-And with what will probably be the last bit of script I use in this plot-
-They reach Gilre-
Gilre was a really nice city, it had to be said. It was rich, it was well kept, it was well defended. A paradise for anyone who had money in their pocket. The guards kept the order both internally and externally. Crime wasn't a rampant problem in the richer areas, and in the moderately well off areas. The Fey were dispatched every night with machine-like efficiency. It was safe. It was secure. And that had been Gilre's main point of pride for many hundreds of years.
But all things that one takes pride in eventually decay and fall. As strong as Gilre was, it was no exception. The sky over Gilre was filled with oily smoke. The air smelled of blood, fire, and death. Gilre's magnificent wall, hewn from clear-cut blocks of stone, was pitted and cracked. Some sections of it had been knocked over. In one area near the main gate, it was entirely gone. The only remnants of it were ash, slime, and slick purple blood.
The ground around Gilre hadn't been very nice looking for years. A lack of upkeep doesn't necessitate destruction, though. And destruction was the order of the day. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand of Gilre's soldiers were dead. They were in various stages of bodily mutilation, from simple things like stab wounds to complete and total evisceration. All around them were the corpses of the Fey. They outnumbered the men and women of Gilre by far, and they were as varied as they were numerous. Some of them were ordinary and unremarkable. Others were hulking behemoths who could kill ten men with one swing of their talons. There was even a being similar to Ruskalt on the ground, who had the unpleasant treatment of being incinerated and then flayed alive.
The fighting was over, though, but that didn't help the people inside of Gilre. Fires raged throughout the city and entire swathes of the city had been devastated. Buildings had been toppled over and destroyed. It was chaotic, frantic, and unprecedented. The people of Gilre never knew that this was even possible, and many of them were too paralyzed with fear to be helpful.
Yralans aren't weaklings. They learn from their failures and use their knowledge to prepare for the future. If anything could be said to be the defining Yralan characteristic, it was adaptability. The survivors outside of the wall were tending to the wounded, repairing the wall, and studying the corpses of the Fey. Some of them had the unpleasant task of disposing of the Yralan dead, but they didn't complain. Why would they? Complaining would only mean that more people would die. They sacrificed comfort for the lives of others, and they'd all do it again in a heartbeat.
They worked like clockwork, in a sense. The unthinking movement from task to task and the rapidity of their efforts gave it the feeling that one has in the eye of the storm. Every last one of them knew that danger would soon rear its head, and they didn't worry. They relied on each other, and if their unity couldn't save them, they could die at ease. Their duty had been fulfilled.
Rizel was a mercenary: she took money in exchange for distributing violence. That was a very dishonorable thing, and Rizel would never let herself forget it. She wouldn't forget it even though she told herself every day that she did it for the betterment of the whole. She wasn't a fool, though. She knew it was nothing but a rationalization for subjecting others to misery.
The peace of her own mind wasn't her own concern, so she dismissed those kinds of thought as pointless. Her ability could be put to better use than berating herself. Rizel's skills weren't limited to violence, even if she said otherwise. She was first and foremost a healer, so that's what she did. She found those who weren't being tended to, and she went to them. She healed them, and she comforted them. The thought that she was compromising her image ran across her mind every single second, but she pressed on. She was comfortable doing this, and it was what she was best at. Rizel was calm and efficient. This came naturally to her, and even if it couldn't be seen from behind her hood, it made her smile.
Iole wasn't a healer like Rizel was. He was well aware of that, so he didn't waste the time of the injured by muddling around. His talents were those of organization and leadership. He didn't much care that he was wounded. Cuts and scrapes would heal on their own soon enough. He didn't really care that he was severely wounded, either. The fist sized holes in his chest could be healed by the priests. For now, he would trust in the blessings he was given by Kelsic.
Most of his efforts were concentrated around finding people with nothing to do, and helping them find something to do. He felt that he didn't have much else to do with himself. A warrior with no enemy was as useless as a cook with no food in this situation. The Fey stragglers had already been finished off a while ago.
Iole was frowning. He wasn't overly surprised with what he had seen, but he was worried. Worried for the sake of Gilre, and for the wider world around him. Those kinds of worries were best kept to himself, though. He didn't need to get anyone more scared than they already were.
Djhalen's condition had steadily worsened as he went back to Gilre. By this point, it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. Djhalen could take pride in the fact that he wasn't dead, even if something told him that he wasn't going to have that luxury for much longer.
The captain of the Errant Guard was, for once in his life, faced with a position where he was too weak to be of much use. With that uncomfortable thought in mind, he staggered for the city gates to find somewhere where he could be seen to. He needed to be ready for whatever was next.
Theln was of a different sort than everyone else he could see. Where they saw opportunity for strengthening, he saw failure. He saw hopelessness. Theln's mind couldn't register much else.
What could a person like him do? The capable people, they were already busy. His mediocrity would only slow everyone else down. He sought out a secluded corner away from the eyes of everyone else. And when he found it, he sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. He knew he was going to be one of the first to die.
edited 21st Feb '15 8:16:45 PM by ramuf

-Just stares at the ground trying to forget the fact that he's been humiliated again for the umpteenth time this week-