The Whispers

The battlefield's oppressive silence hung like a shroud over the ravaged landscape, where the monstrous creatures' charred remains had disintegrated into wisps of acrid smoke. The air reeked of burnt flesh, a noxious odor that lingered, heavy with the weight of destruction. The group stood atop a jagged hill, gazing out upon the desolate wasteland, the eerie stillness punctuated only by the distant crackle of dying embers.

Obsidian monoliths, like fossilized bones of an ancient monster, pierced the barren earth as the landscape's dark, primeval essence seeped from the obsidian rocks. The wind's mournful whispers echoed the group's exhausted breaths.

Leor's eyes, now a warm blue, scanned the desolate expanse. His brow furrowed as he wiped his blade. Azarath materialized beside him, his crimson gaze scanning the horizon as he reached out with his mind.

"Xal'dar's not here." Leor said, his dripping with conviction.