Still balanced...

The Shrine of Cuiraécen - perched as it is atop the cliffs in High Point - is surrounded by a low stone wall, and overlooks the mouth of the Straits of Aerele, where it meets the Miere Rhuann. Aerona is seated facing the ocean. Eye closed, she is relishing the the cooling touch of the wind on her sun-kissed face. For the briefest of moments everything - but the wind, the sun, her body and the crash of the waves - falls away. “Hail, Battle Sister.” The voice is strong, steady and deep. She turns to see a man standing behind her, near the Shrine itself. He’s tall and his body is ropy with muscle - he moves with the grace of a warrior, and tell tale scars criss cross his forearms. “ Well met, Brother.” The warrior is dressed in a plain tunic, and his hair - blond or light brown - is plaited tightly down his corded neck. “ Might I join you in the sun for awhile?”, he asks. His smile is radiant - Aerona’s breath catches in her throat when his intense blue-green eyes meet hers. She nods. “Of course - were you here for the storming of the city?” “Aye, I was. This is not something I could stay away from.” He gestures to indicate Stormpoint and the ocean beyond. “It’s been a long, ferocious struggle to get here.” Aerona’s laughter has a hard edge, and she looks away from him, staring out to sea. “You could certainly say that.” “It’s strange - what is preserved after a conflict like this. Historians and scribes seem to only ever focus on the victors - which noble, or tactic prevailed. Who wins a throne, or earned their share of glory. The always seem to forget that what is most important is the reason for conflict: who or what is worth fighting for. Battle is not the goal: it is to be utilized towards a noble one.” Aerona pushes away the image of Balros that forms clearly in her mind’s eye. “It still hasn’t lost its balance, has it?” She turns to see the warrior handling the Sword expertly - cutting the air with sharp twists of his arm, his body moving in place behind it. If anyone else had touched the bronze sword, Aerona would have felled them herself for the blasphemy - but the way he moved with it, like it was a part of him.... He slows to standing, bringing the sword up to admire its sharp edge despite the sorry state of the blade. “This, I think, it where it belongs.” His arms raise, muscles coiled - the hilt in both hands, blade down. Aerona can only watch, awestruck, as he plunges it down, embedding it deep into the altar stone of the Shrine, which yields like butter before it. “Remember, Battle Sister. For now, you’ve earned this rest. But the time will come when you need take up this Sword again - prepare yourself and your friends. And the realm. You’ll need it.” She blinks and he’s gone. The Priestess falls to her knees before the Shrine of Cuiraécen, and weeps in exultation.