*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
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It is time for the show.
The bright, noon sunlight is a beacon, illuminating the stage. From up high, the players are ants that only grow in size as their zeppelin drops.
When the anterior ramp opens the clash has already begun, and without pause, without a second breath, Allayria leaps into it. Behind her, the others follow, close, but closer the sliver of cold metal is kept, carefully, against the ashen flesh of her inner arm.
Don't tire yourself out before you even get here, it whispers.
This armor, crafted by her owlish watcher, feels like a second skin, another hide on top of the softer, weaker thing inside. The metal slab in her hand is another limb, something sharper, and when her boots thunder against the ground she understands this cold influence, this quiet power.
It can always feel like this, Isati whispers again as Allayria moves, more serpentine than human, feeling in perfect balance with the roaring beat of drums and bodies clashing in the burning cast of the twin suns. It always feels like this.
Yes, Allayria can understand this.
It's more a dance than a fight, an easy flow of limbs, of calculated knowing, and she cleaves through these bodies like they are water and she, the bisecting knife. There's a vicious glee here, a snide cunning, that takes without remorse, that claims without hesitation. They crumple like dolls in a game, dummies in a dusty room, and that's all they really are, in the end. Just livestock, a universe of bodies, and she, the only thing left thinking.
Not the only thing, Isati murmurs, sitting somewhere in a darkened room, waiting, letting her have this board to play. Not alone. Never alone.
No, perhaps not.
There are ripples in this reverie, errant interruptions to the bloody dream: Hiran darting past, the golden crown of his hair glinting in the light; Tara, tan sinewy limbs pulling taut around a bow; Ruben, with hands of ice, eyes strained with worry, amidst the carnage.
Herrings, Isati whispers, a strain in her voice, as if she really thinks the lure was taken, as if this is a spell and not an awakening. False paths.
It's a splatter of dust and other, darker, things, the flinging of red paint along the skyline.
There's only one way toward the freedom you seek.
One way she understands. Allayria has heard of more. But Isati is right, in her own, particular, way: there is only one way out of this carnage to freedom.
And in the darkened room, up, above the fray, a finger twitches.
The man in front of Allayria crumples like a bit of paper under a fist. And then another and another and another, until there is a little path, a narrow road in the sea of soldiers.
