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Her breath was ragged upon reaching the outer-rim; not in seven moons had she been so close, and never in the dark - no, never the dark. It was well she knew the terrain - for the shadow-smothered land abound had tricked many a wanderer who’d been foolhardy enough to chance it at night.
She’d escaped the massacre of Outpost 3 - but only marginally.
The two moons above glowed dully in the firmament - her eyes had long since adjusted and she could just make out the stone walkway that spanned the infinite chasm below. Stealthily she moved along the inner-rim, until she reached the narrow bridge linking her world with what lay beyond - it was ludicrous to negotiate in the dark but she had no choice. Once one foot landed solidly upon the bridge the other followed and she rushed across like a fleeting spectre until she’d crossed the outer-rim and reached the leafy screen of the Galafringe.
She strove to peer through the welter abound, for there was no passage back and what lay ahead had to be judged. Thorns the girt and sharpness of honed daggers jutted from the interior of the vine-festooned glade - crying a stark warning; yet she knew she must find a throughway, lest perish as her kith and kin who’d minutes prior been massacred beyond the black-craggy ridge-top to her rear. Tears’ welled in her eyes but her will to survive was strong - her blood would not paint any Aciri scimitars this day - or any other day if she had any say in it.
The vast glade, all encompassing in its entirety, was called the Galafringe; it’s what separated the world of Sanctum 3 from what lay beyond. A chasm followed its border with but three bridges linking the Galafringe with Sanctum 3. Although some had ventured over the bridges, no one had ever passed through the Galafringe, or better said, no one had ever returned to tell otherwise. Scouts from an elder age had travelled its border, whereupon seasons came and went until their return at the very point whence they’d left. They claimed the chasm surrounded them like a moot and to the glade there was no lapse - proving the world of Sanctum 3 an oasis within the Galafringe. But through the generations people had come to accept their environs and slowly interest diminished in what lay beyond. But Mayalen had seen the dusty old tomes, paged through the nigh indecipherable writings and found evidence of other Outposts - said to be beyond the Galafringe. And as she eyed the end of the only world she knew, somehow she felt an indefinable tugging; like invisible filaments urged her forth into what was viewed as the Quelling; a path on which the old ones walked upon reaching their fortieth moon on Sanctum 3 - to return their bodies to the great Guardian and the giver of life the - Galafringe.
The knell of the Aciri boots was an increasing drone - and the huff and snorting of their Grunts keen upon her scent tolling a death chant; if she could infiltrate the fastness she knew she sported a good chance of evading their hooked claws and vicious maws. In a land governed by the shadow there were few Outposts left; hers had been found; how, she knew not - the Givreen, her murdered brethren, had always exercised caution - but the attack was unseen. Betrayal could be the only reason but she could not surmise who could have done such an act. At least there were other Outposts - small stands of resistance in a world of chaos. She would have to find another Outpost if she were to survive to witness another moon.
Her apparel was coarse and heavy - she was no hunter as her heroic sisters were; at least it would protect her from the thorns of the Galafringe. But there were far worse terrors beneath its leafy canopy. Her sisters’ studded leather had but bought them time - but the Aciri were strong and were steeped in shadow – she’d seen them fall and become Grunts - mindless creatures that served only the Aciri.
Hair like deep tendrils of liquid night trailed her moon-waxed visage, scintillating like veins of black gemstones under starlight, scattering down her shoulders like swaying ornate tassels. Her eyes were shaded, long-lashed, and the curve of her facial features supple and pleasing. The shroud concealed her bodily attributes like a pall - but the beauty of such a face could only be mirrored with what lay concealed beneath. She brushed across the outer-edge like the rustle of leaves, following the Galafringe - a shifting shadow until her eyes found an opening and she bolted to it, merging within as sure as she’d never been, just as the first of the Grunts arrived - screaming incoherent mumbo that was once human as they plummeted to their deaths in the bottomless chasm. The Aciri - forewarned by the Grunts mindless assault stopped short and yelled to one another that whoever had evaded them was as good as dead in the depths of the Galafringe.