Gather round as I speak of an Ohera!

Ashtel stood before the Tower of Icili, her red hair a flame against the pale stone. A hush fell over the gathered crowd as she raised a hand, three iron hoops glinting in her grip. The Hoops of Icili, instruments of power, each said to hold a fragment of the sun's fury. Legend held that only a true warrior, one with a heart of fire and a will of iron, could wield them.

"I am Ashtel," her voice rang out, clear as a bell, "and I come to teach a lesson to those who dwell within these walls."

A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. They knew Ashtel's reputation, a warrior poet, her body a canvas for swirling tattoos that told of battles won and legends forged. But the Hoops of Icili? This was a challenge unheard of.

The Tower's gates creaked open, revealing a figure cloaked in shadow. "Ashtel," the figure hissed, "you dare challenge the Tower? Know that those who enter these halls rarely leave."

Ashtel smiled, a fierce, predatory thing. "I did not come to leave, I came to conquer."

With a fluid motion, she flung the first hoop. It spun through the air, a blur of iron and sunlight, before slamming into the Tower's gate. The stone cracked, spiderweb fissures spreading across its surface.

A gasp rose from the crowd. This was no mere show of strength, this was a declaration of war.

The second hoop followed, its impact shattering the weakened gate. Ashtel strode through the opening, her eyes blazing with a fierce light. The Tower's defenders rushed forward, their weapons glinting in the dim light.

But Ashtel was a whirlwind of motion, her movements too fast to follow. The third hoop spun around her, deflecting blows and disarming opponents. With each swing of her sword, another defender fell, their blood staining the Tower's floor.

The shadowy figure reappeared, wielding a staff that pulsed with a sinister energy. "You have come far, Ashtel, but you will not defeat me."

Their duel was a dance of shadows and steel, the clash of their weapons echoing through the halls. But Ashtel's will was unbreakable, her spirit fueled by the Hoops' power.

With a final cry, she disarmed her opponent, the staff clattering to the ground. The figure staggered back, their cloak falling away to reveal a withered, ancient form.

"You have won, Ashtel," the figure coughed, their voice barely a whisper. "But know this, the Tower will endure, its power undimmed."

Ashtel stood over her defeated foe, her sword dripping with blood. "No," she said, her voice ringing with finality. "The Tower's power was a lie, a tool of fear and oppression. Today, that lie ends."

She turned to the crowd, her eyes burning with a fiery light. "Remember this day, for it is the day the Tower fell. And remember Ashtel, the woman who taught you that even the fabled Tower itself can be brought low by a heart of fire and a will of iron. Nay? Perhaps three large hoops? No man can topple the Tower, they tried with missiles! They tried with daggers, they tried with a dragon and once with an army and six angels by their side. Celestials! All of them fell! And there's me! Three hoops?!"

With that, she turned and strode from the Tower, the three Hoops of Icili spinning around her wrist, a testament to her victory and a symbol of the lesson she had taught.

While the Blind Sisters watched from afar.


© GreenShamanCowboy