him pleasantly.
“Today is the most glorious day you will see. Tristan Selmes, formerly of the Noirsayan knights, it is at this very hour that you will join me as a servant of the nightfall. Will you open up your heart to me, child?”
“Yes!” he cried out, his hands trembling with ardor.
At once, either the falling blood or green fog ceased, and the woman disappeared.
Tristan looked around. The statue did not return. He remained standing in front of the altar, awaiting his final trial.
Suddenly, he felt it in his heart—a pain so agonizing that it would have killed anybody who was not cloaked with Lady Adrienne's blessing. He shook violently, collapsing onto the floor. His entire body stung, as if the sharpest daggers were being thrown at him. Every organ felt as if it were going to explode; every nerve trembled before this violent force. He knew he must not scream; if he did, everything would be ruined. He lay there, unable to control himself, shaking on the ground like a sick animal. As soon as he felt like he could no longer continue—as if torture of this degree was not worth the years of preparation for this moment—it stopped.
Lady Adrienne appeared again. Tristan stood up, still shaking, and looked at her.
“Your heart is now one with my own,” she told him, putting both of her hands on his shoulders.
“You are a servant of the nightfall.”
And she disappeared for the final time, leaving Tristan in front of the altar.
He took one more look around the area, sighed, and began to walk back towards his home.
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