A swollen pack of quicksilver wolves flowed across the plain toward the dirty ranks of bloody Sauromatia, like a river loosed from its captor. The sky grew dark and dripped poison, and Tuatha Sorceresses, full of knowledge and power, some near a thousand years old, died.
The wolves crashed into the front lines of the Sauromatians, and turned out to be no more than fangs and mist. The rank and file raised a cry, bloodstained, filed teeth hissing at their foe.
Golden Sidhe and Tuatha, finally returned from their shadowy lands beyond, met the iron rain of amazon arrows with their glowing molten shields, not entirely impervious to the massive number of falling projectiles. They battled through the Sauromatian line and assaulted the archer formation, golden spears flashing in the sun. They lept, spun, laughed, and died.
Daja, the great mother of all Tuatha, called her troops back, but there were none left to answer. She finally fled to the safety of her parapet, crying the hot, dark tears of a lost race.
Goober the Witch King wiped his brow and licked his red -stained lips in anticipation of the feast to come. Just outside the walls of the fort, to let the remaining inhabitants smell the flesh of their kinsmen, the fires were erected.
