[i] “A woman so beautiful you would cry at the mere sight of her; I say ‘would’ because chances are you’d be long dead before you could catch a glimpse.”

- Unknown, on Sister Death [/i]

[i] “Now think of an army that is run not by command, promise of pay, or even patriotism and virtue, but one that feasts on fear and drinks the wealth of the damned. Dangerous is the army of the criminals, an army that needs to be put down by the loyal, honest, and the disciplined.”

-General Herphus Derangem [/i]

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It was a warm day on the plains just west of the northern Marmon border. The sun was ascending to it's peak as the morning shadows scurried under small ragged bushes and the occasional apple tree. The emerald plains laid its flat grassy body between two sets of dense deciduous forests which were brimmed with summers lively green colors. No small creature was in sight, and only known to be existent by small chatters carried in the gentle forest breeze that weaved through the trees and carried the faint smell of sap with it as it spilled into the calm flatland. 

The chill of the Marmon mountains were a mere afterthought to any who ever experienced it's chilling grasp and unknown to foreigners that lived so close, as this land was kissed with the gentle warmth of the sun and brought forth the fruits of spring and summer.

 On the far end green plains stands a rather large village of people not sworn to any banner or nation, a stable and prosperous group who knew strife only from the occasional Marmon bandit or the rare case of a bad crop. These villagers' historians barely remember when Marmon was a booming and established country so long ago, but more so they remember how it had crumbled after its civil war, and now they know it for the letter sent to them days ago, a letter of conquest, taken as a bluff by the village elders. 

A young boy dressed in wool clothes colored with paints of the earth and sporting wild curly hair on his head, ran through the tall standing huts and hovels, shouting about horses and invaders. His bare feet padded against the trampled grass of the village, his loud warnings spooked clucking chickens and stray snorting pigs until he finally ran into the arms of an old cloaked man with a thud. 

"What is it my boy?" The man asked urgently, a look of worry shone off his earthen colored eyes, hooded by white brows. 

"Riders!" The boy squeaked, "riders on the far side!"

He pointed a mud covered finger toward the stretch of grass that spanned until out of sight with blue mountains in the faded distant sky. The weary old mans eyes failed to see what the young boy pointed at, but did not waste the warning on skepticism.

"Grab your uncle," the old man said hoarsely, "tell him to round up the men, we make a line on the plains."

Soon the village erupted with aggressive shouts and worried cries. The clang of axes, hammers, and spears being ripped from the armory polluted the air as the warriors of the village took up arm and shield. 

With in a matter of minutes the men of the village had formed a tight defensive wall of shields across a good portion of the plains, stretched so that it was only two men deep. 

Thunderous sounds began to vibrate in the ears of the helmed villagers. Horses whinnied in the distance and the men tightened their grip on their weapons as a black mass became visible in the far distance. 

The mass soon formed into separate figures brandishing polished lances twice as long as their humble spears that reflected the sun into the villagers worried eyes. The mark of the Curlow crown centered in the sigil of Marmon shone off the riders shields as the galloped with thunderous booms shaking the plains. Peaceful means had failed, and Edwin, who lead the charge, didn’t plan on a second chance as the charge was moments away from impacting the soldiers who readied their dull and worn weapons.

The sound of metal chain and flesh ripping filled the air as the long reaching lances lunged over the defensive spears of the villages, piercing their soft bodies with deadly and bloody precision, the force impaling the lance through and out their backs, and slamming into the second lines shield as the horses trampled over the first line. The sound of the second line falling backwards and scrambling to a hasty retreat back to the village was challenged by the screams of the impaled and the harsh whinnies of the massive horses. 

Out of the woods poured myriads of thugs and mercenaries who bore the mark of The Bull, waving axes and hammers over head and painted in frightening war paint as they shouted and hollered curses at the frightened villagers. The flanks of the small village army crumbled in the carnage of the sudden attack and began to fall back rather than fight the aggressive invaders. 

The mere seconds of slaughter ended when the old village elder shouted over the carnage and waved his hands in surrender, accompanied by the tattered survivors of the initial charge and the retreated flanks. Edwin blew a horn in recognition and after a few more toots the barbaric mercenaries brought themselves to a stressed calm, upset at the end of their sadistic fun. The most extravagant horse of the charge, a large white heroic looking creature speckled with crimson village blood, trotted over dead and dying villagers, gored and bloody, and stopped next to the blood soaked elder. On top of the towering horse sat Edwin, garnished in noble looking mail and holding a new and well made lance. The commander looked down on the shaking man with fury still pumping through him from the charge, “Speak, nave,” He shouted, his voice shaking with adrenaline. 

The old man glanced at his injured brothers and friends then back at the polished commander, he spoke through chapped lips and his stomach dropped at the sound of his own words, “We yield.”

Edwin just stared at the man, who became unsure if Edwin even heard him for a moment, but then the look of sick triumph washed over Edwin’s face. The commander smiled a toothy grin and leaned low in his saddle, getting as close as he could to the old man without dismounting, “You will feed my riders, pay us for our trouble, and further, you will tell the other villages one thing if anything.”

“Yes, man of Curlow?” The old man’s voice had detectable anger in it’s shuttering whisper.

“Tell the others,” Edwin began, lifting up an exquisitely decorated helmet to place on his own head, “Marmon lives.”