On most days, asking Elaine who her closest friend was would reward you with a bemused expression and suspicious dark eyes. If you could peer behind the curtain, you'd hear her questioning the point of asking something so frivolous. Another, much quieter, part of her stood in the corner, muttering uncertainties over whether she could ever answer that sort of question.

Today, Elaine stood at The Ramparts of Sandtsel, her ankles deep in cevano - blood and mud, the runoff of war and weather. The latter was a sign of day-old heavy rains; the former, a growing, ever-present reminder of the slaughter of battle around her.

The Ramparts themselves were a fairly old structure, a series of walls that stretched along, around, and beneath the waves of the Planteras. Here was one of the only places where the Western Continent of Keres came within simple swimming distance of its Eastern neighbour, Galil.

Dusk was fast approaching, and Elaine was separated from her company. If she didn't make her way back within the hour, the fae would take her in the dark. She could very well die.

On a day like today, if you asked Elaine who her closest friend was, she would say it was Guram. In her life as a mercenary, no one was as trustworthy as Guram. No one had razor wit like Guram. No one was as thoughtful as Guram.

She liked Guram's voice too. It was often a calm whisper. Rather, a calming whisper. No matter how loud the world around her - or within her - she could hear him and trust that he would help her mind remain quiet.

Guram was also a blade and her weapon of choice.

"Behind you," he said. Elaine swung Guram behind her and felt the weight of something as it impacted the blade. She wrenched her arm around and caught a glimpse of the dying fae's flailing halves.

The setting sun caressed the horizon, stretching out her foes' shadows to menacing lengths. Elaine sent her will out and caught the heat of sundown. Flames burst around her, a localised flurry of artillery. Flying spirits shrieked above her, trying and failing to get close. The couple dozen other fae that circled her hesitated.

Somewhere to the North, she saw flashing lights as soldiers and warriors like her fought spirits and fae like these.

"Again." Elaine swung Guram before he'd even finished speaking. A particularly brave - and particularly foolish - wolf-thing had charged through the chaos of fire behind her. Guram impaled it in the eye and down into its chest. It writhed, spittle flying from its mouth.

Two of the flying spirits charged as well. Elaine caught the blade against the wolf-man's ribs, and using it as an axis, propelled herself around and behind it. The first flying spirit crashed into the wolf-man, and they toppled. Elaine twisted the blade so it came clear of them both just in time to catch the second flying spirit. Too fast, it careened through Guram's edge, rending itself in two as it passed. Something like blood splattered the ground and Elaine's arms.

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With each step she was taking, Elaine willed the earth around her to tumble, scattering the fae that closed in on her. The ground rolled outward like waves on the sea with as thunderous an imitation of an ocean storm as it could manage. At times, the mud caught one of the fae and drowned it with the vacuous sounds of a sinkhole.

And so it went on for minutes that felt like hours piled on hours. She pushed the wind and the fae within it. She swung Guram and the fae that could bleed did. She collected scrapes and bruises and shallow wounds and tired breaths. She was very far from unscathed. And as the candle burnt down, the sun grew tinier. Shadows swallowed other shadows until the bits of daylight were stranded in darkness. The fae swarmed upon her, an unstoppable malice of dark days and dark nights.

The sun went down.

Elaine gasped as a claw left a gash above her chest. Guram guided her - her eyes couldn't make out her opponent too well anymore - and she felled the claw's owner. A ghoulish head collapsed before her.

"Guram, you tired?"

Something like a smirk. "Why? You need a nap already?"

Elaine's breath came and went in unsteady waves. Her throat was hot and sore. She felt deathly faint.

"Hah. Hah. Maybe."

She collapsed to her knees. Guram's voice spurred her again. The sword flicked outward, and she saw a translucent arm fly past her. The form of its owner seemed suddenly visible as if in firelight, and she drew several swift lines. She could summon up fire to protect herself, but in a fighting frenzy like this, she'd learned it only drew overwhelming attention.

She tried to lift herself up, but her knees felt glued to the muddy ground. The incline of the Ramparts didn't help matters.

Her eyes were adjusting fast to the dark, but all she saw was the approach of another few fae, intent on her death.

The familiar cry of someone who must have elephants in his family tree brought fire to her heart, and she cast an arm out and yelled. Real, gloriously vibrant fire burst forward in gouts. The fae before her yelped and retreated. She fell facefirst into the mud, too much energy spent. The smell of the battlefield was intoxicating.

Moments later, she heard that familiar cry again, followed by a chorus of smaller cries.

She felt herself being turned over.

The man who kneeled beside her was Scolt, a hundred thousand pounds of tough nails, scar tissue, and blood (not his). He hauled her up with an arm.

"You found me." Elaine mumbled.

"You think anyone can miss the racket you're causing, kid? Come on, you're one in a million." He adjusted her so she hung like a ragdoll.

"Watch the sword!" She flimsily sheathed Guram as quickly as she could manage before the blade pierced one of Scolt's innumerable muscles.

"Kid, I'm not dying to a stick like that." To his three or four companions, she saw him signal a retreat.

"A stick like that did this." Elaine tried to gesture at the string of fae corpses, but found that she couldn't. Her muscles could have anchored her down to the Titan of Death.

"Don't waste air." Scolt charged along with her in tow. The rest of the group brought up the rear. Very few could take the lead like Scolt could. "The end is in sight. Best you stick around to see it."