Rain lashed a cliffside terrace in Minas Tirith.
Mud splashed.
A heavy rush of wind came from above.
A Great Skua pierced the curtain of rain, beating its wings furiously to slow its descent. As it neared the ground, it thrust both talons forward.
Its sharp claws dug deep into the slippery mud. It stumbled forward two steps to shed its momentum, then steadied itself, laboriously folded its scarred wings, and shook the rain from its body.
Then came a second, and a third.
They were no longer that squadron of white reapers that blotted out the sky. Now their feathers were disheveled, their bodies crusted with ice and dried blood. Some had even lost a talon and stood shivering in the rain with their heads drooping.
Ola unfastened his safety buckle and slid down Stuka's wet, slippery back.
When his feet touched the ground, he lost his balance and slammed his knees into the mud. He did not get up right away, but remained kneeling, letting the icy rain wash over his bloodstained face.
"Chief..."
His adjutant approached, his left sleeve hanging empty and still dripping blood, diluted pink by the rain.
"Don't say anything."
Ola pushed away the adjutant's supporting hand and wiped the rain from his face.
A disaster.
An utter disaster.
Just then, footsteps sounded.
Ola stiffened, but he did not dare look up.
A pair of polished black leather boots stopped within his field of vision, a few flecks of mud spattered across them.
"My lord..." Ola had never sounded so defeated. "We... screwed up."
He wanted to explain.
He wanted to say how monstrous those golden Bird People were, how fast the arrows shot down from above the clouds had been, how his comrades had been riddled with holes before they even had a