Mandragora "Taran... Sarkaz, you called me a Taran...!" The Feline plunges to the ground, the weight of her body unable to sustain her wounds. The cold hardness of stone conjured by her own Arts envelops her as she lies debilitated. The lone street of Londinium lays barren aside from the bodies of her fallen comrades, the Tarans and Dublinn. "That damn Sarkaz, but he called me a Taran in the end..." What wells up in her should be rage but instead it's resignation. The Feline is unable to move, left to contemplate the fate of all Tarans, a meaningless life filled with prejudice and resentment. The sky remains a monotonous grey, a reflection of her own life. Had the sky be bathed by the color of the countless losses, the color would remain the same. The last ounce of her vitality is used to crawl beside her comrades who lie silent.