"Horror comes later, horror is something men can describe - that the wails rising from the west gives a shape and a weight to. I look into your eyes and it is instead something nameless that tracks the horizon; I would make you turn away if I could do the same. There is nothing left in that city that you mourn, there is no name that you can place on your tongue and scream out to the gods, so what have you left, my dearest Sirite, but to carry the death of it all on your heart, written in epitaphs too many to imagine."

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