When Ysayle hears the roar, her heart stops cold.
The sound is hauntingly, terrifyingly familiar. It’s been with her for years, resounding in her nightmare-memories when she dares to close her eyes. The cry is but an echo of Nidhogg’s fury, a call for vengeance for his slain brood-sister -- a rage still undimmed by the thousand years since. She remembers the pain of betrayal as though it were naught but yesterday, as if it were her own eye given to the mad wyrm so many centuries ago.
And, beyond that, she recalls the gathering of the Horde for the assault on Ishgard’s walls. She is reminded of the horror, of the bile that threatened to ruse upon witnessing the dravanians’ revenge. Buildings aflame and children fallen and wreckage everywhere she looked -- a scene she never wants to see again.
(A scene she never thought she’d see again.)
But Nidhogg’s song of wrath is unmistakable, The chill that creeps into her bones and grips at her heart with burning, frozen claws is enough to make her clenched fists shake with barely-suppressed fear. Ysayle knows not of the magicks at play, but -- if anyone can provide an answer -- it is him.
Her voice is harsh with a mix of desperation and terror.
“What is going on?” she demands without preamble. “Where is Estinien?” Ysayle’s eyes narrow. “I thought he and the Warrior --” and here she pauses, shaking her head. What she thought no longer has any bearing on the truth. “Does he know Nidhogg yet lives?”