Lyndara's Last Moments

The green wash comes over the site, and shapes come into view again. A very tall, grey-skinned stone giant limps forward, crashing down into a chair. “Lakov!” she wheezes, “Serious… necrotic burns, bring the keotoghm salves” – as it resolves and colour floods into the scene, you see her – hair pulled back and up, practical apron laden down with pockets full of tools, and most of her exposed skin cracked and hissing with violet-grey smoke. “Lakov!” she yells, before downing a potion, two, wounds closing. A lithe drow man runs up struggling under the weight of a heavy bag, which she snatches without a second thought. Pulling pots of salve, enchanting them with a wave, then starting to apply them to her fresh, sizzling wounds, she pulls out a large wand and concentrates. “Misstress? What’s happened, there’s never earthquakes here” – “I’m… trying… to find out!” she snaps, in pain, “Whoever’s overseeing the Swift Hub is going to /pay/ for this!”.
One by one, clutching the wand, she calls out. “This is Lyndara. The Maw Swift Terminal has gone necrotic. Explosions heard on the surface above. Bad earthquake here, I think the whole building’s dropped into Khyber. Need reinforcement. Please respond.” “This is Lyndara----“ it continues, five, six, times, to different names, --- “please… respond”
“Lyndara! I’m at the Sulat Embassy in Scora Bael, earthquake just ripped the building apart. Sky’s on fire. It looks like… ritual circles? I don’t know what—“
“Mistress? Is…” “The… the sendings aren’t being blocked. They’re all dead, aren’t they.” “Who’s dead?” “Scora Bael. The Swift. The Tower of Alchemy… the… the whole island. Maybe I can teleport ahead to the mainland, find what happened, warn the Empire, but there’s no help coming for us here. Lakov, get supplies together, we need to do something” “…nobody’s coming, Mistress? We’re alone down here?” “Yes. I am likely the highest ranking member of the League left on Isla Scora. Now, I’ll need three changes of—“
Lyndara is cut off as the drow strikes a cut across the back of her heel, blade made of shadows appearing in his hand. As she topples, tendon cut, and already gravely wounded, more drow appear in the darkness. Lyndara staggers up, rolls, pulls the glaive from her back, “I think it’s our turn to try an experiment on you now” one drow woman says, before a spell erupts, silencing the battle as more and more drow launch towards her. The glaive flashes, alchemy sprays over the drow, but as the scene fades, with the death of a thousand cuts, she falls.