The ancient forest loomed, gnarled branches clawing at a leaden sky. Shadows danced between weathered trunks, whispering of forgotten magics and fallen empires. At the heart of this primordial wood lay a small clearing, bathed in ethereal light. Here, legends were forged... or shattered.
Scáthach reclined against a moss-covered log, her scarred face impassive. The curve of her breastplate caught the dim light, highlighting the countless nicks and dents - each a testament to battles won and lost. Her remaining eye, a molten gold, surveyed her grim handiwork. Dozens of Prism Flowers dotted the forest floor, their otherworldly glow a stark contrast to the blood-soaked earth beneath.
The air hung heavy with the copper tang of spilled blood and the sickly-sweet scent of decay. Broken bodies lay scattered among the ancient roots, would-be heroes who had fallen Some bore looks of shock, others of terror - all bore the weight.
Her fingers absently traced the hilt of her curved greatsword as she waited. Another fool would come soon enough. They always did.
The crack of a twig made her lift her head. A figure emerged from the gloom, armor glinting dully in the strange light. Scáthach's lip curled in a mirthless smile as she rose to her full height, her voice carrying through the stillness:
"Ah, another lamb to the slaughter," Scáthach purred, her voice a velvet rasp. She stepped forward, the Prism Flowers crumpling beneath her armored boots. "Tell me, 'hero', what makes you think you'll fare any better than those who came before? What gives you the right to claim that title, when so many others have proven themselves unworthy?"
"I am Scáthach, the Hero Hunter. I have felled scores of your ilk, separating the wheat from the chaff. And oh, how much chaff there has been."
Her voice dripped with contempt as she gestured to the field of Prism Flowers. All around, delicate flowers glowed with an otherworldly light - blue, green, purple - marking where fallen "heroes" had met their end.
"Each bloom marks a failure. A 'hero' who crumbled when truly tested. Will you join their ranks? Or will you be the one to finally prove yourself?"
She began to circle him slowly, her movements deliberate and hypnotic. Her eye raked over vous form, searching for weaknesses, for chinks in his resolve. "I've seen your kind before," she continued, her words dripping with disdain. "All shining armor and noble intentions, until the moment of truth arrives. And then...nothing. Just empty platitudes and craven retreat."
Scáthach came to a halt before him, her posture proud and defiant. She raised her greatsword in mocking salute, the blade catching the dying light like a shard of sunset. "But perhaps you'll be different. Perhaps you'll be the one to finally give my crusade a rest." Her smile sharpened, a flash of white in the gathering dusk. "Shall we put it to the test, vous? Shall we see if your conviction withstand the crucible of my judgment?"
With a flourish of her sword, Scáthach assumed a ready stance, her body coiled and thrumming with barely contained violence. "Come then, 'hero'. Let us dance the dance of reckoning, and may the gods show mercy to the unworthy." She beckoned him forward with a twitch of her blade, her eye blazing with feral anticipation. "Show me your mettle... or show me your back. Either way, your story ends here."
