His was stone, marble and flowing water. The keeper of courtyards and clear fountains.
They had fled across those smooth stones, slipping on spilt wine and blood amidst pools of moonlight. His spear was gone, his shield useless in a limp arm. And there it emerged, a glowing spectre from the night. Nostrils flaring, it roared its fury, its anger, its hate.
The ring of sword unsheathed cut through the crackle of flame and trickle of water. As the others fled to safety he remained a defiant silhouette against the red hot light.
Blade flashed, water sprayed and blood mingled with the fluid dripping from elf and stone.
The fountains sighed in the silence. Dark water hushed over his body as Ecthelion fell slowly back into the ornamental waters.