Nithil'Zir lay on the ground, screaming. The skin on half her face and much of her upper torso was reddened and cracked, and she rolled weakly onto her back, shaking violently and uncontrollably. One eye was seared almost completely away. Trivas knelt beside her, murmuring to her in High Elvish and clutching at his own chest. He started to apply a salve to her burned skin.
It took a moment for the shock to settle in, and everything to register in Yukale's mind. A woeful howl rose from her throat and she stumbled down the stairs, falling briefly down several steps at one point before she came to Kiska's side. She pulled the other woman into her lap, turning her over and pressing a hand against the massive wound to staunch the flow of blood. Dimly, she could hear her mother's cries lessening, though her attention was firmly rooted on her lover and dearest friend.
"Speak to me, Kiska," Yukale whispered, slipping into Darnassian and cradling the druid's head with her other arm. She stared down at eyes beginning to dull into lifelessness. A terrible icyness settled itself in her stomach, then lanced it's way through her heart. She asked again, her voice strained and thick, "Kiska? Lover?"
Brushing aside wayward strands of hair, she traced a finger along the strange smile the druid still wore, then held it there. She could feel no air, no living breath. Leaning over, she pressed her lips to Kiska's, her weeping wracked by mournful, strangled sobs. She felt a form overshadow her. Reluctantly pulling her face away, she looked up listlessly, face soaked in tears.
Trivas stood over her, his spear was poised above his head. He aimed the point down towards her and his face contorted in rage, and some form of grief matching her own, "All of this! It is your fault! If you had just accepted her, this would be different!"
"My fault," Yukale whispered, Tyra's voice echoing in her head. Crying again, she begged, "Send me to her."
He adjusted his grip, and pulled the spear back, but a tense voice cut through the air. Trivas turned his head to look. A moon-haired Night Elf in blood red mail armor stood in the doorway, an arrow nocked and drawn back in her bow. Her eyes flared a red ire, "You have five seconds to tell me why I should let you live."
"Five," Eilirria loosed the arrow.