[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa had sprang to her feet at Malris' cry, following him automatically. The air had grown noticably colder and her vision seemed to blur just a few feet in front of her. She was thoroughly disconcerted as she hastily grabbed her pack and ran, tripping slightly on the harsh rocks. The straps of her bag cut into her sore fingers. She ignored the pain as she made to catch up with her companions. Having far fewer aches than she, they ran more quickly. The air suddenly became horrifyingly full of insubstantial faces. One in particular darted toward her, leering cruelly.

Tasa stopped short, a choked scream eminating. Far ahead, Malris paused, glancing behind to her. She dropped her pack, reaching for the long blade dangling from her hip. Her right hand grasped the hilt as she spun, eyes meeting with nothing. A ghostly blade suddenly darted forth to pierce her wrist. The wound healed almost instantly, leaving a line of fresh blood to flower through the light bandages still covering her hands. She dropped her blade as a wisp of a breeze took tranparent form before her.

She shuddered in disgust, sick at heart, at the maimed version of an orc that stood before her, wielding a shadow of a blade shining dimly with her blood. She had never imagined that facing ghosts of the past could be so literal.