The remaining Veynar warriors, watching the giant and the silent horde of over fifteen hundred Coalition soldiers completely encircling their broken ring, felt the last embers of their determination vanish into ash.
They were already exhausted, their essence reserves severely depleted from holding the line against the Coalition's numerical superiority.
Now, seeing their Warchief paralyzed, their High Shaman grounded on the ridge, and their own comrades thrusting spears into their backs from behind, the last threads of their famed Veynar determination snapped completely.
A collective, devastating realization settled over the army: It was over.
Their arms grew heavy.
The weapons they held raised for hours slipped downwareds.
The Warchief and High Shaman were paralyzed, and their own elders had sold their blood for survival.
…
Chief Bruga stopped ten paces away from where Veylara lay kneeling in the dust. He looked down at her, his lips curling into a cruel, mocking sneer.
