From the journals of Middle Devor Fauljin Sandelsson:
My world was at war. Blood hung in the air, threatening to snuff out the consciousness of a weaker man. Rithonfaux was in disarray. Chaos reigned supreme, spreading akin to a pandemic across the holy lands of Tylon. The King was no longer alive, Supreme Devor Lord compromised, the streets filled with the corpses of the dead and screams of the living. Landernom had invaded Rithonfaux.
I was a robust young man of two decades and a yonder, steaming with passion and hatred for the men in grey who had marched in overnight and turned our world into hell. I, with my Devor phalanx of seventeen lads marched on, devoid of fear, on the plains of Robr'eisiovik, mercilessly slaughtering every being in grey who dared come across our path. Few mages were seen, fighting in a frenzy for their brothers, many of whom lay brutally massacred on the floors of The Geraux. Murderous rage shone through their hooded eyes as the enemies erupted in a bloody splatter of gore every few minutes, as mages channeled their energy, in the few times it was needed, to take lives.
We advanced towards the charred houses near Sikgurd, checking for any injured survivors. The entire mixture of emotions felt by any man alive in Rithonfaux was represented on the faces of my lads, as they marched alongside me, stride to stride. Some were quivering, some were frightened, but were sane enough to not let it show. The others knew what had to be done, and strode forward accordingly. But the last group, the final criterion were the ones grieved beyond belief, shocked in way that made them somewhat distant from reality. And then that shock develops into an unimaginable fury that grips the heart and rips it of every emotion other than the irresistible thirst for revenge. The will to kill.
A lad's cry pierced my train of thoughts, leaving me momentarily disconcerted. 'Sir, there is someone in there,' he said, pointing at a shack, blemished, literally, by the flames of arson. Sure enough, I could hear cries for help, which were growing fainter every minute. We ran towards the shack, kicking away the foundations which lay in tatters, to enter what was left of the hut.
A woman lay in the corner, extremely weak, whose eyes were pleading for support as her voice failed her. She had severe burns on her body, and her face which once must have been one of grace, was now covered in blood and grime. Three lads immediately sprung forward, lifted the lady, who was attempting to tell them something. With a miraculous effort, she lifted her hand, and pointed at the cot which was curiously not that burnt. I rushed to the cot and found a bundle of blankets. It was a baby. Its small hands grabbed my finger as it gurgled, happily oblivious of everything happening around him. I tucked it gently under my arm, snug under the protection of numerous articles of clothing.
The same could not have been said for its mother. Upon seeing the baby in my arms, she collapsed into the arms of the lads, her breathing becoming more laborious by the second. We rushed out of that hut, desperate to find a healer. I ran through the barren streets, shouting for a mage. None came, as none were there. Fighting, or dead. Not sitting at home. The ludicrousness of not having a healer among the ranks hit me like a hammer, and I roared with dismay, as one of the men carrying her felt under her neck, to slowly raise their head and shake it.
