Ash. And charcoal, crumbled by the embrace of flames into smoky dust that lay, as a blanket, upon every surviving surface.

A roof, half of a wall. Just remnants of a once prosperous civilization and grey, black, filthy white where colours were once kings.

The ground was a carpet of fine ash, puffing like dirty clouds into the choking air as it was kicked up and falling again like snow. The dust and emotions alike forced unwelcome tears to Sara’s eyes as she walked amongst the wreckage of her fallen home as it’s destroyers had.

The silence haunted the morning air, and Sara stood in the very midst of the destruction.

The skeleton of the village was unfamiliar and cruel in her eyes. Just a few walls and foundations; the thatch had burned quickly.

The blacksmith’s anvil and the bricks of the potter’s furnace joined the basic pole structure of the watchtower as the only complete items in the wreck. She sank into the ash and sticks of charcoal snapped and stained her trousers with black streaks.