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(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

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Of course, they underestimated my magic. Shimmering blades <strong>of</strong> air made it<br />

almost <strong>to</strong>o easy.<br />

Finally, each footstep bought with blood, we ascended the staircase <strong>to</strong> the<br />

upper levels.<br />

Beneath the stink <strong>of</strong> blood was the dry, brittle smell <strong>of</strong> bureaucracy. Perhaps<br />

it was a proud city, long ago. Once-lavish blue marble was set in the floor,<br />

now scuffed and scratched. A ceremonial gong s<strong>to</strong>od covered with dust and<br />

dented. Faded banners, once heralds <strong>of</strong> the city's pride, were now stained<br />

with streaks <strong>of</strong> blood: the final indignity <strong>to</strong> Curst.<br />

A dying guard lay moaning on the floor. His armor had <strong>be</strong>en thoroughly<br />

savaged, the flesh underneath it looking as though it had baked in the heat<br />

<strong>of</strong> a thousand suns. He gasped up at me from the ruins <strong>of</strong> his face, "The<br />

deva... is strong. Do <strong>not</strong> enter... until you can... defeat him." He died quietly,<br />

<strong>be</strong>fore Grace could reach him.<br />

The heavy iron <strong>do</strong>or crashed <strong>to</strong> the ground, smoldering and dented. I<br />

lowered my hand and we approached Trias, weapons drawn.<br />

He gazed out over the expanse <strong>of</strong> the city, the small guttering battles dying<br />

out like the em<strong>be</strong>rs <strong>of</strong> a passing forest fire. Once from these peaks you could<br />

see a blue and cloudless sky draping over desolate desert sands. Now a<br />

<strong>do</strong>me <strong>of</strong> red and black smothered the jagged landscape <strong>of</strong> snaggle<strong>to</strong>othed<br />

peaks, s<strong>to</strong>nes dry and cracking as if they were waiting <strong>to</strong> <strong>be</strong> wetted with<br />

new blood. The acrid stink <strong>of</strong> the air, like a hot grease fire, stung my nostrils.<br />

And there, pristine and pure and ringed with a s<strong>to</strong>rm <strong>of</strong> opalescent light,<br />

s<strong>to</strong>od Trias. He was an island <strong>of</strong> cold serenity, divinity made flesh. All that<br />

marred the perfection <strong>of</strong> his form was the dead clatter <strong>of</strong> his wings,<br />

yellowed bone rattling in the noxious wind. He made no move <strong>to</strong><br />

acknowledge us as we approached.<br />

"What <strong>do</strong> you hope <strong>to</strong> accomplish here?" Trias' voice resonated as he looked<br />

out over the city. The fires <strong>of</strong> the damnation <strong>be</strong>low flickered hot in his eyes,<br />

like the light <strong>of</strong> forge-flames on a blacksmith's cheeks. "Much good you have<br />

<strong>do</strong>ne in such a short time, mortal. It shall <strong>not</strong> <strong>be</strong> enough <strong>to</strong> keep these<br />

trai<strong>to</strong>rs from realizing the depths <strong>of</strong> their folly."<br />

1082

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