Korporal Cassul, meanwhile, seemed completely at ease with this group, the mages’ presence an assurance. Magick brewed in these mountains and it’d be useful to have them along. The path in front of their split group narrowed and narrowed, however, the visibility turning even worse—“Keep an eye on each other, make sure we don’t lose anyone in the Mist,” he announced in a clipped voice, the Kerwonian accent coming out heavier than usual. (Nerves, it was all the nerves, his heartbeat a hollow sound in his ears.) The man’s attention was split between the treacherous stairwell underfoot, etched into the side of the mountain, and their surroundings, lest something descend on them from above.
But when the path finally opened up in front of them, they caught sight of something else entirely. Crumpled silhouettes on the ground, unmoving shapes. The outline of a shoulder, an arm flung out as if for aid. Many bodies scattered, all motionless.
“Faram,” Rictor breathed, gunblade swinging up and flicking the safety off. Were any of them still alive? What had attacked them? He looked instinctively to Violet, obedient rather than recalcitrant.