There was another sound coming from a doorway behind him and to his left, indistinguishable either from a hiss from an animal or the gathering wind itself. The doorway was in darkness, and as he neared it, still backing up, the sky began to darken. As the light faded, his eyes were able to adjust to the gloom.
Someone was sitting there, arm outstretched, leaning back into the corner at a peculiar angle. He had the distinct impression that the figure was beckoning to him, and he approached, hoping to see a familiar face, someone who would laugh and adjure him to put this silly nonsense to rest.
He moved closer and froze. It was an Elf woman and child; they lay in grotesquely contorted positions where their broken and mutilated bodies had fallen. Mraan tried to scream, but no sound would come. In a blind panic, he ran headlong into the wall across the narrow street, and fell to his knees, numb with horror, unable to move or think.
Wings! He heard them again, and knew that his life depended on flight. He got to his feet and began running. The air was so cold now that it began to burn his lungs. He began to feel faint. Stopping to summon his strength, leaning against a cold stone wall like a derelict, attempting through the fog in his mind to regain his bearings, he began to listen once more. What he heard chilled him. He thought he could hear screams, though they seemed far-off and indistinct. But about the raw terror and despair in those voices he could not be mistaken.