A single moon has risen since our Last Deamon clan-force breached the lands of Bounteya: the lands of the favoured race, humans. The frequent rains of the Land-of-Plenty fell in sheets throughout the day- washing all but the most stubborn traces of battle from the soils. The waters shall run red in beck and stream for hours yet.
Now, though, that great, fiery golden orb of day has cooled to purest silver- casting a pale sheen over the devastated landscape as I trace a taloned foot across the earthy ground, carving rivets in a puddle of dried, iridescent slick.
My head lowers to take in the familiar sharp, metallic scent as yet another strangled shriek rends the silence of the night. The hunt was still on: every human to die by the claws of the forces of the Last before the night is through.
For that is the will of Zerah.
The piercing shriek sounded again