Even after the hours of the night, most of the fields of Murray lay pulsing with red. It's scorched and smoldering lands litter with remnants of armour and steel strewn about like discarded toys. The once-green grass is now trampled and charred, stained with the dark residue of smoke and blood. The air reeks of death and destruction, the stench of charred flesh hangs heavy over the landscape.
Bodies lay strewn about, some mangled beyond recognition. The dragon's claws had torn through armour and flesh with equal ease, leaving behind a trail of devastation. The survivors, battered and bruised, wanders the battlefield, searching for comrades or tending to the wounded.
The silence is oppressive, punctuated only by the moans of the wounded and the distant calls of scavenging birds. The battlefield is a graveyard.
The king walks amidst the carnage, lord Manfred by his side. His eyes are heavy and drawn. Soldiers bow as he pass them, those capable of it anyway. He sees a young man not older than twenty at least, he's only torso, hands and head, his legs had been incinerated by the dragon.
"My king!" The young man wails out.
King Varrick approaches him, pain in his eyes. The Hennai (Healer) tending to him stands, his grey uniform stained with blood and dirt. He bows and shifts for his king.
The king kneels, taking the soldier's hand.
"What is your name, warrior?" he asks, his voice soft and gentle.
"R-yan... Ryan Arvan". He manages to say, his voice shuddering.
"An Arvan" Varrick smiles. "Lord Morgan's son?" He asks.
"N-No—H-Horace"
"I see" he looks back at lord Manfred, he shakes his head.
"What would you ask of me, young Ryan"
"A good death, my king" his eyes glistens with surppressed tears as he manages to summon what bravery remains to him.
(Death by royal hands is considered an honour in the cultures of O'tmook).
"You're very brave" the king says, his voice oozing emotion.
Before Ryan can utter another word Varrick impales his heart with a shard of earth risen from the ground under the dying soldier. His life's blood pour out like a silent stream. In his last moments his eyes are filled with gratitude or is it regret, Varrick ponders.
Leaving the battlefield they return on horseback to the new camp raised in the Murray hills. Moans and shouts echo across the encampment from hundreds and thousands, injured.
"Your grace, welcome back" a knight calls out.
The king's squire runs out to take his horse's reins. Varrick dismounts with a little struggle, the years have taken their tole.
"Ser Kevin, are my lords assembled?" The king asks, his voice rumbling with a vengeful desire.
"Yes, sire. They wait in your pavillion" the broad knight answers. His rugged features are tempered by piercing grey eyes, set beneath a strong brow and framed by dark hair that adds depth to his weathered face. He's garbed in dented plate armour that bears the standards of the Evarlars, particularly the branch of the house that hails from Barrow's Edge. No doubt a son of the Edge Knight.
The king sweeps into his pavillion, his ornate cloak billowing behind him like a dark cloud. His lord bannerman follows closely, their footsteps echoes off the richly embroidered tapestries that adorns the walls. The king's face is a mask of controlled emotion, his jaw clenched and his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and sorrow.
As he enters, the assembled lords rise to their feet, their eyes fixed on the king's imposing figure.
"Hail to the king!" A number of thirteen noblemen echo.
He nods curtly, his gaze sweeping the room before coming to rest on the wine served, he pours, drinking two full cups and a third before finally walking over to the large square wooden table they're all seated around.
"Let us proceed," the king says, his voice low and even, though a hint of strain betrays his emotions.
"I have summoned you all here today to discuss the recent... setbacks. We were here to war with the savages that ails us. But why the fuck did a fucking dragon show up from no where. Hm?, hm?. Did your scouts not do their jobs, lord Xox. If so I demand their heads.
"Uncle!". Duke Oryn Evarlar speaks out against his uncle's words, Varrick's eyes meets his.
"S-sire, I only mean that the sentries are not to blame".
"Not to blame?, the dragon was the size of a fucking mountain, even a blind man would've smelt the sulphur steaming out of the beast, no, how—"
"Your grace,..." speaks out the king's brother in-law, Lord Denzel Sorrik, Lord Of The High Mines.
"... Seeking a man to blame for this tragedy that has befallen us will do us little good. I would suggest that we cut our losses and make for Deemcastle"
"You would retreat our forces out of the eastern poin?, where's your balls Sorrik" lord welor speaks in outrage.
"I'm a practical man, Tomard. We cannot hope to launch another attack on open field again, the dragon—"
"Is what?, don't tell me you suspect that, that beast was under the control of a savage" he chuckles. "Dragons are ancient and divine creatures brought into this world by the gods, these... Cavemen could never —"
"No, they couldn't..." Manfred Xox affirms. "The reports of some of my knights that survived the 'frontalfry' say the beast had no saddles or welded sigils".
"In light of that I think we can rule out the possibility of the Dragonlords being in cahoots with them, and also the possibility of a mountainman-dragonlord" Denzel laughs, it's contagious infecting everyone even the king.
A short silence follows.
"Then the obvious question would be: do we ready for another attack or do we retreat?" Oryn Evarlar asks, breaking the silence.
"We do not retreat " the king answers, his voice calmer now. "Doing so would leave the east of the poin at the mercy of those savages, I would not condemn my people to such horrors".
He turns to lord welor and lord Xox.
"What's the state of the army?" King Varrick asks.
Lord Welor answers. "Well... Many of the men had the good or craven sense to run away, but still the death count is at over 15,000. Most of the dead are from the ranks of the Arvans and Dentreeks. While there's a total of over 7,000 injured, half that number is said to not make it to the morrow.
"By the gods..." Varrick sighs.
The lords in the pavilion begins to mutter to one another.
"A victory could still be within grasp" Manfred says, his voice booming over others. They turn to him seeking for his answer.
"We still have almost 50,000 men capable to fight. The mountain horde took losses as well, I believe we should outnumber them two or even three to one. Now, our initial plan could still work if we attack now and we attack hard. Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice, the mountainmen would not get a second reprieve".
"How soon would you suggest we launch this... assault?" Varrick asks.
"Before even daybreak".