[i]I remember this place.[/i]

He had stopped in the centre, some unconscious desire drawing him back to the old square and its tired looking town hall. Naught but charred ruins now, tile ruptured by grass and root, the fountain dry and reclaimed by nature. The rooftop of the Hall had collapsed, allowing the elements in, but it otherwise stood structurally not so dissimilar to how it had looked that day. He had stood on the balcony overlooking the centre. Looked down on a field of battle unlike any he had seen since. The elements brought to bear with lethal intent, the many kinds of death one might find on a magic battlefield had sickened him, perhaps even unhinged him a little. It was easy to blame it all on the mana, but sometimes Metz wondered if he’d never been quite right after his last visit to Arkulf.

“I killed two of my own right there.” He muttered, looking across to a low wall around the square where the stone had been ruptured by some kind of force. If it had been a modern battlefield, one would have assumed it was done by explosive ordinance, a mortar or rocket. Metz knew that it had been something far more unusual that had caused that damage, water. Their cover was ruptured, showering them with rock and stone, and the bullets flew in, cutting them to shreds. Two mages had died there. Traitors, but mages, and Metz had been the one that had killed them as surely as if he had pulled the trigger. He stood in the square, before the broken fountain and the charred town hall, lost in memory.