The bard winced. The Purge was known neither for its mercy nor its subtlety. "I'm grieved," she replied, because she was more than simply sorry. Every time the soldiers clad in amber armor, made their patrols, someone was sure to die. "My brother wasn't taken by the Purge. He contracted a deadly fever when he was six. We--couldn't donate enough money for the services of a priest. All we could do was have the herbalists keep applying cool poultices to his chest to try and bring it down. They didn't..." She took another sip of absinthe. "Maybe my nightmares are of my brother screaming in my ear: 'Why didn't you save me? Why couldn't you have convinced Father to find me a cure instead of going without a few meals?' Still, I don't think that's it."
Perhaps due to the strong essence of wormwood floating through her veins, Per'dra gave a sudden start. "Eyes. Two of them, green as emeralds, and glowing softly. They're looking straight at me, and the rumbling's starting..."