Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-28358106-20160726175355/@comment-28358106-20160726224937

"They keep slipping in and out of consciousness.  They are not yet aware that their mother is gone."

Praetor hears a voice beside him. Father Mordecai walks up, his steps slowed not just with age, but with the weight of having tended to the survivors that have straggled into Arenesse. He looks out to the burning city, following Praetor's gaze.

He was one of the few from the conclave who made into the hidden city. He and Melandil are the only ones to have returned. His face is dark with the burdens of those who have come to him for answers;  he has tended to the wounded and comforted the hopeless, but his age is beginning to show.

"Lord Grey has not returned.   He knows to come to Arenesse, should the worst happen, gods forbid. I'm willing to believe that Lord Bale has called his Dwarves into their deep roads, and are shoring against the enemy.  Gods have mercy on those people, " Mordecai sighs, his voice tired.

Perhaps a thousand Dwarves made it to Arenesse,  a mere fraction of those on the battlefield. Human soldiers and citizens mingle in equal disarray.

"I am going to hold a service, shortly,"  the Father says, walking away. "Normalcy is the best gift I can give in times such as these,  I'm afraid.  Melandil's wife watches over the children." The pious man walks off, slowly.