Ash, brimestone, fire; these scents overwelmed her--consuming her lungs, causing her to reel over and caugh. No, no time, no time to wait--explosion, fire; a small Lalafellen woman cloaked in thick layers of armor is hurled through the air, crashing into the rapidly melting snowy ground outside of Camp Dragonhead. She hears a crack of bone, her rib? Leg? She couldn't tell, the pain was numbed long before, at this point...as the hoards of wyvern crash down upon the stone walls of which she was just outside of, Ser Maria Gwyn had no time to waste over pain or broken self. Her eyes of blue rise to meet the fallen body of a fellow Temple Knight, crippled over a rocky ledge near to a pond--long since soaked red.

She looks up, the current waves of scaled beasts flooded the skies, mixed with the purple of Dragoon's armor, and explosive steel bolts of dragonkillers piercing the air to crash into their marks. Maria had now or never, now before the cavalry of Aevis charge in to break the already meager lines of their Knights, of which now prepared for such an onslaught--shields interlocked standing just before the stone gates. The small lass got up, charged forward; her legs were heavy but something...pushed her, screamed in her mind--stay still, and you'll never move again. This drove her towards the body, placing her hand upon the shoulder she would turn it over, they were limp.

Black. That was all that was left of any semblance of a face, burnt ash with a slightly concave cavity where features were once displayed of a man, or woman--it was hard to tell at this point. Maria's stomach curled, and with a yelp she threw up what stale rations she'd been permitted that morning, a sorry last meal...she thought. Bent over, upon her knees with ash upon her pale cheeks--the necklace of Halone hung about her neck, three conjoined spears linked together at the middle by a blue crystal. Where was she? Her patron deity who'd guided her thus far, if Maria was not dead yet...why the one aside her? 

"GET BACK TO THE LINE!" A piercing voice tore through the cacophony of screaming and clashing of steel, through the whine of wyvern above. It was her captain, she sucked in a deep breath--and weather by drill of training instinct or stupid bravery, she ran to take her place in line.

Standing aside her was a much taller elezen, as most were--she was the only lalafell, small and easily underestimated, most had thought her a welcome treat to any dragon who'd threaten her, but Maria stood still after the initial onslaught. At nearly three feet tall she came to the other's shins, but held her broad shield before her with just the same amount of perseverance and stalwart. A sudden absence of sound fell over the field, the wyverns....did they retreat?

"Reloa.....Drag.....--oons....regrou--....push..." These words, she could hear some semblance of them--but her ears rang with a piercing screech, dulled by the blasts of inferno and breath. She did not, however; miss: 

"LOCK. AT THE READY." That was her que, after all; lock shield closely with the one aside her, doing her best despite the short stature she was forced to work with since birth. 

It had always been an issue, even in the Brume--the slums of Ishgard, her height had her often pushed out of charity lines, bullied from the small amounts of food that was offered by the few charitable members of society. The image of her Halonic necklace comes to mind once more, though to her--she see's it about the neck of a much taller man, a saint who without...she'd have starved. His name was...

"CHARGE!" The voice spurred her feet on, she had no will--only the instinct she'd been trained with, forced forward; indeed she did charge...straight into the hoard of equally pressing ranks of Aevis.

They were large, ebon scaled and hide thick as layers of steel--gnashing teeth that left in its wake both saliva and carnage; small and useless wings that acted as large shields for their already impenetrable bodies. This was their adversary, this was who they were destined to die by. She accepted this, Maria never thought she'd survive until the end--all she could ask for...dream for, was at least a glorious death for an otherwise pitiful life of twenty-one years.

 

What was there left to say? They met the ranks of the Dravanians head on, time would seem to slow as they neared, and every detail would be etched within the mind of that small lalafellen Temple Knight, the teeth...the steel...the blood, she couldn't see--so all she had was to swing, and swing she did. Raising her shield to block the piercing talons of the Aevis she was fated to clash against, flying the tip of her short-sword to slip between the throat of its much more exposed skin. A gout of dragon's icor would spew from the wound she tore across its artery, soaking her once golden hair a deep crimson; interrupted only by the stark contrast of bright blue eyes through her mask of ash and lifeblood. 

Another, another, another; swing, and swing--her arm felt numb, but it did not serve to deter her when tearing the steel edge of her blade along their throats, her short height helped her--but was of no aid when a thick tail swung about and hurled her through the air, sliding across the snow to meet stopping with the firm embrace of a large boulder. 

"--GGHH!" A yelp was forced from her, but unheard beneath the roaring screeching of the scaled demons. She always had a gentle voice, not used often as there were not many to speak to. Even the recruiters for the Temple Knights had trouble hearing her that day she approached them, young and malnourished--but how could they turn her down? Hundreds of years of war left little room to be picky when it meant the front-line be better stocked with shields of meat, and just so; they'd slap iron upon her and send her out to the camp of Dragonhead--with a week of training and a stale biscuit. 

That was a week ago, and now...now it seemed so distant--was this a mistake? She couldn't move, her legs had given up and...the commander was long since gone, her eyes did catch his head flying from the shoulders that once supported it, his commands could not rise over the curtain of mutual screaming. Maria watched on, as the body of an Aevis would fall upon her lower half--causing her to join her voice into the song of pain. It was cover enough, perhaps life saving cover that might just buy her appearance enough to seem dead and wait the conflict through. A front-row seat to the opera of death, whilst the nobles enjoyed their theaters--the play of bellum would unfold before the lesser fortunate. All offering a part in its singing, that song...the song of blades clashing and fire spewing, of front-lines meetings and lives cut short; the song none could forget:

The Dragonsong, and on that horrid evening--Maria contributed a verse, one that would not soon be her last.