A soft sigh as the falcon beat his wings. High high over the fields, it flew on and on.
A soft scream and it tumbles down. The shaft swift and true lodged in the it side as it fell down into the fields of grey. A victim of the clouds of steel
Screams, grunts and cries, strike out and assault the ears massed about as the cash of metal the heat of the sparks fly, the brums the air, and the roar of the wounded drowns out the falcons final cry.
And as the sun falls silently she watches, Celestia.
Sighing as she strides into the tent she glances over the left, a recent habit, wincing as she spots the strike of red.
Glancing out the window at the full moon she gritted her teeth. “Why did it have to come to this ?” she asks the imprinted moon.
The moon never answers.