The grey snow fell not from the clouds, but from the smoldering bones of the world.
"Enough to carry the memory," Silas replied, his voice barely louder than the whistling wind. "And that is all we have left." Ashes of War [v1.0]
Bram grunted, leaning heavily on a walking axe that had long since lost its edge. "Scraps won't buy us bread in the Lowlands. Assuming the Lowlands haven't burned just as bright as the Ridge." The grey snow fell not from the clouds,
Silas looked back at the small, shivering cluster of campfires tucked into the ruins of a collapsed watchtower. A handful of hollow-eyed refugees and three wounded soldiers were all that remained of a proud garrison. "Scraps won't buy us bread in the Lowlands
"We move at moonrise," Silas said, standing up and letting the shield fall back into the mud with a dull thud. "Gather the others. Tell them to wrap their boots in wool. The silent-striders are hunting the perimeter again."
They called it the Ashing. It had been seven years since the Great Compact was shattered, and the skies had never truly cleared.
"They aren't coming back for it, Silas," a voice rasped through the fog.