The Siren wailed across the molested field. It was a sad, unheard melody, for the Siren wept her Notes for the dead, and soon about to be,  than the breathing soldiers sprinting to the battlements of the fallen city. 

The Notes cut through the pounding of fifteen thousand boots. They slithered on the sinking mud, through the biting gales, thick rain, and under the volleys of arrows and the flashing bolts of death magic. The Notes arched to the gray skies, passing wyverns dropping explosive crystal shards on the soldiers and wyverns that were dropping with half of their bodies missing, cut down by a wind sorceress of unparalleled power.

Ceaselessly, the Siren felt the sorrow of the countless thousands. Their regrets, their hopes, their dreams, their last memories--all vanishing as quickly as the Corrupted can nock their arrows. She felt how the arrows pierced their cheap armor, how it parted flesh and bone, and how the men and women fell to the ground, unmoving, three hundred meters away from the gates. Those which followed lifted fallen ladders, leaving behind the bodies, and resuming their mission. Towards the liberation of their city, taken over by beasts of unknown origin.

The Siren fell back to the rusty earth and struggled on, through the bumps and various explosive mines of the field, and over the battlements. The Corrupted, rotting, hideous, and without flesh, shook, both in fear and shame. They too, were once human.

Humans? What are humans? Their red blood was mixed. Violet, green, blue, reminiscence of extent races smothered through the conquering of cities and the molesting of their lands. Humanoids, maybe? Did the Siren no longer consider herself to be human as well? Is she now above them, beyond the petty squabbles of a primitive mortal? Below them, for now, she is no longer able to participate in their dance? Where was she, in the greater foot of things? What did she, herself, fear? What was she? Would the arrows also part her skull and spill her brain like mellow juice?  Was the futility of their march to certain death not make itself apparent to those that were already dead, to those that were upon those walls, attempting to protect what little flesh they had? How could they march like sheep, in arrows and fires? How was she, the Siren, any different than them, who have and will continue to meet certain gore?

The Siren. A singer meant to entertain. Music for when the Gods gaze with all the poumpous deamoner of an infinanitly immortal being  upon the inconsquiental bickering of bags of moving blood. There was amusment, in all the different ways each bag of blood spilled the oposing sides blood. Creativiety unmatched even by those very Gods that derive their sinful power from. 

She amused them, surely. Why else would she be granted this equally immoral power, this cursed, derisive voice to be heard by the living? She was there, screetching her Notes as they watched the chickens scratch at each other, gamblings things of little worth as guts flew and dirtied the cages. Her job was an equally persasive role in this, for she played the background music to the great play as the actors perished one by one, hundreds by hundreds, thousands by thousands. Faces indiscerinable from one another replace each other, speak like the others, and perish like the others. Little differers, little changes, little matters. 

Fleeting thoughts jabbed at the Siren’s conscious, causing hesitation to echo in her voice. She faltered,  her voice amiss, once, twice, thrice, and thus the Song ended prematurely. All the strings in which the Siren connected her Notes snapped, returning all of the sensations into one brief torturous moment. There, on her feet, she felt the mud. The stone, the steel, the blood. She felt the frostbite eat away at her skin, and the fires of the mine which just blew away her limb. Her arm dangelled numbly, but it also burned feveirishly, its skin parted and its liquiud seeping. She felt her eye to be punctured by the tip of a spear, and felt her brain following suit. A couple of her fingers had gone missing, phantom pains fooling her senses, as the dagger which she held spread open the neck of a fallen enemy, the warm, squishy sensetasion of it sinking deep it.  All the colors of the gray field, all the bitter emotions and the cursing and the sobbing of pubescent children and aging veterns were one and the same.

Kora fell to her knees, arms clutching her head as she banged it against the dirt. Her breath escaped her in quick succession. She panted, coughed, and attempted to vomit, yet nothing but painful groans escaped her body in tight crumps. Her head threatened to burst. She felt too many things, heard too many things, thought too many things.

She laid there on the cold grass for a short while, her body convulsing every few agonizing moments. She only brought her tattered body up once the itching of the grass became unbearable and the sounds of distant iron crashing incessant. 

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She limped a few steps, her arms held against the shriveled trees for support, before her leg finally gave up on her and sent her tumbling down the hill. It was a painful way down, but the quickest, Kora realized mid-descent.

The mud softened her descent, allowing to avoid the worse of injuries in trades of her dignity.

Finding her sad excuse for mule staring at her bewilderedly, Kora lifted herself up, quickly removing the worst of the muck from her face. She removed the knot from its neck and threw herself on top of the infuriating thing.

It snorted in displeasure. The back of Kora’s heels stifled its complaints. The ride back to camp was, as she expected, painful and full of curses at unknown Gods and wretched commanders.

Upon returning to camp, the few soldiers running around glanced at their lieutenant, her messy hair and wasted appearance sitting on top of an ugly mule.

A glare and a growl sent each one of them scurrying along.

She threw the mule’s reins to the closest stable looking boy she could find and limped her way to the commander's tent. The Captain, eagerly awaiting her arrival, promptly disengaged himself from the bickering of the other majors, captains, sargents, and everyone else who held little power.

“What in Dylon’s name happened to you, lieutenant? You look as if you as if you swam through mud to get here.” The Captain said, sniffing the air,  “And you smell it, too.”

Kora scowled at the giant brown man, receiving a mischievous smirk in return. “Calling upon the Death Lord’s name in battle is never wise, sir.”

He waved her off “What’s another God’s disfavor going to poke? So? Don’t change the subject.”

Kora cursed once again. She tilted her head away, before begrudgingly answering him “ I slipped and fell down a fucking hill, landing in a pile which I hope was pure mud.”

The Captain laughed, and loudly so, momentarily putting a pause to every conversation in the room. They promtly resumed their own, more covert form of warfare of decit and mockery, half-used to such bizarre behavior.

With a furtive glance around him, the Captain stepped in close then, bending his ears slightly to her. “How well did it go?” He whispered. Loudly.

Kora sighed inwardly. Is he trying to be conspicuous?

“The battlefield is too enormous. Moments into it and I was not able to handle the influx of information. Too many people, too many things occurring at the same time. The number of people dying did not make it easier. Overloads it. My voice barely reached the battlements before I lost control."

The Captain straightened his back, letting out a disappointed sigh. “Figures, though it didn't hurt to try."

"Yes, yes it did sir," Kora answered with a glare, and then nodding towards the exit, motioning for him to follow. She might not have been able to survey the enemy's numbers, but she did find something vitally important.

After they had escaped that dreadful tent, Kora and the Captain looked at the besieged city. “Dijhat, one of the most contested kingdoms in the continent-- fallen to the Corruption God’s minions,” the Captain groaned. Dijhat control was the reason behind the success of the Profectus Empire. Its loss would mean the Empire’s failure. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

Kora opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Sir, the soldiers are...terrified.” She paused, thinking of her next words.

"Uh-uh...and the sky is above us and the ground is below us," 

“I felt their terror, anger, sadness. Their regret, their desires…” Kora once again tried to dig the words out of her. It was difficult, putting the things she felt into words. It was as if she spoke of a different person, of a different time. “And I also felt a...Hope.”

The Captain raised his eyebrows “That’s good, I guess? Lieutenant, what does that have to do with anything?” The Captain was yet to be comfortable with the mood swings accompanying her Songs.

“Their Hope sir, was guilt-ridden. It reeked of desperation, of hatred and self-loathing.” Kora cursed herself. She was being sentimental. It was never good being sentimental. “The point is, sir,” Kora whispered, “...Is that one of the commanders is planning to betray the Empire. One part of the army, I don’t know which, is planning to somehow save itself at the cost of everyone else. Those soldiers are cursing themselves for it, yet they remain hopeful of its success."

The Captain groaned heavily, his shoulders slumping. “Argh, wasn't pleasent the last time someone did that. How do you know that, Lieutenant?”

“I just do, sir” Kora, for just an instance, saw the Captain past his bulging muscles, past the indomitable will and countless scars which riddled the old man. She saw him for what he was: a tired thing past his prime.

Isn’t he forty? Shouldn’t he be dying soon? His hair is already gone, if only his foolish life would fol-

The Captain hung his head in defeat, almost comically so. His cheeks were puffed, pouting childishly. He walked past her, resting his heavy hand on her shoulders.

“Let's go back soldier, we have a lot of work to get to.” With a heavy sigh, the Captain went back into the commander's tent.

Kora stared at the battlefield, for a moment. She listened to the sounds of steel clashing, the shaking of the earth by magics gifted by treacherous Gods, and the quick fleeting of thousands of lives.

Nothing. She couldn't care less if the entire earth around the noisy soldiers would to fall and save her the annoyance of lisening to their screams. 

Kora spat beyond the hill, cursing whichever and whatever God, Titian, Voidling, Demon, or Devil was pulling the strings this time.