The wind swept wide and the wind swept low. Sand lifted and fell. Dust swirled. The searing sun pounded the back of Mandroreyayl Derowin, his grey cloak doing little to stop its punishment. Mandroreyayl lay, stretched out on a small dune overlooking the ruins of a city. Mandroreyayl lay, stretched out wounded. Dying. He could only watch as a small contingent of Cabal marched toward the ruins. It took far too much effort for the Guardian to lift his head. His right arm lay outstretched from his body, bent and bloody. His breathing was hard and ragged. His throat burned and his body felt like fire. [i]Damn, Cabal.[/i] Mandroreyayl let out a hoarse cough as he tried to work his left arm. At least that still worked. He began to work his legs. When he felt no pain, Mandroreyayl pushed himself up with his working arm. He let out a groan when as he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. Looking down, he could see that his armor was broken through by some shrapnel. Mandroreyayl began looking around and his heart sunk. He bit off a cry at the scene before him. Bodies were all around him. Guardians and Cabal alike. His dry eyes teared up as he gazed upon his friends he had known for years. Mandroreyayl stumbled over to his nearest comrade and cradled her head in his lap. He reached deep down into himself, crying out toward the Traveler and the powers it gifted. [i]Please, just live. Don’t leave me alone.[/i] Brilliant light shone from his hand and enveloped the dead Guardian. Nothing. The dead remained dead. Mandroreyayl’s heart calmed, his breathing became even. Rage filled him. The Traveler’s powers filled him as he stood and hobbled toward the Cabal. Dead remained dead. That never changes.