The ringing in his ears had grown omnipresent as the aged, fatigued wizard pushed through the tunnels. He had used his original bearings to get a feel for where “east” would be, and did his level best to chase a path that way back to his men. The banging of meteorite strikes above had faded, but the banging and crashing of chaos just above him had certainly not fully abated. What horrors echoed their way down into the gridlocked sewer system were things he cared not think of, including the burning smell of flesh and clear mix of blood and oil spilling through the grates above him, as machine and people alike had been broken in the great, terrible battle.

Keep pushing. Get out. If they find you down here, your limbs will be posted on the corners of town.

When Storm Veritas reached the southern gate, the wreckage above him was nothing short of an abomination. The sewer system was opened to the skies above indiscriminately, torn open and wide into the all-consuming entropy. He ducked back, scouring the site for an escape path, horrified by the ease of the thing. The ground here was no longer green; the grassy gates were some amalgamation of a red-brown and black, the stained blood and fire displacing signs of life. Scattered brick, rock, and bodies were splayed across the earth like flotsam upon the sea; Brotherhood men and Radsanth guards alike showing no immunity from the horrors. Piles of humanity were often burning, scattered and flamed from meteorite strikes, and a thick haze of smoke lay a blanket of cover some five feet above the ground.

Gods.

The wizard rushed to wrap a cloth from his satchel across his face, firmly pulling taut the cloth to filter his breath and disguise him, for what his long physique and grey-speckled hair didn’t disclose. There was life here, but it was composed of men running away, still leaving the battlefield in trickles, as the heaviest wave of men had long since abandoned the site. He began to move from the opened sewer pipe, climbing gently off the small rockslide that had torn it apart. Smoke pushed up through the earth from the meteorites below that had caused this particular orifice, and the thick layer of dirt and rock that fell upon those hellstones remained hot and foul.

His ribs ached, the sounds about him still muddled in the buzz, a tinny ring from his head that would not subside. His body hurt, and he would take inventory of these injuries later. The electromancer was certainly not alone. Pushing forward, he tried to spy the ground about him, terrified to find a familiar face, knowing the odds were impossible that he had not lost someone dear. Of all the men he’d sent to death, there were two souls that dominated his mind.

Seamus. Shinsou. Tell me you two fools made it out.

There were broken things everywhere about him. Siegecraft, horses, men, even giants were sprawled all about him, with no rhyme or reason to tell their story. Some groaned, most did not. Most of them stared off towards their personal infinity with complete indifference to a missing arm, or lower half, or the presence of arrows through their head, neck, and chest. Their blood pooled together in one show of unity, a pond-sized puddle of blood which had saturated the earth, leaving a thick, greasy film of brown behind. Pushing out towards what used to be camp, Veritas tried to lift a fallen soldier, lending the badly burned young man from the arm.

“No. No, please. No. I can’t. Please.” Short, desperate gasps came from the soldier in a breath forced at full strength, registering just above a whisper. A longer glance upon the man exposed his tragic reality; his legs and hips were crushed by his horse, who had made the final journey in the madness. The once-round torso had been grotesquely mutated into something concave, and he covered his injuries in fear and shame. It was fatal.

“With the Gods, my son. I’m so sorry.” Without a word, Storm drove his dagger aside the neck of the boy, the blade firing behind the collarbone and piercing the heart. The boy’s face was a mix of confusion, sadness, and finally peace. Mentally, the wizard knew this trick too well now; he had performed the act of final kindness far too many times. He also had to keep moving.

They aren’t looking for you, but they’ll take you all the same.

It was four hundred yards of horror he navigated to break into what had become a fallout camp, a place of horror no less terrible than the battlefield itself. What was a massive army of rallied warriors was a small encampment of shattered pieces, of empty gazes and shaking bodies and the stench of death. No less than five men rose to meet him as he approached, hailing him and assailing his survival. The eldest, a tall man with a grey beard, tried to parse the scenario.

“General! Blessed is your very existence. We thought you lost; when the Gods rained fire, we had to run. I’m sorry; we can regroup and strike once again while Radasanth is vulnerable.” His own words wavered with fear; he had no idea how to handle a hostile entity and wanted to show a blend of compassion and ultimate allegiance.

The aging magician simply put a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye as he clutched at his own broken ribs. “No. Not today. Our fighting is done and we need to heal. Heal ourselves, each other, and the city.” Storm’s white-blue eyes were not wavering, his face painted with soot, grime, blood and sadness.

“Very well sir, I simply…”

“No apologies. Any word from Brackett? Vaan Osiris?”

There was a delay, and the experienced veteran struggled to find his words, knowing not to withhold information.

“General Vaan Osiris went further into the madness when the God’s Wrath arrived. We lost him. Commander Brackett was wounded; he is in the medical tent.” The old man gestured backwards to a simple tent, a long and wide and deep one with no specific amenities.

Without hesitation, the adventurer stumbled on, moving towards the tent. Men leaned against each other, a few bandaged, several being treated, and many more still holding cloth to wounds, burns, and their existence. They lay about the place packed taut, but there was one gurney in the middle of the room where their leader lay.

Storm strode forward, moving quickly but careful not to disturb the wounded. Nurses and doctors spread from the table like a flower opening as he approached, looking at him grimly and not without fear. A single gas-lamp was suspended over the top of the table, where Seamus Brackett lay in a heap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Seamus! Hang in, you magical son of a bitch.” Storm felt his eyes well as he looked down at the eldest warrior, who wore dire grin across his face as he held a cloth about his stomach.

“Finally get out of there, did you? I’m glad you made it, my friend.” He extended a large, filthy hand open, and the infamous villain quickly took it and sat by the side of his old advisor. There was only one thought that rang from Seamus’s warm greeting.

Fuck.

Seamus had never been a man of sincerity and gravity. The tandem traveled Gisela, staying light by teasing each other as men do; questioning their own courage and manhood at each turn, creating laughs to suppress the emotion of imminent death. If Commander Brackett was speaking from the heart, they were final thoughts.

“Kicked by a fucking horse, of all things. You believe that?” Brackett tried to laugh, but pressed firmly on his wound with his remaining hand. Whatever had caused the massive wound to his abdomen was no horse; it was likely a sword, spear, arrow, or some litany of similar weapons. The old man’s color was poor, a white and yellow backdrop to red-brown and black upon his face. By the tableside, his sword was propped against the table, the sheath overflowing with residual innards. Seamus had gone down swinging.

“Well, you knew it wouldn’t be a simple human that pulled you away from the field of war. Judging from that sword, you caught a few of your own. Hell, they even gave you priority seating to get stitched up, so hurry up already!”

Seamus only coughed and groaned a bit at the optimism, clutching at his stomach and whispering. He turned his gaze to Veritas, speaking with careful deliberation.

“We tried to do right, didn’t we?”

Storm’s eyes began to well at this, and looked down for a moment to gather himself. Seamus wouldn’t see the wizard cry. Seamus was slipping, and fading quickly.

“My friend, we tried to save the fucking world. The Gods had other plans.”

“Thank you, Storm. One more thing - do me a solid, young man. Make it right for me.”

Storm Veritas cried now, only smiling and kissing the hand of his friend. He sat by the bed as nurses and doctors tended to the countless wounded about him. At some point an hour or so later, Seamus let go, his grip releasing the hold of his friend as the warrior finally went home.

His head dropped between his knees, as the wizard sobbed at the great loss. A great man, gone. A mighty army, broken. A noble vision, shattered.

Leaving the tent with a pipe between his lips some ten minutes later, the tall man featured a dry face and red, puffy eyes. The smoke filled his lungs with considerable pain, seeming to sooth his tightly-wrapped ribs from within. He was broken, but reborn.