[It is done, at last. The tempest has ended, and Koltira kneels among the wreckage, soaked in blood and guilt and loathsome, terrible satisfaction. His armor is cracked; his pale hair dark with crusted blood and filth. His nails are black from digging at his own face, his own throat.
He's in a clearing, not far into the woods proper, and his mind is a riot of awful thoughts. What he has done to these people, to this place? Innocents, all. Undeserving, all. So many of them had treated him kindly, without prejudice or expectation. They had befriended him, and he had repaid them as he knew he would. With his sword, with their own blood.
Koltira's body is not weak. It does not tire; it cannot yield. He could stand if he wanted, and he could run, run to the edges of this world and never return. But his soul is weary. He leans on the hilt of Byfrost, driven into the ground (blackening it, because even now he can't stop spoiling everything he touches), and he stares straight ahead, every muscle taut with misery.]
OLIVIA -- WOODS
He's in a clearing, not far into the woods proper, and his mind is a riot of awful thoughts. What he has done to these people, to this place? Innocents, all. Undeserving, all. So many of them had treated him kindly, without prejudice or expectation. They had befriended him, and he had repaid them as he knew he would. With his sword, with their own blood.
Koltira's body is not weak. It does not tire; it cannot yield. He could stand if he wanted, and he could run, run to the edges of this world and never return. But his soul is weary. He leans on the hilt of Byfrost, driven into the ground (blackening it, because even now he can't stop spoiling everything he touches), and he stares straight ahead, every muscle taut with misery.]