The Blight

[PepsiWhirda]

Aided by the speed of their new mounts, Whirda and Nyx reached the gate just as the sun was dipping below the trees. The sky was a mass of dusk-tones: pewter gray, crimson, and pink, transitioning to royal blue. An inky black stain crept in from the west. The wind soughed through the trees, bearing the moist, tangy pungency of an impending storm. They would comp in the Nexus to escape the weather.

The journey through the forest had been uneventful. Whether dissuaded by the presence of the elves, or off pillaging and plundering elsewhere in the realm, no goblins or men in green interrupted their progress. Whirda rode ahead of the group and dismounted in front of the polished metal archway. The Omnilium swirled lazily at its center, waiting to carry them back where everything started.

Nyx, dozing in her saddle, jolted awake egg as her great black cat padded to a halt. "Are we there yet?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She saw the gate and grinned sheepishly. "Ah."

At Whirda's feet, the directional marker she had conjured a day and a half before still pointed toward the distant treeline. She patted Cascade on the nose as the elves rode up beside Nyx. The wind now flecked them with a fine mist.

"This is where we leave you, Whirda Windstrom," the blonde elf said. He drew his hood tight around his cowl and nudged his mount into a spin, until it was facing the way they had come. His kin followed suit.

"Can we take them with us?" Nyx asked hopefully, indicating Cascade and the nightsaber.

"They will follow you through the gate, yes," said the elf. "But do not trust them to appear the same on the other side. Creatures composed of godstuff will appear as whatever counterpart exists to them at your destination. If no such counterpart exists, they will not complete the journey."

The wind picked up, lashing Whirda's cheeks and forehead. "Will ours make it to the Moors?" she asked, shouting to be heard.

"Yes!" The elf's horse flared its nostrils and pawed the ground as a bolt of lightning split the sky in two. "Take care, Whirda Windstrom. The fate of elfhome rests with you."

"Don't remind us," Whirda grumbled, the words lost in a bellow of thunder. Cascade lifted his hooves off the ground and whinnied his fear into the pelting rain.

"You have our gratitude!" the elf called. "Farewell!" He urged his warhorse into a canter. Canter to gallop, gallop to charge. Whirda watched the elves until they disappeared into the trees.

"Ready?" Whirda hollered, holding firm to Cascade's reins and throwing herself over his muscled back. The rain picked up, ice cold and biting.

"As I'll ever be!" Nyx replied. "Let's do this!" The nightsaber leaped forward at her command, tendons flexing, sleek, rain-soaked fur glistening in another flash of lightning, and was gone.

"Right behind you," Whirda mouthed, suddenly unsure. She couldn't shake the feeling churning in her gut. Her dream, Nyx, the blight, war. Whatever brought her here—whoever—was dragging her toward events far beyond her control.

In the end, Cascade made the choice for her. The finicky horse reared at another thunderclap, Whirda clinging tightly to his back, and tore off through the gate.

Whirda came to consciousness much the same way she always did, except someplace different.