Standing atop a birm in the swamp Hyzael surveyed the chaos. The Sound of frogs in the thousands seem to drown out some of the shrieking from inside the walls. Fire burns on the rooftops of several structures within the town of Illian itself, producing a warm orange glare against the purple country skyline. The blood from the raid shined in the fire light on his hands, the smell of iron and hard work still upon him. Hyzael hoped this would be a wake up call to King Mattin and the companions, if they couldn't control a single man how do they plan to control an army. Hyzael considered this tough-love, something that had to be done.
The front gates were left with a reminder of what had happened that evening.
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illian Companion slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illianer lady slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illianer lady slain in Illian
the death scalp of an Illianer lady slain in Illian
the death scalp of the palace servant slain in Illian
the death scalp of the palace servant slain in Illian
King Mattin's time will come soon enough, if the Dragonsworn don't reach him first.