(no subject)
Dust yellows the air in gritty, choking clouds. The taint of Shadow is worse; the stench of evil here is strong enough to sour anyone's stomach, even the least sensitive. To a Warder's senses, it's a foul reek, a constant assault.
That was before the battle began.
Now -- now there's dust, and Shadow-taint, and reek of blood and burning stone, and the stench of Trollocs and Myrddraals and Runners and worse creatures even Lan knows no name for. The earth heaves and groans, splitting apart and shaking into new rubble under his feet. Lightning and fire streak, weaves of solid air and fire-hot stone, and the blood and gore and filth are underlaid by char and ozone. Malkier, Lan roars, and For the Light and the Seven Towers as he lunges at a Myrddraal, but he can't hear himself. The world is full of battle cries and screaming.
(to stand against the Shadow)
Men and women die around him. Malkieri, Kandori, Domani and Aiel and Seanchan; Aes Sedai and Asha'man; people of every nation, united, all alike in the chaos of war. They die, and they kill. But the Dark One's army is larger.
Lan has no attention to spare for what Rand al'Thor might be doing, somewhere in that blinding muddle of flame and cloud and lightning. He has no attention to spare for whether his wife is still alive, or Moiraine, or anyone who isn't within reach of the next sword stroke.
(while iron is hard and stone abides)
Mandarb dies under him, a barbed spear in his belly and the proud black head thrown up in a horrible equine scream. There would be a haunting familiarity to the face of the man who threw it, if Lan had time to notice, but he doesn't. Lan throws himself free, hits the ground and rolls. No time to mourn his horse; no time to think of Agelmar with a sword deep in his thigh, of Varia, of Neril.
(to defend the Malkieri)
Embrace death he thinks or screams, teeth bared, and stabs upward at a ten-legged monster's belly in a spray of acidic blood. The pain of those poisonous splatter-burns is nothing; the gouge in his calf that makes him stagger at a wrong step, the deep slice through one bicep, the creeping weakness of blood loss, are nothing. You surrender when you're dead, and not before.
(while one drop of blood remains)
He fights until they cut him down.
That was before the battle began.
Now -- now there's dust, and Shadow-taint, and reek of blood and burning stone, and the stench of Trollocs and Myrddraals and Runners and worse creatures even Lan knows no name for. The earth heaves and groans, splitting apart and shaking into new rubble under his feet. Lightning and fire streak, weaves of solid air and fire-hot stone, and the blood and gore and filth are underlaid by char and ozone. Malkier, Lan roars, and For the Light and the Seven Towers as he lunges at a Myrddraal, but he can't hear himself. The world is full of battle cries and screaming.
(to stand against the Shadow)
Men and women die around him. Malkieri, Kandori, Domani and Aiel and Seanchan; Aes Sedai and Asha'man; people of every nation, united, all alike in the chaos of war. They die, and they kill. But the Dark One's army is larger.
Lan has no attention to spare for what Rand al'Thor might be doing, somewhere in that blinding muddle of flame and cloud and lightning. He has no attention to spare for whether his wife is still alive, or Moiraine, or anyone who isn't within reach of the next sword stroke.
(while iron is hard and stone abides)
Mandarb dies under him, a barbed spear in his belly and the proud black head thrown up in a horrible equine scream. There would be a haunting familiarity to the face of the man who threw it, if Lan had time to notice, but he doesn't. Lan throws himself free, hits the ground and rolls. No time to mourn his horse; no time to think of Agelmar with a sword deep in his thigh, of Varia, of Neril.
(to defend the Malkieri)
Embrace death he thinks or screams, teeth bared, and stabs upward at a ten-legged monster's belly in a spray of acidic blood. The pain of those poisonous splatter-burns is nothing; the gouge in his calf that makes him stagger at a wrong step, the deep slice through one bicep, the creeping weakness of blood loss, are nothing. You surrender when you're dead, and not before.
(while one drop of blood remains)
He fights until they cut him down.