bursts of flame amid it all, before she returned
to the river’s icy depths.
Black blood streamed from her maw, from
her tails and claws, as she doubled back, the
shadow of the witches warring overhead upon
the ice above her.
So she fought, the ice floes her shield.
Attacking, then moving; destabilizing the
eastern flank with every assault, forcing them
to flee from the river’s edge to crowd the
center ranks.
Slowly, the turquoise waters of the Florine
clouded blue and black.
Still, Lysandra kept ripping bites from the
side of the behemoth that launched itself upon
Orynth.
The heat off the firelances scorched Aedion’s
cheek, warming his helmet to near-
discomfort.