The air grows heavy, an oppressing sensation encapsulating the entirety of not only the battle field, but of the whole of Dunmeath. The very air shivers with trepidation as the clouds loom heavy and pregnant with anticipation. It begins far away, though rapidly approaching: a hail of screams, the molten damnation that spills like rain from the heavens. Accompanying it is the burdensome shriek of thunder, of lightening so close that it can be tasted, archaic and destructive upon the tongue. Those who can, flee. Those who cannot are taken by the duality of destruction. Any other sound is swallowed up by the clamor left in the wake of the attack.
This day, a hard border was consecrated betwixt the two: Crue Efros sanctioned upon one side, Vufrien the other. It was a band forged of ever burning flames and the shrill of lightening should any living being draw too close. Dunmeath was reduced to a lifeless wasteland in the matter of hours and the traces that humanity ever dwelled here to begin with were expunged from its face. Those who lived to tell the tale sometimes whisper of shadows writhing through the fog of smoke and cloud. Their minds plunged into the bedlam of madness. Outcasts who now linger close enough to the border to witness and worship the divine destruction, but not draw its ceaseless glower.
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