Four hundred and seventeen years, condemned to this eyrie; shunned, shamed and static. I see them.
They slaughtered thousands. In the battle for the city, spears, oil and arrows cut them down like corn before a scythe.
They poisoned hundreds. Industrial filth, gasping children, lungs filled with tar and soot.
Now, streets not safe to walk, feral gangs prey on those forced to venture out.
And they call me ugly.
This story was written for the SVW Flash! Friday challenge