Erirag had seen this light before. It had filled the eyes of her companion Kon. It had glittered along the elf’s sword. Now it filled the sky and reflected in Podё’s gaze. The bard didn’t know what the spell had done, and she didn’t care. Raising her fist, she let her knuckles slam into the witch’s face. She hit her hard enough that it hurt, pain searing into her wrist. Still, she didn’t stop. She’d planned and promised a death by her fists and she would give one. One hit turned into ten, her fists still wrapped in the hair she’d torn from the Forgotten One’s scalp.
She finally let her fists drop when the last rattling breath bubbled and faded from what once had been a face beneath her. The woman was dead, laying lifelessly in the glade. They were still surrounded by beauty, Erirag thought, and it made her feel sick. The orc rolled as she fell, laying on her back as she stared at the canopy. The sky beyond the leaves had cleared with the Forgotten One’s death, leaving her to stare at peeks of blue beyond the ruddy canopy. It was harder to see in detail now.
To her side, the Bladesinger was leaning over one of the fallen. Of course he would try and care for elves that were dead and gone while the orc who had saved them all lay dying. The bard tried to laugh, the sound coming out as a bark and blood bubbled to her lips. Podё sowed deceit in her garden, but at least she’d told one truth. Erirag would die here. Her skin was so covered in her own blood that she was a dark ruby carved into the form of an orc. The adrenaline of the battle that had kept her going was gone now and she was slipping away. The bard hoped the Bladesinger was good at writing epics.
Finally he came around, leaning over her while she rested. He didn’t look as concerned as mostly confused. When he muttered something about how he wasn’t going to be able to carry her back to Anebrilith. She didn’t know how to break it to him that the city was gone. How long had he been asleep in Podё’s glade?
“Ashdautas vrasubatlat,” Erirag managed to say weakly. She might be dying but she was still polite.
“God I hope not,” he said, glancing from the orc to the corpse of the witch. Erirag tried to laugh again, but nothing came. It was too hard to laugh, too hard to breathe, too painful to live. In true orcish sensibility, she decided to stop. As her amber eyes stared starkly at the sky, the wind blew and a barrage of crimson fronds fell. Among them, a single green leaf fluttered down to crown the brow of Erirag Songcrafter, the orc who slew Podё’s Vanity.
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