The streets had been lined with so many bodies that they stood like mounds awaiting the pyres to help cleanse the land. The smell had been harsh, and the noise, the screams deafening. Each second, each kill of a single shadow filled the Prince's mind, chiming without end. The numbers were endless.
The bodies of many had been carved apart, their heads bashed until their eyes popped form out of their sockets, tongues gorged out by a cruel demon shadow or Imps. Many died in pain, their windpipes inflamed by the hoarse wails, the begging, and the praying.
'It had to be done,' Altair thought, unsure what manner of God those within Vesim prayed to. Were they Heralds of Astarorth, Worshipers of the Sepith? He didn't know, nor did he wish to find out. Children were impressionable, expressly those who knew nothing of the terrors of war. Many of them sought peace, just like their parents.
