The Sentinels good morning, worm, your honor

there was but one soul that wanted to be in this melancholy place; he drifted through the charred boughs and split forests, absorbing the wretchedness of that blackened world. the russians had a word for such a place besieged by immense lachrymosia; toska -- if ever there was a realm indefatigably doused by disconsolate gloom, it was the shattered halls of donnelaith.

iliksis' gaze traced these fallen sentinels, the flame-scorched stones and the ruination -- up until he came across a figure resting among the rubble. he slowed, drawing his yellow eyes fully upon her frame -- the girl.

immobile save for the hunger in his eyes, a smile furled across his muzzle as motes of ash settled around them.