[Sal the Mudokon]

"Frammbarrrr!" shouted Drok amidst the clammer and roars of war. Down, the sound carried, into the very bowels of the mountains. By the hundreds, the sligs would swarm out of their caves into the ominous night. They all had their slings ready when they welcomed the moons to their eyes, but many wouldn't even be able to draw stones before their eyes were eternally closed. But still, they faught on. Blood-stained rubble on the face of what was once a breathe-taking mountain would be all that would stand as record of those that had given their final breathes. The war would wage on through the night, but would end before the star could re-awaken.
Niether Frag nor Raam would see the valiance that was exhibited by their brothers in defence. Niether would see the way that the children of Skarria stood without fear at her aid once again. Niether of them would ever view with their eyes the terrors and arguous pains that hundreds of their brothers would find just within their attempts to muster their final spurts of dormant energy in the name of their lives and their land.
But niether those who had fallen nor those who stood victorious could know of that which was going to happen next.
...For fate, by which all things good and evil are determined, is a mute prophet to even those who listen the closest.