The sky was steel-colored. Lightning, then a roar of thunder, slashing savagely through the deafening crash of rain on mud and iron and wood. The forty-fourth cavalry of the royal army of Prontera seemed nonexistent now; the steady cadence of sixty proud, talented and privileged young men gone, their lives staunched in an hour that seemed like a flash. But clearly, it wasn't an instant. It truly was sixty minutes of pure will and duty, of pain and struggling, of blood and wet soil, perhaps lengthened exponentially to those who now lie on the earth, still frame save for a few punctuated gasps for air, more likely a mere involuntary action; a helpless attempt to see another day.
And they weren't nonexistent; the brutality was still very much visible, the masses of purple, green and dull metalwork unwilling to be hidden by the mud. Crimson flowed all around, regardless of race or allegiance, dripping from various outlets, be it one's exposed rib bone jutting out of a now-mangled breastplate or an eye socket that now housed a plump hooked index finger.
But still in this ceasefire, the players ask: who was the victor? The Orcish tribes, who proved that they were able to stand up to human oppression? Their newfound allies the Goblins, who with their cleverness had managed to kill several Orcs unnoticed, their longtime rival for the lands; or is it the humans, who proudly faced the combined forces of two feared races?
For the players the true answer was unacceptable. It was invisible to their eyes, and their own made-up fantasy sugar-coated their fallen pawns. From one simple truth, three lies were created. Instead of mourning the lost lives with solemn reverence, they were shouting with pride and fervor. A victory indeed.
Driven by this uncalled swagger, the people asked for more. Destroy, destroy. The players are called upon again, and then manages to turn six hundred extinguished dreams into a massive victory afterwards.
How will this unwanted stalemate end? The masses are too unknowing to answer, let alone ponder this question. The three players might as well be ignorant, for with their pride they cannot see the reality. Asgard is gone, and no one lived to tell the tale. The land is forsaken; who will intervene in this deadlock?
An entity of ethereal matter floats up the stairs of the Orc chieftain's house, it's silken sad gray nightdress rustling calmly, in seemingly slow motion, even with the violent wind. Pale platinum curls lightly cover its face, also barely affected by the strong gusts. It taps on the door one, two times, and in the trio of lighted candlesticks nestled in the holder that it carries, one's flame disappears.
Thunder again; the storm is unrelenting.