With more disorientation than the first time, Cyran sprawled across a grassy bed outside the Sylvarran forest. Getting up unsteadily he looked at his surroundings and realised just how far away they were from the village. He turned to look at the portal in time to see Abus casually stride through with his arms in the air.
"Before you say anything, there is magic on these woods that prevents warping directly into them. So unless you could have gotten us closer with those disgustingly boring boots of yours, may I suggest we make way?" The mage sighed as he said this as though it were matter of fact yet Cyran, as nauseated as he was, was grateful to just be back on familiar soil. He still could not explain where he had just been or how he had just simply been there and now he is here. Magic seemed to be an all too easy answer and yet why had he never heard of it before? Did it have anything to do with why the village was attacked? There were so many questions swirling in Cyran's head that he had forgotten all about the mage staring at him with his powdered face. "Are we leaving or have you just realised the truth about your boots?" he said.
"Sorry, I just don't understand a lot of things that have happened tonight." Cyran replied dejected.
"I understand. On the bright side, I didn't burn your face off," Abus chirped.
The man was definitely an oddity to Cyran. Rubbing his jaw slightly, he started a quick pace back to the village. As the pair got ever closer, a dry heat began to assault their bodies, the trees began to waver in the relentless heat. The exertion and the heat combined had Cyran slick with sweat whereas the mage looked cool and relaxed, darting through the forest as though he were born there. They eventually came to the lake where Cyran would frequently train so the pair briefly stopped to take a drink and wash their faces. Looking to the sky, Cyran saw they were making good time and would be back before the moon was fully overhead. Something tugged at Cyran's consciousness as his eyes flicked to a nearby tree. He could make out fuzzy images of... something. The images swiftly darted behind the tree and Cyran quickly followed suit yet he found nothing. Whatever it was had vanished. Again, something called to his attention and he whirled on the spot. There were countless balls of fuzz hugging the tree trunks as well as the canopy, almost as though they were willing themselves into existence but couldn't quite make themselves corporeal.
"What has you so spooked? Something wrong with your stomach?" Abus called to him, sniffing the water of the lake before grimacing.
"You don't see those?!" Cyran exclaimed.
"Oh great, another weirdo I must associate myself with," Abus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
'He really cannot see them?' Cyran thought to himself, 'what are they? Why is it I can see them?'
More questions that needed answers. Cyran put his thoughts to the back of his mind and continued toward the village with Abus in tow. The fiery glow of the village rapidly became visible and the sight clawed at Cyran's heart. Embers floated in the air along a gentle breeze that froze his skin. He could take no warmth from the sight before him. The buildings were fiery husks of the homes that once had happy families within. The once vibrant ground was scorched and inhospitable. The bodies lying on the ground face down in cruel slaughter finally freed Cyran from his stupor. Running forward he slid to the ground beside the body. A large gash across the mans back told him that he was slashed from behind; cowardly yet deadly. Rolling him over Cyran saw the face of an elven man that he often saw buying bread most mornings before training. He moved about from body to body, praying that his family wouldn't be among them, that they got to safety.
Closer and closer to the centre of the village they walked, Cyran checked bodies and laid them in one place under a sheeting he managed to salvage from a nearby house whilst Abus doused the homes with conjured water. The sight would have left Cyran stunned on any other occasion yet this night had him numb to surprises. As the night wore on, Cyran steadily built up hope for his family's survival even as the deaths of so many of his kin ravaged his soul. He had placed many under that sheet. People he had known since childhood; people he had seen at the selection tournament and kindly faces that he had never spoken to.
"Boy," Abus called over in a lifeless tone. Turning, Cyran saw the mage facing off into the distance. The glow of the night made the motley jester look pale and ghostly, almost lifeless. He looked in the direction of the ghostly stare and his feet began to slowly walk of their own accord. The Oak of the Sage stood tall and defiant amidst this tragedy, unmarred by the devastation and framed by the moonlight like an ethereal champion. It had sad beauty to it yet that was not what Cyran was focussing on. At the base of the oak lay countless bodies, each clad in black and bearing a curved sickle like blade on their chest. Their number was innumerable, Cyran could barely count. Each one looked to have been felled by one precise cut. As methodical as it was ruthless.
Looking beyond their number, at the centre of the mass, Cyran saw one particular person stand out in a beam of silvery moonlight. On his knees sat a muscular man with his head staring at the ground, a long katana slick with gore still firmly in his grip. As Cyran approached, his heart sank. Kneeling next to the man, Cyran gently brushed the blood slicked hair back from his face revealing a truth he refused to accept. The boy viciously grabbed the cold, lifeless skin of the lone warrior and let out a soul wrenching wail. His tears falling onto the auburn hair of his father, he could not contain his anguish.
As Cyran shattered, the gentle breeze grew in intensity and leaves started to fall from the mighty oak, each one catching the light of the moon to flash silver in the night as though it too shed tears for the fallen sentinel who defended until his very last breath.