The first pale rays of dawn touched the standard of Areta through a thin haze, glimmering along what remained of the soiled golden thread.  Linus Kolbe forced himself from his aching knees, prying his fingers loose from its shaft one by one as dust slithered from the joints of his armor.  The enclosing helm came free with a wheezing cough, exposing that horrid head to the crisp, dirty morning air.

Kolbe scanned the horizon beyond the funnel as best he could, dragging long, reluctant breaths through his parched throat.  Nothing.  No movement.  No sign.  But he had only one good eye left to him, and the view was far from clear.  The horses would like be nearby.  Might be his Brothers had found safe purchase also.

His brothers.

The King.  

The Elves.  The village.  The pit.

"Too many coincidences." he grated, thickly.

He wrenched the standard from its housing on his third tug, scraped his way toward the Captain, coughing into his fist.  The tarnished banner fluttered mournfully in the dry breeze.

"Sir," he hissed, lowly, "The sun rises quickly, in the east.  We must needs find water.  Recover horses.  Find our brothers, if we can.  Return to our duty.  We cannot." He swallowed, dryly. "Linger."  

The scarred head twisted left and right, taking in the desolate whirlpool that had once been a town.  What little in his features remained capable of expression were hard and uncompromising. 

"This place is damned."