The Aalen writhed in pain. The countless dead squirmed beneath her lofty boughs, their voices strained to a mindless chorus that was choked with terror. The Tsol'aa, the armies of Sapience--so many had died beneath her gaze and now lie in unhallowed graves only to be sealed in flame by the careless hand of the Hunter.

Time was not kind to them.

The restless dead seethed as Dendara reawoke and the spirits clustered in the dark hollows, nestling amongst the bones. They glutted themselves on their suffering, pushing forward through the ash and detritus with regrowth that heralded the death that so deep within the Aalen's heart. An elm, kingly in its stature, spread its limbs outward to shroud the forest in a pall.

A final gasp of agony was wrenched from the forest as the dead rose from their unmarked graves, her limbs twisted and turned to an autumnal grace--blood-tinged leaves now filled the sky and the smell of death lingered on the air. The Bloodwood, cradled along the Vashnars, awaited the return of its remaining children.

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Arios, in the year 433 MA.