Armin had been the first of the Blood in Jonothon's group to panic and run through the shield. He hadn't been the last. Steadily, one by one, the Blood on the team had given in to the psychic battering that the witchblood was unleashing upon them, and more landens had fallen along the way, either to psychic cries of pain, or to their own fatigue, ( Read more... )

*North,* urged a voice in Jonothon's head, the voice of the Rose-Jeweled Warlord that Warren was communicating through. He was starting to sound about as ragged as Jonothon felt, pressing onward at a pace that wasn't quite a run, urging his troops to move more quickly. *The smoke is practically on top of you, but so long as the wind doesn't change ( Read more... )