The grey demons' sillouettes grew from the distant plains as the sun rose. The ground beneath our sandals shook with their coming.
The flames of war grew from their march like the dust kicked up like the horned beasts. Greedy red tongues licked at the sacred forests. The stampede of animals preceded their advance, like messengers from our gods, bidding us to leave.
The greatest cheiftains of our people raised their weapons and spoke words of glory, death, remembrance. Seven times our warriors chanted words of war to the grey demons. Seven times, we quailed under the gutteral roars that echoed forth from the dying forest.
The seventh time, the grey demons finally emerged. A vast horde of savages, crying their war cries to us. Tearing our dried throats to shout one last time, we chanted our hyms of death, knowing of what was to come. Then we charged.
The demons drove through our ranks like oliphaunts, tossing our men in every direction. Raurenos, then Laen-el Saar, and Karsenos were impaled upon their rods of stone, their once proud banners torn into leaves of cloth.
Near all of us perished in the battle. Those who fled, were caught in the horns of their great steeds. Fire, fire took us all. The dead were piled high for our foes' victory feast, denied all rites of burial.
The few who had survived, those who had cowardly fled, told us of the coming, of the grey demons. Thus we were forewarned.
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