You find yourself again watching the massacre at Lyseca, and the anger and helplessness is raised once again. But, just as if you are back in time, you cannot do anything to stop them. As you charge down the hill, almost in slow motion, you find yourself coming first to a young boy, bleeding from many wounds, inflicted out of cruelty instead of necessity.

As you cradle him, dying, in your arms, you hear something coming from his mouth in what seems to be iambic quadrameter.

Siblings forged... in the Raptor's.. lands,
War'ior... and Priest keep... from crumbling,
Two by... two who are.. hand in.. hand,
And more... drawn into their..... struggling.

Here he is wracked by coughing which breaks the thread of his story and you are unsure whether he picks up on the next stanza or later in the poem.

The mountain.... spits out dust and fire,
And.. oceans turn... as dry as bone,
Now cry out... for the warming pyre,
But all are frozen... cold... alone.

At this he trails off into what could be more stanzas, and dies in your arms as you scream at the soldiers below.

Then you wake up on the train car in a cold sweat, your roommates asleep on their bunks. Try as hard as you might you can't remember this ever actually happening, and you aren't sure whether you blocked it selectively or it was just a figment of your dreams. You do realize that the boy's speech should have been in the tongue of Kurga, but for some reason was translated into perfectly metered and rhyming Urthish.