#autumnvale

“Th’People didnae come ere t’die.”

“Then you were naive. The only reason to enter a war is to die for it.”

“Two heads’are nae worth th’undreds that joined this war for -you-, Ighdawn. Th’People ave nae reason t’fight for Theron.”

“Wintergale’s worth one thousand heads. The Alliance Commander was six-hundred, if not more heads, that would kill twice their worth another day. I made… a calculation. Four hundred of our’s to gain, and save, thousands later.”

“Ya killt everyun, ya dumb bastid. That wasnae worth it! They was family— alluh them. Ya didnae kill them for th’war. Ya killt them for th’Crows. For ya dumb fuckin sensa sponsibility t’a dead woman. Th’fuck are ya gonna do after this? Come back an try t’act like ya some landowner? Like th’People can really make it there? Naena us gonna want to follow someone who uses us up like firewood.”

“I’m not expecting an ‘after.’ And our People can stay in our mountains.” comes out level - distracted.

She hadn’t been listening to Ciril - not really. There was other things to do. Too much dead or gone to pile their names. So she was working backwards. Counts of all of the units that survived were coming in from the diminished campfires of her army. Taking those, striking the names from the whole of the lists - the remainder would constitute those that required word sent back to their loved ones. Dead, or M.I.A.. Basically dead, at this rate.

The blood and ink kept gluing the pen to her skin. Difficult to shift from line to line. Annoying; grating. At least what was on her hands, was old. She could feel fresher crimson oozing through her chaussures.

“Donae say ‘our.’ Ya donae ave that right. Ya ain’t one’a—”

Thanidiel looks up.

“I’m not one of you? Why? Because you’re angry at me? Because you think I’m some ruthless prick?

Get the fuck in line.

They all hate me too, and I’m still one of them, and one of you, no matter how much you hate me too. I don’t give a fuck about how you react as long as I win this war.

Bugs you?

Get the fuck out of my face then, too. Get out of my camp, and get down onto your knees in front of whoever else is wailing tears about all of the bad things I’ve done in this war then. I did what I had to do with what the job, and my job, was.

The objective was to extract. We extracted. The Crows are our charges. We protected them. Everything else is useless semantics.

You don’t sign up for war unless you would die for it. And they all did so gladly. ”

Her eyes flit back down to the papers, another soldier, a Crow, places another scrawled status-update on the army remnants onto the table.

“We sign out then. Th’People are out. We made a mistake ere.” The diminutive other, her Kinswoman, had stood there for some time before saying that; all wild orange hair and clenched fists. Building up her little thunder.

Thanidiel looks up.

She squints.

“Then you are out. Equipment issued by the Thalassian military is to be returned by tomorrow’s dawn. The rations stay - we aren’t surrendering that for goodwill during such a time.

You all leave that same night. You all find your own ways back to Home. The rest of us will commit to this war one way or another.

Get out of this tent.”

She thinks she sees something akin to shock flitter across the dark skin of the woman’s face. Like Ciril wasn’t expecting that - the decisive apathy applied to the orders, not orders. Demands. Those didn’t qualify as orders anymore between them.

She didn’t have time anymore, for anyone who questioned the necessities of this fight - of sacrificing now for truer victories.

It is not as though she and the Lieutenant were not bonded comrades before. It was Ciril who ran and jumped over roots and brush with her, in the nights before the war, preying on the little foxes that once filled the woodland southeast of Autumnvale by plenty. And it was her and Ciril who spoke of lifetimes and things well beyond the punier worlds of the others.

But she didn’t have time for this anymore.

The sacrifice, after sacrifice, and after sacrifice, in the constant roll of the cyclic curse at her back.

It all had to pay off to something. It would pay off to something.

Those who didn’t believe; didn’t belong here anymore.

They all had to devote themselves to the art of dying, and war. 

Tal’dorei.

She takes in a sharp breath at the same time as the mountain elf parts the flaps of the command tent - a pain ripping through her thigh as she stands. Still, Thanidiel performs the whole of the action and some with her chin held in that unending imperiousness.

Following after, she holds the felt high and open, her vision unseeing of Ciril as she catches Oridren and Harthen’s attention nearby.

“We need to send word to the main host for their cavalry reserves. From here on out, we’ll be replenishing the ranks under this banner with Sunguard personnel.

Fury Company is… retired, until we return to Autumnvale to rebuild.”

Another soldier approaches. Another count of those among the living in the spread-out camp-circles over the horizon passes into her hand. This one does not return to fire and food so easily.

“You have a new assignment. Go to the Crows. Let Garris know he’s ready to be seen.”

Rushing to the Autumnvale, the already-stationed armies were quick to raise their banners in response to the call of their Commanders. The Crows, the Emberglades, Fury Company: fifteen-hundred men-and-women-at-arms all roused from their concentration at the Truefeathers’ borderpass.

The 5th Heartlander Honorguard - The glorified ditch diggers that had come with Sederis to Autumnvale - they were unfazed by the news. Made from a mix of the Glades’ best militia and the men of the professional soldiers of the Black Banner, they had listened when he had explained to them the state of things. War was coming, they had no doubts about it. So when the local criers came screaming for them to muster up for war, they did so with a sigh. Sederis rallied his troops into a marching column and prepared his troops for the long march ahead.

For the Crows, this was a night like any other, the camp dismantled with precise efficiency, every man and woman horsed and ready to depart within the hour. Though their numbers had dipped slightly after her recent display, she knew all those left would stand with her to the end. Only the worthy, thought Lirelle, nodding to her Second as she gave the command to move out.

Autumnvale’s Fury Company, though a roving motley band relative to the professionalism of the Honorguard and Crows, too, answered the call quickly and easily. Like seafoam, the word spread from campfire to campfire as the individual groups all rose to the call. Soon, only earth, dung, and forgotten stakes had indicated where the nomadic-esque army once camped.

Overall, an outpour of infantry, horsemen and hawkstrider riders, accompanied by their dozens of supply wagons, all paved way into the deeper heart of Quel’Thalas.

“That burns first when they set eyes on the Dawnspire, you know,” remarked between the three commanders as the province’s mountains begin to lose their details behind them.

“Let it burn. I’ll finally be able to set its cropfields proper after this.”

“If there’s an after this,” Sederis sniffed, still getting used to the chills of winter this far away from Northrend. “If there is, I guess we’ll see if we can get some infrastructure improved too. You inherited a dump.”

“The offer of help still stands for after we throw them out.” Lirelle shot Sederis a look, her air of confidence unshakeable even in the face of the evening's events.

“We’ll see what’s underneath the ashes when it’s all over, aye? If that shithole still stands, it’ll be my responsibility. If not, the Archon will have other work for me.”

Sederis snorted. “Even if it’s still around, maybe you’ll get to keep the fancy title at least.”

“Pft. Get a new title. A better one. Plenty of opportunities for a promotion here, just make sure you’re the one standing at the end of it all.”

“I don’t die,” rumbles out. Frank, and almost exasperated. Like the Duskward were repeating a well-worn fact for the last time.

“I used to say that. Mainly because I didn’t care if I did,” Sederis gave Lirelle a look. “Been awhile since I’ve heard it.”

“It is within our job description to die, so aye, I don’t care. They smudge it into the corner of the documents with tiny print,” Thanidiel quickly established her ‘explanation’ after.

Sederis chuckled. “...and if necessary, die for your country, your lord, and by extension, your crown.” The Dawnward began reciting the line like it was poetry. “I’ve been smudging the tiny print into the documents as of late. The trick is to make it sound like it’s unlikely. No one wants to die- well almost no one.”

“Easy for you assholes to say, when you’re not the one who has to put you back together when you’re in pieces on some field somewhere.”

“That’s exactly what makes it so stress-free. If I fuck up, it’s someone else’s problem after.”

“Oh fuck you,” comes the response, but there is hardly any bite behind the words. Problems for the living, as always.

Sederis laughed, then glanced at Lirelle’s livingwood hand before his smile faded. “I’ll be riding with the army,” he said. “Once Silvermoon is safe, I’m heading straight for the Emberglades. No exceptions. I’ll see if I can persuade the Archon to push for Sunstrider Isle. Perhaps he can can use it as a staging point to assault Quel’danas.”

“I think we’ll need to let the dust settle when we put the Dark Iron into the ground, ‘fore I decide where to let my banner fly. Quel’danas, though; that cannot fall a second time. Sunfury Spire itself would be a better suitor to burn.”

“I’m with Sederis. We need the Isle. Sure, I’m biased because my home and his are there, but we need the ports and the supplies. My family is safe because they closed the borders months ago and the reefs will keep the ships out, but if the Emberglades falls, then it puts them at risk. I’m going.” That was the end of it for the pale haired priestess. A shake of her head and a tightening of her grip on the reins were the only signs of the worries she carried. Her loyalties were to family then country, but she knew well enough that to go off loose would help no one. For now, she pushed the thoughts deep down, no room for doubt in the hours and days ahead.

Oddly augmented by the night, Thanidiel’s furrow of her platinum brows is evident. Bemusement towards their defensiveness of home, but not begrudging. The Phoenix Guard draws in a breath, and begins to tug the chestnut-coated beast between her knees ahead. With a sweeping wave of her standard, she signals her army to break and trickle from the others into a horde-at-trot.

“Aye. We’ll see how the wind blows. We are stronger together, after all.”

From there, the man amongst them rallied his troops into a marching column, separating from the mass their forces had formed into, and prepared them as they closed to the Archon’s forces. It was once said that where Sederis went, Lady Death followed.

He hoped it was true today.

[Collaborative piece written by me, @retributionpriest, and @thepilgrimofwar, in response to the launching of the Phoenix Wars Roll20 Campaign by @thesunguardmg! 

“Elinden, how many?”

Her gaze raises from underbrow to regard the man addressed. He looks tired. She can see it in the weight pressed upon his eyelids, even with the hacked red mussing around his head.

Good, he should be.

“Sixteen from the Thirteenth Regiment. Seven from the Southeast, Hallowleaf, they said.”

“Leaders ‘mongst them?”

“A former Knight-Master, Kielen Duskshield. From your people, they answered to a Ciril Farlong.”

“Aye. Stabled? Watered? Fed?”

“All being attended to, Captain. As of now, they sit cross-legged on the grasses outside of the Village, taking fill of the bread given.”

“Send them here; they will make their introductions to me before given right to make camp. In the meantime, the eastern-side should be cleared for their presence.”

“The whole of them as usual, Captain?”

“Aye. Be…” the Duskward draws off, the trenched gap between her brows closing into a knit. By now, the knife has been lowered the table. Still, her hand spreads over the blade.

“How many are we at now, Elinden? Last month was three-and-half-hundred ‘tween us and them.”

“With these additions, we number at four-hundred-and-six.”

“Growing a bit big for our britches, aye?”

“And the ovens.. and the grasslands, Captain.”

Thanidiel bows her head towards the mopheaded man standing at the table’s end, needing nothing more to convey the militant courtesy extended to the Lieutenant Brightvale. Again, the knife wheels in her grip; to be slid into breast from overhead with her comrade’s swinging hook of ankle around a stool leg.

“We’ll need to let the word spread. Another few dozens - less than a month’s time - and that is how many more I am willing to allow camp along the Village.”

“Twisting a cap on the jar?”

“Mm. I’m interested in maintaining an army, not a Great Herd.”

“S’that not an army?”

“Not my style, not my speed. Allow the Archon and his to lead thousands to battle. We’ll keep ourselves swift and effective for all of those death-defying stunts, aye?”

“You mean you will, Than– Captain. You do all of that, and it’s up to me and Harthen to calm the men behind us and assure them that we are, in fact, going to survive.”

“Give yourself some credit. It took the whole active company to fell the Reaver. If you’re willing to spread the rumour that I picked up and swung about chains the length of a warship twice-over, you are free to that ass-kissing, Elinden.”

“And Tyr’s Hand?”

“Your’s and the boy’s screaming spurred me on like dueling drums. Couldn’t have done it without you two.”

“One breath, you’re telling us both to shut our fucking mouths and keep quiet. Next breath, you’re saying our yapping inspires you. Which is it, Captain?”

“Whatever conveniences me to say at the time. For now? Shut it, duck your head, eat the vile they’ve been trying to feed me, and let’s both get back to proper work - Aye?”

“I can only shovel so much of it in my mouth at one time.”

“I’ve walked in on you placing at least three time’s the amount of breast on that plate, right in your mouth. Lying bitch.”

“Oi, watch yourself, Captain. Talk a lot of shit about who’s warming my bed; I’ve seen you want to shake your comrades bloody for even thinking about your’s.”

“The difference is that I have a woman and you have romps. Bring someone home to me and we’ll try some reverence.”

“Someone good for me?”

“Academy Diploma. Steady career. What else do those fucks at the top look for?”

“A certain paleness to the skin? A maximum of an inch of fat behind the arm?”

“Mm, toss all of that, then. Rubbish.”

The knife scrapes.

“–Eh?”

“Your attention span…” is drawn off. “Come on, get out. Bring them their first orders.”

“And the vile?”

“Give it to the hound on your way out.”

Thanidiel does not keep her eyes on Elinden with his exit from her hall. Her attention draws towards the knife. Coated in fat and spice, and pointed towards her own person. Out of place/misaligned. She grips unto its handle, and, carefully, wipes one of its two surfaces against the cloth placed to the right of her. Then, it flips as the action is repeated in another stroke. Idly, the thought passes on how the motions resemble Goose’s Formation.

In the midst of noise bubbling around her – Elinden’s stool scraping across rock and earth and weed; his footsteps aloud through even the soft dirt as it compresses under his boot; the voices of men and women filtering from the outside; the constant rumble of horse hooves vibrating underneath her feet – another thought materialises.

The Phoenix Guard wonders who, or what, would be caught between its wings.

Awaiting her answer, the tool is returned to the wood’s surface once more. There, it points outward in solemn welcome of every boot that begins to filter into the space before her.

She notes how they mimick army with the loosely packed southern volunteers at its fore, and the Knights at its back in rows. The number looks suffocated, sandwiched by the layout of the feast hall where its tables format in a folding flank. She can see how they shuffle uncomfortably as they are forced to settle over stone, coal, and ash, from the morning fire since-dead.

The audio of their march dies down to the shiftings of their clothing and roll of debris from underneath soles, then ebbs further into stagnant quiet.

And so it stays. For the Duskward does not immediately boom her greetings nor call forth the tradition of introductions to be made to her by each new head. Instead, she studies.

She studies the wear of their shoes, and how much the leather sags down their feet.

She studies how segments of plate strapped over chainmail, felt, and cotton, fit upon each new soldier’s person.

She studies the length of hair flying over their brows, speckling their cheeks and catching through beaming light.

She studies the roundness of them - the fat that builds upon their arms and bellies. Some look well-fed. Most, she can see how, already, the dwindling trade of Quel’Thalas has drained their bowls.

In particular, the soldier studies its leaders.

Such a thing has yet to be announced - nothing has been announced at all. But it is something Thanidiel finds easily determined.

The mountainpeople have not been trained in formal stiffness. They stood outside of the dutiful (painful, at times) parade rest the Knights beside them had adopted. Instead, those of her birth settle with a way known to her as vigourful, and to others, as defiant: a laxness to their shoulders, an uneven settle of the feet. ‘Round the one she has identified as Ciril, those close have all drawn back their adjacent legs. Protective, and hesitant to remove floor.

Kielen’s presence is louder than that. His garb is something bold and distinctive from ‘mongst the more uniform Knights. While his comrades were content with a single swordbreaker, or leather spaulder, strapped against their persons, she notes how plate layers along the length of his upper arms in broad, encompassing, pauldrons. Instead of a practical barbute hanging from underarm or belt like many others, an arrogant faceguard settles over his coif.

Loud.

Even idle, he is fucking loud.

She can sense the pacing of his breath from here; how it desynchronises from the calm of all those around him until the brute moves forward, like that would smear away the scrutinous glint underneath her brows.

“Former Knight-Master–”

“You are dismissed.”

“...Ma’am?”

“You may present yourself to Fury Company in a week’s time.”

The rest does not need to be given to the air between them. Again, the blade is in her hand, and, again, it is offered forth to the man opposite of her. Confidence removed, the Blood Knight reaches forward. It is an action hesitant and disbelieving as the bare iron is slid, and held, against rivets.

“Consider that your ticket.”

“The… men, ma’am?”

“Everyone here will be evaluated for entry. Grain, work, shelter, to be provided immediately thereof. Dismissed.”

The flicker of relief that goes through the harshness of his face is like a light through forest canopy. It is something redeeming to the butchery of his first presentation. Graceful, now, his surrender goes swiftly.

“Blood and Thunder, Kin’taris.”

“Sun at your back.”

With the turn of his body away from her, the Captain crooks her fingers towards the crowd.

“At random. I don’t care about any exploits or titles before you’ve stepped into this tent so I hope you’ve left it all in the field. Names first, then me and your two Lieutenants, Elinden Brightvale and Harthen Sunbright, will determine your skillsets, units, superiors, and standing orders.”

The small thing with as hastily shorn hair as Elinden, at the very back of Kielen’s former company.

“Yenette Sunshield.”

The giant with thick and loose coils, closest to Ciril.

“Byrran Morningheart.”

The man with copper red skin at the very center of the Knights.

“Oridren Bloodmist.”

The half-elf with an axe-bite on her jaw falling out of the southern pack’s formation.

Once, the movement of such armies along this route between Quel’Thalas and its Dawnspire whether in war or peace was a regular occurrence. Now, the flow of migration that met Autumnvale has trickled to near-nothingness beyond the most bold, or desperate, of elves.

So unique this sight is, the marching host observes the quick withdrawal of the labourers specked all along the soon-to-be-harvested green of winter-wheat towards the disrepair of the village.

Allowing no pause, the army draws ever-steady to the very edges of the farmland surrounding the village buildings within. And that is when the leading figure releases their grip on the reins of their companion. Their unoccupied hand raises high and flat into the air. A succession of shouts and the two hundred come to clean halt in moments with the thud of feet and the ache of wagon wheels.

Once the din of noise settles, the low feminine that had been in quiet discussion to the woman to her right raises to a high thunder that carries over the army and to the ears of the villagers already beginning to gather in the square ahead.

“Harthen! Establish the company’s encampment along the plain. Lynxfury, Dragonsroar, Hawkspear Platoons - you are with me. Assemble behind me in phalanx as the others disperse. Gather the supplies we spoke of last night, the wagon marked with yellow paint.”

The Captain’s vision lolls lazily to regard her partner; a feat that is, by no means, done easily with the weight of her greathelm. her volume lowers to something only heard to Bricini.

“Get the fuck out of my sight. I don’t need you.”

“Oh, Light, you’re such a romantic. Say it again. Once more. With feeling.”

“I mean it - you can’t fuck this up. Go take a nap in one of the supply wagons.”

“I! Want! ...to see my girlfriend, my partner, in her element. Is that so unbearable to deal with?”

“Yes.”

“I’m gonna be in the crowd.”

“Get off the horse, then.”

“But–”

The Phoenix Guard presses her knees into the bare flanks of her mare and bends her head to murmur into its ear. A slow, precise, walk of its hooves commences with another flourishing wave of left hand towards the gathered thirty-six behind them.

Flowing around the dismounting Dawnmender, the soldiers make their way to the center of Autumnvale: where, already, about half of its population has gathered in curious interest towards the seemingly paused army. Worry, hope, fear, caution: she catches all of these murmured sentiments through the whispering people. Very few seem to have recognised her from past days.

The soldiers move in quiet succession around the barren market stalls and prominent statue that make up the core of the square. Ultimately, presenting themselves to where the crowd has condensed the most, towards where the square bleeds into the majority of the sprawling buildings.

From there, one squad breaks from the three-platoon-strong phalanx and quickly establish themselves a large, empty, space behind the Duskward. Unslinging their packs from their shoulders, they work to establish a framework of wooden pole and stake in the earth interspersed between the pieces of stonery below - displaying the reason for the long roll of fabric that spanned the length of the phalanx before it.

In the meantime, Thanidiel pulls herself from the saddle of the dirt-slicked and pale horse below her. Clutching the reins of the placid animal in her left hand, she steps forward towards the crowd. She continues her silent march, closer and closer, to the growing citizenry. Until the phalanx’s backline steps backwards over the tarp to heft it up in smooth coordination and the whole of the formation strides to cover the space made between the working six.

Only then, she brings herself to a squared halt. From her slitted visor, the newly-instated Kin’taris gazes upon the sampling of her wards before her. Many are too young for work, with disproportionate bodies and stringy muscles to their bones. Some are too old for work, with curled, shriveled, bone and hair of fading pigment. Few of those who do not take to the sides of either caretaker or charge possess the weight of true adulthood, even their ears lack length. She could not even call what she had to work with here as ‘scraps.’

The doubled standard raises overhead, the noon-sun catching along the lengths of weighty fabric, and crashes down towards the earth in one beat (of course, it had cantripped an hours’ time before to cut through and settle in the soil as well as it does: thank the Sun for the unsuccessful arcanists ‘mongst the men). Her hand goes for the lip of her greathelm shortly after, already unstrapped from her head before they had entered village, and pulls away the heavy metal.

In the woman’s grip, the armour-piece fall to clatter against the golden steel of her chausses. Easing the ache sparked down her muscles from a motion more theatrical than based in her usual practicality, she hefts the same shoulder in a rolling motion. The draping mantle of a once-great lynx shakes around her in the process as Thanidiel lofts the strong of her imperious chin upward, flicking aside loose curls of her platinum hair. Her one eye falls upon the approach of Sir Reval through the villagers.

She thunders.

“Hail, People of Autumnvale!

Above all, I provide to you condolences concerning the passing of Besari Vella. The most deep of sorrows gripped me the day it was discovered that the efforts of your’s, Kin’taros Reval, Serdari Truefeather, and myself, failed to preserve the life of your own.

As we all know well, however, we, Children of the fallen Blood, must push on with the clockwork of the seasons ahead of us no matter the grief that clutches our breasts. We must honor the memory of not only the late Besari, but those that fell around her, as the Sun and Earth return their bodies to the wheat. Thus, your Serdar has assigned me, Thanidiel Highdawn, to warden these lands under the charge of Kin’taris.

From this point forward, Sir Reval and his troops are dismissed from garrison. His Lord has greater needs of his talent in regions beyond here.

The absence of his skill and the absence of his soldiers emphasises the gaping void that these foreign wars have exacted upon Autumnvale. In exchange; I bring you not only replacement, but I promise you growing respite of the burdens felt here.

Here is a fraction of the able-bodies I have brought you:”

In practiced unison, the thirty soldiers planted behind the Captain all remove their grandiose phoenix helms from themselves - all daring to throw the priceless armour forward with the lob of Thanidiel’s own signature of battle. All displaying the vibrant youth in their taut skin and seafoam eyes staring out to the Citizenry.

The winged gold falls in a rain of metallic racket, rolling this way and that way to strike either stone or the rims of the crowd’s well-worn boots. The Phoenix Guard allows the din to fall down to creaking hints, though not long enough for the people to recover from stupour.

“—the largest misconception suffered by the World is that soldiers eke their livelihoods on the sole spill of blood. We come here to alleviate such falsehood. We will work. We will perform our duties to not only the protection of Autumnvale, but its succour as well.

Aye, People of Autumnvale, we will harvest the ready bounty of your fields alongside you. We will repair what the Broken Men have razed here and more. We will take your ill and your hurt into our camps with open arms. We will assure that there is always bread in your bellies and a fire for your bones. And never shall we ask of you of anything but to live your lives as you ought to live them, anywhere where the Serdar’s Sun strikes the grasses.

Not only will we assist in the going-ons of the village, but we will work to revive the trade route that runs here from Dawnspire to Western High Home. The Broken Men that we all once called siblings terrorise our livelihoods. Telchis Truefeather, as both Serdar and Archon, possesses little patience for Oathbreakers, especially those who would exert their sorrow with ill upon their former loved ones.

It is his Will and, thus, mine to provide security to this region once more and reestablish the flow of trade. We would have Autumnvale’s square and streets filled to the brim with merchant stalls and first-privy to the goods that flow between this province and beyond - as the days of past prosperity.

So it all shall become and be.

I will make myself available here, in this square, for the People as long as there are troubles to plague us; I refuse to spend a single copper of your funds nor hour of your time to repair Sunvalor Estate, a pointless indulgence that benefits only myself.

I want all remaining businesspeople and those you call leaders to speak with me in orderly fashion during meal or passing times over the next week. I wish to evaluate what we are missing here in terms of resources and specialised labour to better my judgement of Autumnvale’s needs going forwards.

Please disperse and return to your days. The army beyond your fields will make rounds starting on the morrow to find and make work with you. Step forward if there are words to be passed.

Belono sil'aru, Tel rea Belore’dorei.”

Having refined to good time in the days prior, Thanidiel’s speech commences right as the crimson and gold tarp is completely fastened and secured to the Commander’s tent established. Pushing out a lengthy breath of repose from her lips, the woman passes off her reins to one of the soldiers now breaking from formation to recover their helmets. She accepts trade of her distinct helm, with its engraved horses into its fore, in return.

The Duskward pulls on the standard she had plunged into the earth minutes ago, turning away from the din of cheering younglings. She notes the squad from before, periodically jogging in and out of the tent with her needed furnishings in the wagon that had followed some distance away: table and stool, bed, armour-and-weapon stands, maps, papers, inks, quills. Their Captain drives her standard back into the ground where it near brushes against the pulled-back tent flap behind it.

The hours drone on in the aftermath of her introduction in a flurry of countless conversations hunched in stool, and painstaking notes generated by the new Kin’taris - a library of cross-reference birthed in a days’ half and promising much more in the length of this evaluation period.

By the time nightfall truly engulfs the village - the woman’s eye strains in throbbing pain, not to mention her spine and backside. She drains her waterskin like she had escaped the heat of Hellfire once again with the exit of the last tradesperson (a carpenter lamenting the lack of lumber for needed reconstruction) into the darkness beyond.

The thrumming relief in her breast is palpable when, minutes later, the smell of just-cooked beef wafts in through the tent opening. Followed by a characteristic smirk and wild of black hair.