“WITH a thud that chilled their spirits beneath the frigid snows that fell:
The body struck the floor, its last few breaths taken in bloody mire.
Lïthôn, queen of talons, traced grimaces across their expressions.
These barbarians are thick skinned, she thought. And yet… all men fear death.
She let the moment keep a quiet counsel as she met their gaze.
Hawkish eyes scanned for their weakness, scouring over bearded faces.
Tell me, she thought amused by their resistance, which of you still quake?
Surely one’s lost their fire, moonlit scum. One has forgotten honor.
“Chieftains of Rüngard, your feudal realm is lost. You must accept this.
Recall instead your love of life; Your love for homeland is misplaced–––”
A shiver. There you are, she gleamed upon the furthest kneeling man.
Her armored boots clicked his way across the deck of her grim warship.
On her approach, the clacking of her soles chimed with her great talons.
The dozens of lengthy daggers danced in slip knots around her waist.
They like a skirt of windchimes jingled, predatory grinning fangs.
She drew near him. He swallowed, eyes shutting. How softly she smiled down.“
–From Book III, Before the Seige of Arzgôth