Doom of the Nightingales

As the silhouettes of the departing ships dwindled against the setting sun, Morag surveyed the smouldering remains of what was once the greatest war camp of the Daeb. What now seemed a lifetime ago the beach below had welcomed a thousand ships launched by the Republic to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. Rightfully theirs. Or was it? The stench of blood and death brought her back from her melancholic reverie. Her time was running out and there was one more thing she wanted to do before her hour came. Gritting her teeth and pushing down the pain, she limped her way towards the ruin of the palisades and a macabre mound of flesh, metal and linen. Atop the repugnant mass of avaricious midgets, the fine features of an elven prince glistened like a jewel. Though agony blurred her vision, the cawing of crows pushed here onwards. With what little strength she had left, she tenderly placed the prince’s head on her lap and used the tatters of her cloak to wipe away the blood from his face and the tears from her own. “You fought well little one,” she murmured. “Mother would have been proud.” Hugging him as fiercely as her aching body could, she opened her mind to the void beyond the Veil. A deal had been struck and now the price would be paid. Last she felt was a crow landing on her shoulder, and then she was no more.