74th of summer, 513 a.v
The sky turned red when the sun breached the horizon, darkened by the rising of thousands upon thousands of dark wings that fled from the light with ear-splitting shrieks and howls. The turn of the day drove the Zith from the tent city within heartbeats, ending the tangled bloodbath as quickly as it had begun. And in their wake was smoke, pain and the strangled cries of the dying.
He stood, motionless and still coiled for combat. The silence pressed him from all sides, thundering deafeningly in the sudden absence of battle. The scent of blood and filth mixed with the acrid ash in the wind and clawed at his nose, his mouth, his throat with every ragged breath that filled his lungs.
Exhaustion swept through his body, and when he fell to his knees it was only through sheer willpower that stopped him from continuing until he was like a ragdoll in the mud. His chest and face were chilled by sweat and the early morning cold while his back and shoulders felt like they’d been set ablaze by the burning pile of debris he’d taken stance by. One arm was coated in red and black, the other in the barest film of dust. His body rocked between extremes, between the pain of the night and the pleasure of the end, but inside… inside, there was nothing.
Around him, warriors looked around blankly. Some lowered their weapons, some did not, and some, like him, fell limp in the sudden stillness. There was shouting in the distance, followed by the drumming of hoofbeats, but neither managed to break Shahar’s stupor—not until the rider loped through the shredded remains of the tents, calling out words that the shellshocked hunter didn’t bother to comprehend. Those around him, however, seemed to stir to life, dropping tired limbs and filtering slowly away. None of them bothered to rouse Shahar.
The shadow of a vulture descended before the sunrise and disappeared behind a tattered green flag. As he watched, the once-proud banner began to move ever so slightly. The wind was returning. And with it came the slow creak of a broken mind as he began to return to his senses.
How had it come to this?
The sky turned red when the sun breached the horizon, darkened by the rising of thousands upon thousands of dark wings that fled from the light with ear-splitting shrieks and howls. The turn of the day drove the Zith from the tent city within heartbeats, ending the tangled bloodbath as quickly as it had begun. And in their wake was smoke, pain and the strangled cries of the dying.
He stood, motionless and still coiled for combat. The silence pressed him from all sides, thundering deafeningly in the sudden absence of battle. The scent of blood and filth mixed with the acrid ash in the wind and clawed at his nose, his mouth, his throat with every ragged breath that filled his lungs.
Exhaustion swept through his body, and when he fell to his knees it was only through sheer willpower that stopped him from continuing until he was like a ragdoll in the mud. His chest and face were chilled by sweat and the early morning cold while his back and shoulders felt like they’d been set ablaze by the burning pile of debris he’d taken stance by. One arm was coated in red and black, the other in the barest film of dust. His body rocked between extremes, between the pain of the night and the pleasure of the end, but inside… inside, there was nothing.
Around him, warriors looked around blankly. Some lowered their weapons, some did not, and some, like him, fell limp in the sudden stillness. There was shouting in the distance, followed by the drumming of hoofbeats, but neither managed to break Shahar’s stupor—not until the rider loped through the shredded remains of the tents, calling out words that the shellshocked hunter didn’t bother to comprehend. Those around him, however, seemed to stir to life, dropping tired limbs and filtering slowly away. None of them bothered to rouse Shahar.
The shadow of a vulture descended before the sunrise and disappeared behind a tattered green flag. As he watched, the once-proud banner began to move ever so slightly. The wind was returning. And with it came the slow creak of a broken mind as he began to return to his senses.
How had it come to this?