Fassn breaks off his singing, speaks loudly in the common tongue — for the benefit of his compatriots, perhaps? He says, “Old Ajralan, I beseech you, reach down and touch my poison-stricken friend. Show her the depth of your benevolencee. Make clear your might! May you have your fill.”
The bone darts quiver like pins in an earthquake. They seem to be rising from their firm, fleshy foundations. Their lengths stained with blood, leave Shyan’s skin, dance up, with their points just above the ugly pitted wounds they’ve left.
“Yes,” Fassn cries, ecstatic. His eyes squeezed shut as he bobs up and down. “Yes, may you have your fill!”
The darts fall subject to gravity once more and tumble en masse to the ground, each contained within the perimeter of stones.
Shyan’s eyes slowly open.