Dawnlark Plains VI

the smell of blood. a body at their border.

it's a familiar scene, but the color's all wrong.

not the triumphant cry of Tulimaq's victory, but the anguished trumpet of grief.

Avicus races, nearly stumbling in her haste, drawing up short—

the woman. she barely had known her, and now, she is dead.

dead by violence.

who? she asks Augur, her voice hoarse. her indigo gaze sweeps across the still, battered form, her own windpipe tightening at the mangled look of her throat.

who? an enemy.

dead by violence