In the eyes of the once beloved hero, the cave around him was the fields stretching beyond that small, precious town. The elf was a hostile spirit, made of twigs and leaves; a heinous monster that needed to be slain.
"Ruuuagh!" Thros let out, rushing forward, holding nothing in his grip but empty space.
Wind fired from the nimble elf; its sharpness grazed the top of the incoming warrior's head, shredding the hood. What was veiled by the tattered cloth was a head of silver hair and a face scarred, but not wrinkled.
For the elf, it only occurred in his mind just then how old the tales of the gallant Thros were; decades, even nearing a century, yet the grayed man still possessed youth.
'For all these years, you've been isolating yourself…You've lost your mind, but there's still a part of you–somewhere in there, the hero Thros is still there–that's why you've been keeping yourself hidden!' Otto connected, feeling a sharp tinge in his heart.
