Lirian raced through the city under the last remnants of the mist.
Izlandi hung in the air just an arm's length away, but her earlier enthusiasm at the prospect of flying was long lost.
Her stomach twisted and churned at the nightmarish hell that the city had become.
Bodies lay strewn about all over the streets, she noticed many ordinary bodies that were badly beaten and disfigured, lying in pools of their own blood.
Then she noticed the nobles who bore the emblems and colours of their houses, not that the latter matter much anymore, there was so much blood she wasn't sure if everything had been dyed in red or if her eyes had become unable to see any other colour.
Blood dripped of walls and rolled down the roofs of the houses, and when Izlandi looked for the source of the blood, it was more often than not, a severed limb that had somehow found its way to such a place.
