The attack had failed in Amalgama | World Anvil

The attack had failed

Ezrane played by Orange
Her knees were drawn to her chest, and she was staring straight ahead, at nothing. Cydorn was there, too, sitting on the ceiling. Drops of bronze-tinted water occasionally fell from above, but she couldn't see them.   Her entire body felt like one dull ache, punctuated by occasional bursts of much more intense pain. The after-effects from the psionics, is what she assumed. She was covered in a cold sweat, which was mingling with the blood and bandages. Bandages which were taken, from the goldblood's bag, Qilawn. Who was likely still laying, unburied, next to her medical bag. Ezrane buried her head in her knees, unable to cry anymore. All there was left to do was think.   She went over each of her friends' names. Qilawn, Fridne, Oxilym, Desmem, Lascov, Ilkwey, Tohilk, Alzact, Vloume... Alfern. All of them were gone, now. All of them. She would never see Oilym's crooked-tooth smile, which seemed ever-present. Desmem's nimble fingers, which slipped into any crack or crevice, getting them all through the most well-secured of doors. Fridne's long-striding runs and impeccable memory, carrying messages from any district to the others. Vloume's mothering, which always seemed annoying, but she would do anything to be smothered again. And Alfern's-- she stopped, pressing her forehead further against her legs.   They were all dead. The attack had failed. All there was left, was to stew. To think. To fester in the still-bleeding wounds of her lost compatriots, and inevitably die with them. It was all over. They were all done with. She was dead, just as they were. It would be so easy, to just slip away, into the memories of her friends, forever.   And so she sat, for what seemed like days, dropping further and further into her own mind. They failed. She failed. It was her fault. She had gotten all of the people she cared most about, killed. She would never see them again. Any of them.   A very small noise snapped her out of the void she was creating for herself. A sniffle, from the ceiling. She didn't look up. Knowing Cydorn, it wouldn't be appreciated. Cydorn. He was still here. He was alive, too.   She lifted her head, to rest it on her knees as opposed to bury it. The pain came crashing back, now with a helping of dizziness. But it reminded her that she was still alive. They thought they killed them all, and they were wrong. Powerful, extremely so even, almost impossibly out of reach now, but they were wrong. And she was wrong, too-- slipping into the nothingness of memories would do no good. Not to her, not to Cydorn, not to the legacy of her friends. They wouldn't want that, especially not from her. She stood, slowly, supporting herself against the wall.   Time to take stock of the environment. Despite the nausea, the dizziness, the fact that she could barely walk, she looked around. This was the sewers, under the city-- she would need to make or purchase a map at some point. Underground travel would be useful, especially if it was up to herself. The sewers connected to nearly everywhere, which was good. She and Cydorn were in some hive, that must have been abandoned (for good reason) after the Merge. It was damp, but that could be fixed. It was dark, they could fix that too. This was going to be the new base of operations, she needed to find more trolls. Humans, too, if the new 'goldblood-level' laws passed. She didn't know too much about the new creatures, but they seemed determined enough to fight for what they believed in, judging by how many had already died during protests. All hope was not lost, she could feel it. This was not the end of their story.   And her comrades'-- her matesprit's-- deaths would not be in vain. She would make sure of it.


Please Login in order to comment!
Powered by World Anvil