The last thing you see is a familiar pattern of lights bursting beyond the treeline: me, doing exactly the same thing to those undead dwarves down the road. I am gone by the time the first prismatic bolt hits you. The name on the crab-raven's tag is 'George Orwell'. The crab-raven then summons a nether imp, five skeleton archers, and a zombie, before flying over and stealing your shoes and your money. You've been magically silenced by a nearby raven, who has eaten an egg and is - temporarily - a crab. You want to cry out, as the end approaches, but you can't. Sometimes, the ground shakes and a meteor falls from the sky, as if to drive the point home. Sometimes, the Embermage gets all its health back for no apparent reason.
Sometimes, when a whelpling dies, they explode into icy bolts that freeze nearby friends. A storm contained in a vortex of wind that turns your nearby cousins to ash. Six columns of flame bursting from the Embermage.
This is what you see: half a dozen of your siblings, stumbling into a purple patch of energy that slows them to a crawl. Let's assume that, in those final moments, time slows to a tiny fraction of its regular speed.
