[Eirildan Andares]

A dark, solemn procession caught the corner of his eye. Then, the cold breath of fear. Fear? The Esh'lahier approached the congregation, tentatively. Others, too, neared the group, with what intentions he knew not. Approaching slowly to the front of the queue, he peered down upon the wooden coffin. Eirildan blinked as he stared down upon the broken vessel of mortality.

Death. He knew it not well, as it was known that the Elven were blessed with lives as long as the seas of enigma. Death. Ever it approached, seeking those whose time has come, those who have served their purpose and need to leave this ephemeral world. The elf bowed his head, a sign of respect for the dead and those who mourned for him.

A hoarse screech echoed upon the gray streets of the cemetery. Eirildan looked up; again, the cold breath of fear he felt. He crossed his arms, and peered around at the surrounding people and at the dark shadows of the graves. With the breath of fear came the stillness of menacing evil.

Death? Was it he who approached? The Dark Elf tightened his fist. Come. Face me.