Rumors had spread of a rogue archer who brutally slaughtered the innocent without provocation or cause.

Once captured, no soul had been allowed to see him. He was no longer honored with a name.

Pteagolan was the first to hear of his incarceration, but even she had been kept away. Taken deep below the roots of the Elder Tree, the archer was detained for countless weeks without trial – there were no questions of motives, no explanation as to why such actions were taken on his part – but there were no doubts that he was guilty. Many had seen his cruelty, the many deaths by his hand.

Chained by his feet, hands and wings, a measure taken to assure no escape, he was lead to the center of the city. Today was his last day and the entirety of the City of Plume would bear witness. From all corners of the continent their kind had been called to attend as a warning to those who strayed from their ways. Of course it was impossible for every Winged Elf to be present, the city much smaller than Archosaur, and a considerable few had important jobs that they couldn’t just abandon. Whoever could attend did.

Clad in white, free from stain or blemish, stood the woman who once claimed to be the monster’s wife. While his initial disappearance was cause for panic and distress, she had long abandoned such feelings – especially when news of his activities had spread. Her silver hair draped carefully over her shoulders, wings pulled back and out of the way as her arms crossed behind her back. Expression stone, she couldn’t allow any feelings of remorse or heartbreak show as the man was dragged toward the square. In his absence she had ascended – Clerics were rare enough as it was, but she was of the lucky few to have the blood of the White Clerics within her. While she had once appeared so normal, so worldly – she almost seemed untouchable.

By chance their eyes had met and from that moment she couldn’t look away. His pale green eyes bore into hers, devoid of remorse or care as he was dragged along. He held recognition but beyond that… nothing. It was as if she had never been of any importance – a stranger.

With her chin held high she watched as the group was brought to a stop, one of them Elven guards stopping just before her with an arrow in hand. Once presented she took it, closing her eyes and squeezing the tip just enough to break skin. With her blood it was handed back, and she offered a small bow.

Another robed figure began speaking, stating each law broken and vile action taken. Pteagolan looked to her left, where her best friend and husband’s sister should have been and sighed. When he had disappeared, Legend had been Pteagolan’s shoulder to cry on. If it weren’t for her, the two of them never would have gotten married to begin with. She couldn’t blame to poor girl, and if it weren’t for the fact that her status – both as his wife and as a White Cleric – she wouldn’t have been there, herself. Turning back to the scene, another man was presented a bow. His bow.

Given the opportunity for last words, the rogue didn’t take them. He merely continued to stare into his former-wife’s eyes.

And then he was gone; struck with an arrow of his wife’s blood with his own bow.