⟬ Present time. ⟭
The Tactician appeared where everyone else had.
It was good to see him safe.
It was just a shame that he arrived to a battle, long after its conclusion.
He glanced over the fallen with eyes that glowed a peculiar gold.
There were no lanterns, nor did any light-enchanted equipment remain... but it seemed his eyes cut through the darkness, all the same.
Dozens of fleshy and skeletal undead bodies lay still, their weapons scattered upon the ground... More numerous were the splashes of ghostly essence, marking where the ghostly spirits, ally and enemy, had fallen.
The Tactician's gaze hovered over the single fallen Tyrion Legionnaire.
That person lied face-down, unmoving.
He didn't move to inspect it.
There were more enemies, elsewhere in the Halls. He didn't have the time to stay... nor was there anything he could do for that person.
