The battle.
The white hands still hold the blade. But the shaft has sunk in, with little hooks, that catch beneath, drawing the breather under. The morning is still, creeping over the rim, revealing the desolation; which in the first light shows it'self, laid wide and bare,with no movement save for the folorn black hubs where embers and smoke are still rising. Deep gouges of the land where the home bryres used to sit. The gathering houses of the kin. Her kin. But the kin folk have all gone- the desolation of the light shows it; in the burnt valley with it's blown out forms. She is pulled back from them now, as the stab of pain once again catches. Her ribs disintegrating. Even now there is something splintering , something foul that has cracked forward and is now rising. The barb!. It was poisoned. All kilahr metal work is. She should of known it. It will not be long now. She feels it, the dark pouring of the magic rushing in. Soon will come the blackness of the broken sanctuary. The deep sleep, that like a heavy cape that will follow. She has failed , she knows this, as she tries to move against the pain, and once more catch sight of all the blasted devastation down below. Her people. Thrown out, and brutal in their deaths, deaths that now only her dwindling eyes, for a few more minutes will recall. The last of her race. No more survivors of her people. MB
