WG-T-ONE

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EXT. CYRODIIL THOUGHTFORM ­ OUTSIDE PARISH OF WG­T­ONE ­ NIGHT

It is a long walk across the plains to WG-­T­-One. The flames are reaching high into the sky. Boma can see a horde of Bosmer ransacking the city, all of them gone blood-simple in the fashion of Hircine. The turrets on top of the candle towers are firing on them, explosions too far away to hear.

In the sky, Covenant cuttlefish fighters are engaged in a war of their own. A Dominioncandleboat’s dorsal fin breaks off, sending the fighter spinning out of control. After a few long seconds it flies over Boma’s head, the flaming ruptures along its quickly­drying corpse illuminating a fast­fading trail to the city. It EXPLODES into VISCERA some distance behind him.

BOMA KURO (V.O.)

Let it be said that I do not think this was the Pentarch's plan at all. There were Bosmeri tribes here I had never seen before. The Boneshavers and their rival-cousins were hunting side by side. It was uncomplicated, this blood frenzy, and all the children of the Wild Hunt were there to revel in its fire. To the uninitiated, their war cries sounded like just that: the lunatic poetry of crowds and mobs. But the dead hear them right, as even Ald Cyrod itself brought out its husk-legions to save the center. This wasn’t any language known in the Mundus. This wasn’t even a language at all. These are the spontaneous proverbs of something outside of ourselves, behind even the stars, the artless signal of the bad half of the divine, and it was right here, right here at WG­-T­-One, where all things begin and end.

Boma is almost to the city now. The knife is in his hand.