I wrote about 400 words of additional stuff for this one, an alternative ending even. But this one is a bit more open I believe. >: D

Sadness/Grief

Something was wrong. The streets much too silent for a city under attack. Even bodies he could have sworn had been laying strewn upon the ground were missing.

Umatharil ran faster along the main street towards the castle gate no longer considering possible enemies charging him. All life was gone and no dead left behind. His heart pounded in his chest, as he feared he was too late.

He reached the courtyard and his breath was taken away as if he had been kicked in the chest by a horse. He staggered and bile rose in this throat at the sight.

Bodies of both sides, Morgethri and high elves lay strewn before him with gruesome wounds carved into their flesh. Blood running in streams between the cobble stones.

Umatharil’s heart nearly shattered as his senses took in death in an amount he had never experienced before. But there, in the centre of it all where a few remaining guards still fought out of vengeance rather then defence. There he was, the cause of it all.

“Shairën!” Umatharil howled, hot tears streaming down his pale face. Such hate carried in his voice that every man – enemy and ally – in the courtyard flinched at the sound of it. “I will rip out your black heart with my bare hands for this!”

“I’ve done nothing you have not already done to us.” The Nevaari growled back at him. “I’ve offered them all a chance to live but they have chosen to die.” Shairën pointed his bloodied sword at Umatharil. “I offer the same to you. Walk away and you may live to grieve your people.”

“I will do no such thing.” Umatharil spat and gazed at the castle gate. Still shut tight. “You will not touch another life.”

“Is that so?” Shairën laughed, his voice dripping with malice. “Your king is already dead.”

“You lie! ” Umatharil stepped forward. His blade ready at his side.

“I never lie, he still breathes but he will perish. It can be no other way.” Shairën eyed his foe with mild interest. “And you have failed threatening me. Your arm is shaking. You can not fight anymore.”

Umatharil winced and let out a ragged breath. He looked down on his trembling hands and cursed. “You bastard.” The last guards fell to Morgethri blades and Umatharil sank to his knees. He steadied himself with a hand on the ground and his fingers sank into thick blood still hot from arteries. He instantly pulled back and started quaking. Never had he seen war, and never had he expected it to greet him on his doorstep. He was already dead, his body cold and numb.

“I’ll make it quick…” Shairën whispered into his ear. Sharp steel pressed against his back.

Other participants: Anastasia V. Pergakis, S Frankie Blooding, and Veronica R. Calisto.

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