Vuvela Blackthorn lays ear-deep in a puddle of mud and blood, the world spinning around her in a hazy blur of shapes and muffled sounds.
Around her the rest of the field lies still, littered with the wreckage of a fight that none of them saw coming, even while they fought it. Smoke drifts low over the churned earth, thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid bite of spent magic. Sera groans somewhere from under a crushed carriage, too much pain and too little consciousness preventing her from rising as one hand still weakly reaches for a greatsword just out of reach. Xenara drags herself across the mud on her five remaining limbs, snarling, heaving for breath, leaving a dark, red groove behind her as she claws forward uselessly, trying to close the distance between herself and Bilorial.
