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Walking through the wreckage in the streets, he feigned a strength he did not have. He feigned the uprightness in his back as though it always was. He feigned the strength in his countenance. He denied the burning in his body, the weakness in his lungs...
He needed to be strong.
He cast a look one way, watching those wounded limp their way along with their arm slung over an able shoulder. He gazed upon the fires that burned in the midst of great destruction. He watched as spears were driven deep into fallen monsters, purely out of spite.
His eyes lifted up to watch the pillars of smoke rise high above...
And there through the clouds, that rolling black...
Rays of light, unseen upon this city for far too many years, peeked through...
The Black Talon
With his sword belt and cloak draped over the backrest, Erën nearly fell into his seat just there alongside Vailë. She sat with her leg propped up on the chair next to her, set beside a large round table.
There were other groups present too. Some Aerai, some Orcs, some Humans, all of them relatively quiet and quite clearly exhausted. Az'Marith, the barkeep, set his barmaids about to tend the weary patrons.
It was on the house tonight, they said.
Erën, when the food arrived, could only look on with a somewhat distant stare placed upon it.
He was getting too old for this sort of thing.
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