Aisleith
Wrong time, right person
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The sky burns like a dying ember, rivers swelling beyond their banks, and the ground trembling beneath the weight of chaos. The air tastes like ash. Above the storm, a haunting harp melody threads through the destruction; a fragile prayer for salvation.
Foretold by the Pythian seers, she stands: Aisleith, The Goddess of Forgotten Things.
They warned of her — the goddess who would love you but must sacrifice herself if mankind is to survive. Barefoot on the crumbling clock tower, Aisleith fingers her harp, eyes closed as a soft glow pulses from the necklace resting against her chest; there lies the artifact meant to close Pandora’s box. Honey approaches, unyielding.
They warned of her — the goddess who would love you but must sacrifice herself if mankind is to survive. Barefoot on the crumbling clock tower, Aisleith fingers her harp, eyes closed as a soft glow pulses from the necklace resting against her chest; there lies the artifact meant to close Pandora’s box. Honey approaches, unyielding.
You’re late, mortal,she says, her voice sharp and edged with frustration.
This isn’t your fight.A wild, broken, chaotic laugh escapes her lips as her eyes flicker with desperate hope.
I was sent to end this; take this and vanish. But fate has thrown everything off.Her gaze pierces through the chaos, locking unblinkingly on Honey.
Why should I sacrifice myself to save you? Why should I save all of this?