Charred mutilated body parts dropped. Tornadoes of pure flame and extreme heat rampaged across the dark-woods, the would-be humid climate dried akin to a dessert. Fumes from the resulting flames, upon inhalation, burned the respiratory tracks – Igna stood away from the carnage under Intherna's blessing.
The breeched inner sanctum yelped, the scattered somberness had made complete 180's for the longest time, the region's unchanging climate grew into '-Gryan Batlo,' nicknamed from a very local story about a man cursed by the gods. The fictional story ran in parrel to what the writer thought about the realm. However, on the day Igna arrived, not so cared about the date, the ever belligerous world – bound by eternal struggles, shone and sparked in various colors and hues.
*Frost breath,* blasted to his side, the remaining horde froze – tornadoes shy of the settlement twirled and disturbed the flying threats.
