She had not sought Raskreia's forgiveness (to do so would have been nothing short of ridiculous). Raskreia had promised, in advance, to comply with her request.

Retribution, when it came, would be every bit as unforgiving.


Ignes knelt, keeping her eyes averted from the Lord's piercing gaze.

There was a softly mumbled "...not enough..."

The slightest flick of her wrist was all that was needed, the barest hint of Raskreia's power.

Eyes lidded, the figure in front of her writhed and crumpled, bones shattering, a slender index finger tracing the forearms until they became bent and disjointed at an angle that no still-living appendage should ever have been fashioned.

The weaker-stomached among them saw it fit to avert their gazes.

A warbling scream ripped from her throat, becoming trapped behind the strip of cloth which was wound about her head.

Her breathing grew more labored, breath coming, when it did, in jagged, unsteady rasps. She was lowered into the vessel of her eternal rest while alive. Raskreia eyed her, the sounds of labored breathing reaching her ears. Her bosom quivered, her chest shaking with the agonizing effort of forcing air into the failing frame.

Her eyes were wide and terrified when they slid shut the lid.

Raskreia would embed the image into her memory.


Raskreia would later reflect that she was outfitted in the standard regalia of a family leader.

She recollected the mental image of the shattering figure, the former family leader's visage and wondered whether the sentiment had been misplaced.