Board Thread:Random RP/@comment-26444332-20170316230937/@comment-26444332-20170423030836

'Too late.'

The voice comes from a man in black, with dark hair and grey eyes, and a long red scarf. He steps out from the Haunted, snapping his fingers, and the Mist surges up, covering their heads.

An instant later, they see it: as if they stand in the past itself, the remaining members of the group find themselves on an ancient battlefield.

It might have been a beautiful place, once: a long slope rising, first gently and curving into a steep incline, to a crested ridge lies on one side. A stream had cut its way down the slope to form a small brook through the area.

Now, however, the slope is dyed with gore: covered in the bodies of men, elves, and Half-elves, and strange creatures, monstrous and vile: somewhat resembling humans with marbled red-and-black skin. Blood has run down the slope in rivulets and streams of its own, creating a red marsh where the once-green grass choked on the fruits of battle. Weapons and banners litter the battlefield: rusted, broken, or stabbed in the ground like markers for the dead. One tattered banner stands out: emblazoned with a silver dragon rampant on a black field.

The clash of arms alerts them that the war is not over here: they turn to see two figures, clad in bloodstained and broken plate-and-mail. One appears to be a young Azarias; the other, a man with long black hair and pale green eyes.