On top of a hill, overlooking a mass grave filled to the brim with corpses, lifeless husk of what used to be the inhabitants of a small town from a small kingdom on the border of Ostara.
Just another day on these lands filled with strife, in the coming years a new kingdom will probably rise where this one fell. The meat of the corpses will nourish the ground.
Overlooking the sad picture was a lone figure, that of a tall man, he wore a lavish dark armor made with the best material that money could pay, a helmet covered the entirety of his face, a long, crow-like nose with tiny runes engraved protruding from it, reminiscent of the mask that some doctors used to protect themselves from the miasma.
Inside the beak were tons of aromatic herbs. Sometimes he filled it with lilacs, other gooseberries, whatever could help alleviate the smell.
The magic engravings stop any disease that may lay in the air, as well as any poison. Strapped to his waist was a sword made of a falling star, like the ones the wolfkin are famous for.
He was looking at the men carrying the bodies and piling them up one by one, not the first time he saw this, and it surely wasn’t going to be the last either.
Fastly approaching the dark armor figure, was another man. He wore a similar outfit but of much lesser quality.
He ran towards the man on the cliff, stopped just a few meters shy, and knelt.
“Prince Saldan, an urgent message my lord,"
“…” the prince extended his hand; the soldier complied.
He grabbed the letter, the Royal Seal on the front, a serpent showing its fangs.
He broke it and read its contents.
Prince Saldan Nefer Enerin, took a long and defeated sigh.
All this effort has gone to waste; I hope this is as urgent as it implies.
“Tell everyone to prepare for departure, burn everything, and call a priest to spare a prayer for them. We leave as soon as everything is finished,”
“Yes, my lord” The black soldier didn’t waste a second. And promptly left the presence of his grace.
Saldan looked at his hands, weary and scarred, filled with small cuts and calluses. These weren’t the hands of a price, they were the hands of a warrior of fate, of a king to be.
“Is there even any time left?”
