[b]Meanwhile, in the Capora Valley, near the center of the southern Kingdom of Merida...[/b]

They'd been marching for a day when they finally reached Capora itself, and Cristobal was glad their trek was finally over. Force marching was never entertaining, and their path had been through hills and mountains. Some of the other soldiers in the King's army saw the settlement with contempt, the small town being barely worthy of the term, but Cristobal was born on a pig farm in a village so small it didn't have a name, so to him it seemed like a city. And that was before they'd settled in it.

The first thing they'd done upon arriving, of course, was to set up camp, and instantly the town had grown many times over. Where before it had had less than a thousand souls, now it was augmented with the entirety of the Royal army, which some said was over ten thousand in number. Cristobal wouldn't know, being just a regular conscript, but still. 

"There's so many people," his boyhood friend and fellow villager Pedro had said, awestruck, and Cristobal had had to concur. Certainly, they'd been traveling with the army for some time, but it was usually on the march, and thus spread out, or divided into several smaller armies. Now, the entire army was camped in a single place, at the height of the secluded Capora valley. They were waiting for the orcs to climb the valley from the south, or so it was said.

"They'll be here sometime tomorrow," the vicious sergeant assigned to their group, Ferran, had said with the angry expression he always seemed to have. "But in the meantime, I want tents set up, fires lit, and watches kept. So help me god, I will have any in dereliction of duty flogged!"

That had certainly motivated them to be diligent, to say the least. But once the camp was up, they'd found themselves with nothing to do, but await the great battle that would determine the fate of the Kingdom of Merida. Some found ways to distract themselves, of course, notably with the townsfolk. A gibbet was soon erected in the town square by the order of the king, and from it hung fresh corpses with every hour. Thieves and rapists, they said, and Cristobal did not doubt it. Later, they'd finally been given weapons, real swords, thought rusty and ancient. Still, for farm boys who had never even seen a blade, it looked amazing.

"We're the King's soldiers now," Pedro said excitedly when they were in the tent, along with the dozen or so others they shared it with. Pedro was always excitable, perhaps making up for spirit what he lacked in stature. In any case, his small size and bold attitude had made him a target for the more mean-spirited men among them, as they had in their village, despite Cristobal's best attempts to protect his friend.

Around midday, Cristobal and the others in the tent were told to form up on either side of the makeshift road. Rumors were circulating wildly among the massed soldiers: A noble was supposed to be coming to inspect them. A duke, one said. The King, another corrected. The Prophet himself, another insisted, come down all the way from Tolos to lead the holy war.

They were still standing on either side of the path through the camp, uncertain of whether it was a joke or not, when their Sergeant came running, looking as anxious as Cristobal had ever seen the old hardass. 

"The King himself is coming! Kneel, and show some respect, you dogs!" Sergeant Ferran barked at them. Cristobal remembered the words of his mother, before he had left: 
[center]"And if you ever meet the King, kneel. You always need to show respect to a King!"[/center] 
At the time, he'd laughed it off. [i]Mother, I'm going to be a foot soldier. What are the chances that I meet the King?[/i] He now found it considerably less funny. He knelt, along with the others.

He tried not to look up, as he heard the sound of trotting approaching, trying to focus on the rock in front of him. Despite himself, he couldn't help glancing up when the riders were in front of him. It was an awe-inspiring sight, knights taken straight out of the stories, their armor alone worth more than his family's entire farm, their shields emblazoned with two snakes intertwined, lunging for a crown.

The one in the front would be the King, he supposed, given that his armor was the fanciest, and that he worse a large, golden crown on his forehead. Here Cristobal was, kneeling in the mud in front of the most important man in the entire Kingdom, when he was born on a pig farm in a village so small it didn't have a name. He realized with a start that he didn't even know the King's name. 

"A fine contingent of men-at-arms," he heard the King saying to another lord, and Cristobal swelled with pride. They were real soldiers, now. Eventually, the King had gotten far enough that Ferran let them get up and get on with "whatever you miserable worms do with your time", as he put it. Cristobal went to find Pedro, who was just as excited as he was. 

"Did you hear the King? We're fine 'men-at-arms'," Pedro said giddily, though Cristobal knew his friend didn't know what a men-at-arm was any more than he did. "We're soldiers now, like I always said we would be!" 

"You've got to be kidding," Ignacio growled from behind them. Cristobal didn't particularly like Ignacio, the latter being a mean veteran who held the new recruits in contempt. "Savior on Earth, you are some stupid shits. His Grace only said that to make you lot feel better. Green boys like you won't last three seconds of battle."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Pedro said defiantly. "The King said we're soldiers, and Kings don't lie!"

"Speak when spoken to, runt," Ignacio said as he clobbered Pedro in the head. After that, he left, cursing under his breath. 

"What an ass," Pedro complained when he was certain Ignacio was out of earshot.

"You shouldn't talk back to Ignacio like that," Cristobal chastised his friend. "He might be an ass, but we'll be stuck with him for a while, and he [b]is[/b] a veteran. We shouldn't get on his bad side."

"All he's got is his bad side," Pedro muttered. Still, he didn't argue further, and they made their way back to the tent.

As the dark of night fell again, they gathered around a fire in front of their tent. The higher-ups had sent down meat- Real meat!- for the common soldiers. Some of those around the fire hadn't eaten meat for years. Cristobal himself was a little less amazed, having eaten pork since he was a child given his family's herd of swine, but even he had to admit that the smell of cooking beef was far better than that of the dry biscuits and stale bread they'd been left eating for the last week.

They were thirteen gathered around that fire, with many other fires in every direction, and everywhere men were feasting and reveling. 

"Well, I haven't killed no greenskins," Ezio the Shitless was saying, "but I've killed dozens of men, and I figure orcs can't be all that different." He threw a glance at Cristobal and Pedro. "What about you green boys? You blooded?"

Cristobal hesitated for a moment. "Well, I've butchered pigs..."

Ezio snorted. "Pigs? Bah! That don't count. Men won't sit nicely and let you slit their throats, and that's not even talking about greenskins. Killing a man's an art, you see..."

"Oh, sure, you would know," a tall lanky man name Gonzar countered. "We've all heard about your prowess in battle. How long did it take for you to shit yourself, again?"

"No time, he shat himself before the fight even started," Ignacio said, a rare smile on his hardened face. "I know, I was there beside him."

"Shut up!" Ezio snapped. "You can't say that kind of shit in front of the green boys!"

Ignacio lost his smile, and his face became mean again. "Why not? They'll be dead by this time tomorrow, so it doesn't matter."

At that, there was a silence around the fire.

"We won't," Pedro said insistently. "We're going to win, everyone says so. We'll be heroes tomorrow."

"Oh, sure you will," Ignacio said mockingly. "Enjoy tonight's sleep if you can, green boys, because it will be the last you'll ever have."

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
As most of the camp went to sleep, in the command tent, the nobles continued to plan well into the night. Gathered around a rough-drawn map of the valley were some of the most important people in the Kingdom: Count Edinar, a young and enthusiastic vassal of the King; Baron Cameran, whose lands they were currently camped in, who'd been conscripted along with his forces into the army much against his will; the old Duke of Geracia, placed in charge of the Meridan horsemen for the coming battle. Others still were present, a dozen nobles of station high and low. They had all answered the King's call to arms.

King Pelicar knew these men intimately, having campaigned with them half a hundred times. They had been his stalwart allies since he had first assumed the throne, near a decade ago. He had mixed feelings about that: on one hand, he was confident in their competence, and knew they would not betray him. On the other, the fact that half the realm's lords- the half that despised him, to be precise- were absent was troubling. 

Oh, they had made their excuses. Their wives were sick, or their lands plagued by ruffians, or the weather would delay them indefinitely, pray excuse us, Your Grace. But it was a pack of lies, and everyone knew it damn well. They had hated him and his absolutist policies since he had first assumed the throne. In fact, he had waged war on nearly all of them at one point or another. They hoped he would spend himself against Rusadir- perhaps even die in battle himself- so that they could increase their own power. 

He was nonetheless  confident in their victory, outnumbering the orcs three to one as they did, but still, the thought made his blood boil. When this quagmire was cleaned up, he would have them hanged, he swore to himself. Every last one of them.

"...We should send word to Admiral Ondore," the Duke of Geracia was saying. "Once we clean up the orcs here, we can use his fleet to cut off their retreat, and massacre the pack of them. Surely the prophet will understand the necessity of pulling them out of the war against the Jadisi."

Baron Cameran snorted. "'Once we win'? I'm sorry, my lord, but I wasn't aware that the battle had already been won. We should attain victory before dividing the spoils."

"It's just as unwise not to have contingencies for the aftermath of the fight," Geracia argued. "In any case, is there any real doubt as to the outcome of this clash? Our knights are the most valiant and skilled in all human lands, and this orcish 'king' rules over a rabble."

"Excuse me, my lords," King Pelicar interrupted, "but I feel in need of fresh air. You may continue without me. Pray excuse me."

"We are at your command, your Grace," Geracia said humbly as Pelicar swept his way out of the tent. 

The stars were obscured by the light of the innumerable torches in the camp. He shivered for a moment, the cold spring air of night surprising him. It was rarely anything other than temperate in his Kingdom, even in the north. Then again, the last winter had proved to be a particularly harsh one across the world, with reports of great hardship from the northern kingdoms.

He wondered if the stars were the same as when he was a boy. A surprising thought- he did not care much for astronomy, and even less for nostalgia. 

"Are you well, Your Grace?" Count Edinar asked, having followed him out. He was a good lad, with a promising future ahead of him. More than once, Pelicar had pondered the possibility of naming the Count as his heir, given his lack of any direct blood relatives to follow him. 

"Not very," he said truthfully. "All those fools back there are certain of our victory, but I can't shake a dread feeling." He sighed. "I am above all weary, of all this fighting. Siege after siege, campaign after campaign, yet the bloodshed never ends. I am thirty-nine, Edinar, and though I have many years left, I'm old. Eleven years of reigning on the throne, and I feel all I've done is spill blood."

The Count was silent for a moment. "Perhaps that is so, Your Grace, but sometimes, it is-"

"Your Grace! My Lord!" a voice shouted from nearby. The man ran towards them, and the two guards guarding the command tent advanced forward to protect them. Recognizing the stranger as one of his scouts, however, Pelicar waved them off. 

"Yes, what is it, man? I hope whatever it is, it is important enough for you to have skipped reporting to your captains first."

"The captain told me to report to you at once, Your Grace! It's the orcs. They've come earlier than expected. They're riding up the valley as we speak!"

"The orcs? When will they be upon us?" Pelicar asked, surprised. They weren't supposed to arrive until midday tomorrow, at the very least.

"A few hours, maybe. It's hard to say; they're mounted."

Suddenly sure of himself once again, Pelicar took on a commanding air. This was his element: proper war, not this waiting business. "Count Edinar, spread the word. Tell the captains to get their men up and battle-ready. We'll form up inside the camp, and march out to meet them."

"At once, Your Grace!" Endrin said, running off to do so.

"You," he said, referring to the scout, "Go in the other direction, and do the same. I want the entire camp up and about by the time I've finished briefing my generals."

As the scout left, and the camp began to rouse from its sleep, there was no doubt any longer in him. The battle had begun, and he would lead Merida to her victory.

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
As it turned out, Cristobal did manage to sleep, though not much. When the clamor woke him up, the sun hadn't risen yet, and the moon was still high in the sky, it's pale light emanating through the tent's entrance. For a moment, he lay there confused, wondering who all these people were, and why he wasn't in bedroom.

"Get up, Pig Farmer," Ignacio said as he drove his boot into Cristobal's rib, "the greenskins aren't going to wait around for you to get your night's snooze."

Cristobal yelped in pain and clutched his pained side, now fully awake. "What?" he gasped, "But, they weren't... they were supposed to-"

"Come during the day, yes. They changed their plans. Now, if you're done being stupid, get up before the sergeant sees you."

He dragged himself up from the ground, and set about searching frantically for his sword. He could've sworn he'd been sleeping beside it...

"Cristobald!" Pedro called to him, the old blade in his hand. "Your sword's here. Got kicked around, I guess."

"Thank Oromis," Cristobald said gratefully, breathless. A soldier, he had called himself, and he couldn't even find his own sword on the day of battle. "Are they here already? Are we under attack?"

"I have no idea," Pedro was saying, before he was interrupted by Ferran storming into the tent. 

"You lot! Scouts have spotted the greenskins coming up the valley. Get your worthless hides out and form up in battle formation, already!"

As it turned out, forming up an army was not quite as simple as that. It took another ten minutes before they were in position with the rest of the army, on the outskirts of the camp, and some time more before they were finally given the order to advance. After that, it was a long tense march. Being woken up at that dismal hour, coupled with excitement and anxiety, made them loud and boisterous, and despite their best efforts, the sergeants could not keep silence in the ranks. 

Though their formation was more alike to a mob than a proper infantry square, it was clear that he was in the front ranks, with only a single man in front of him. For the entire march, which in turn seemed to stretch on forever, he stared at him, a giant of a man, wielding a woodcutting axe. He memorized every detail of that man, his ragged leather tunic, his great beard visible even from behind. He was vaguely aware of Pedro marching beside him, his breath mingled with an uncharacteristic stream of prayer. Ignacio was behind him, pushing Cristobal forward whenever he began to lag behind.

Another thing that stuck with him was the noise. The jokes and boasting of his compatriots; the patriotic shouts and war cries; the distant thunder of cavalry, from the left. There was an unusual chill in the air, though it might have just been his imagination. In any case, they continued descending the valley, without so much as a brush in their way.

He did not know how long they had marched when he saw them. Long, he did not doubt, his legs aching. They were difficult to see at first, obscured by the treeline which began some distance ahead. Even when they left their cover, they were difficult to make out, but even then he could clearly tell they weren't human. Savior above, Cristobal thought, what are they riding?

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
"Neyrahns, your Grace. They are beasts that dwell in the Orkantor, near as savage as the orcs that ride them."

King Pelicar had to admit that they did look fearsome as they came into view. Though they were still distant, he could see that the orcs atop them were higher than some small trees. They were larger than horses, at the very least. "They're all mounted," he remarked. "Do we know if they have foot with them?"

The lords Edinar and Cameran looked at each other uncertainly. Finally, Edinar shrugged. "Impossible to know for certain, your Grace, but I do not believe so. For the orcs to reach here from Lucar so quickly, they must have left all their foot and siege equipment behind."
"Call the army to a halt," he ordered, and his captain of the guard blew a long, mournful note on his trumpet. The host before him slowed to a stop.

As the orcs made their way towards them, Pelicar examined his situation, his position on a small hill in the back of his host offering him a complete view of the battlefield. He was accompanied in that position by his retinue, lords and knights of high standing. He hoped that by placing his elite in such a manner, he could discourage the common footmen from retreating.

A few dozen meters to the left of his infantry, his knights waited. From there, they could flank the enemy as his infantry pinned them down. What the strategy lacked in elegance it more than made up for in efficacy, he vouch for that after using it half a hundred times already. This was not his first battle.

"They've stopped, your Grace."

"Thank you, Count Edinar," King Pelicar said irritably. "I can see." They had indeed stopped their advance, coming to a halt in a simple line formation a hundred meters or so from their own army. "Can we perhaps fire a volley or two at them?"

"In this darkness?" Baron Cameran asked dubiously. "We could, but I doubt the moonlight's enough for these peasants to hit anything other than grass. We'd just be wasting arrows."

"Have the army advance again. Slowly." Another trumpet note, and the host was on the move again. If the orcs wouldn't take the initiative, he would, knowing from experience the importance of keeping your foe on the defensive.

After a few moments, the orcs turned their Neyrahns around and began a slow retreat. "What the hell are they doing?" Cameran asked.

"Stupid savages," Edinar swore. "They know nothing of war."

The King did not feel their confidence. Something wasn't right here. He felt a lurch in his stomach, a usual sign that he was making a mistake his conscious mind couldn't identify. Then he saw the knights, still far to the left. Up until then, they'd been marching along in good order, keeping up with the main army. Now, however, it looked like they got overexcited, and they were accelerating past the infantry.
"The savior-damned fools! I didn't order a charge!" Pelicar said angrily. "Call the army to a halt!" Though the captain blew the trumpet dutifully, and the footmen stopped once again, the knights barely seemed to notice. If anything, they sped up, charing madly towards the orcish line, which was still retreating, though with increasing speed. 

Several things happened in the next moment. The orcish riders split into two groups, left and right, with nary a sound or signal, riding fast in an arc around the charging knights. At the same time, they loosed a flurry of arrows on the knights. Few men could claim to be able to hit a target in the moonlight, and fewer still while moving at great speed on horseback, but the orcish arrows seemed to find their marks with deadly efficiency. 

Being heavily armored, few of the knights were killed outright by the volley. However, many did fall out of saddle from the force of the impact, and others still lost their horses beneath them. These wounded were invariably trampled by their own comrades, still blind to their peril.

Still caught up in the moment, the knights continued undaunted. After a few cries of "Pelicar King!" and "Oromis guides!", they changed their direction towards the right-most orcish riders. But these orcs seemed to likewise be done with trickery, and they charged right back, screaming war cries, their great scimitars raised proudly as they did. 

The impact was unlike any other, a thunder of clashing metal. The orcs had the initial advantage, their reptilian mounts ripping horses apart during the charge. But the knights were valiant and well-trained, and held their ground.

Until the left-most orcs slammed into them from behind, reaving a bloody path to join their kin.

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
Cristobal could only watch the spectacle ahead, powerless, horrified. The air was filled with the dying shrieks of horses and the screams of men as they were butchered. The knights and lords fought, of course, but they were attacked from every direction, and the orcs were possessed with a savagery he did not think possible, a lust for violence that surpassed all the stories told of them. 

"...who wields the True Sword, defender of mankind, protect us in our hour of need," Pedro was whispering. "Shield us from the evil and tyranny of the unbelievers, and guide our blades..."

"Why are we just sitting here, watching?" the giant in front of him asked angrily. "We should get there and help!"

"You'll get the fight you want, idiot," a man nearby said acidly. "Look."

It took Cristobal a moment to make sense of what the man was talking about, the butchery in front of him too chaotic to make sense of. Then, he realized: the orcs were dispersing, leaving the killing field, their bloody task complete. As the rode away, he wondered if there were any left alive lying in that field. Not for long, however, as it occurred to him that he had more pressing concerns.

The orcs had split themselves left and right again. Raising their curved bows as their reptilian mounts thundered on, they let loose a hail of arrows. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and Cristobal looked Pedro in the eye.

"I don't have a shield," he said numbly

"We shouldn't have left home," Pedro answered, echoing his own thoughts.

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
"Your grace, we need to advance!" Cameran pleaded. "The longer we sit here, the more men we lose!"

"We'd be playing right into their plan. Look, they're still extending to the far left and right. They'll envelop us at this rate. We need to be cautious-"

"My lords!" his captain exclaimed. "The infantry!"

It seemed the footmen had tired of waiting while they were skewered on place by arrows. A disorganized charge began, their formation dissolving to a mob as they ran forward madly, shouting and jeering as they went.

"Have they learned nothing!? Edinar, get down there and-"

"Your Grace!" someone shouted. "Behind us!"

Pelicar saw them then. Distracted by the footmen's foolish rush, he hadn't noticed that the orcs had continued their flanking motion, and now they were charging them from the back. 

"To arms, Meridans!" he shouted as he drew his sword. "To arms! Throw these vile creatures back into the sea!"

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
Chaos. That was the only word that could describe it. It was a nightmare, one Cristobal could not escape. Carried away with the movement of the crowd, he had charged with the rest, figuring it was better to die in an honorable fight than to be skewered by an arrow or trampled to death. How wrong he was.

They knew something was wrong when the orcs did not shrink before the sight of their charge, as they had expected, peasant boys as they were. If anything, the greenskins were amused; some laughed, the chilling sound carrying over the storm of boots slamming on dirt. Their heroic charge began to slow, and their valor falter, even before the orcs charged in turn, howling their savage war cries. When the orcs were within a stone's throw's distance, they had halted; when the two forces collided, they were slowly stepping back.

He had thought the world had ended, at that moment. To his left and right, the massive beasts smashed through their pitiful line, wreaking bloody havoc. The giant died in the middle of an ineffectual swing of his axe, his stomach sliced open with a swing of a wicked scimitar. He saw Ignacio die horribly, torn apart by the claws of the lizard as it disemboweled him. And Pedro, little Pedro, who had been so eager to be a soldier, was crushed to death by one of the beasts in the initial charge. 

Cristobal remembered the games they had played in the village, how they had cruelly joked that Pedro's short stature made him beneath notice, how they had pretended not to see him. The orc rider seemed to be playing the same game, apparently unaware that he had trampled anyone.

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
Pelicar raised his shield at the last moment, blocking the orc's attack. The force of the strong swing sent a shock through his body, and for a moment he thought it had broken his arm. While his foe recovered from the blow, the King used the opportunity to attack, stabbing the orc in the gut. The latter groaned in agony and anger, before looking at Pelicar... and laughing.

He realized what the orc found so amusing in the next instant. The Neyrahn his foe had been riding had gone for his horses neck, ripping through metal and leather to tear out flesh. His horse fell then, sending him falling towards the dirt. Pain shot through him. He could tell instantly that his horse had fallen on his right leg, by all appearances smashing it. He dragged himself out of the precarious position, letting lose a muffled cry of agony as he did so.

He had just enough time to see the mangled remnants of his leg before the Neyrahn was upon him again. Though it's rider was dead, it was still attacking ferociously. Feeling in the dirt beside him, he found his sword, and brought it up as the Neyrahn lunged. He shouted wordlessly as his blade impacted the thing's head. Though its scales were too resistant for him to draw blood,  the impact of the blow stunned it. 

Getting up on his left leg, he got into a kneeling position, the highest he could with his other leg broken the way it was. He swung again, bringing his sword down with all the force he could on the creature's head. If he could not use it as a blade, he would damn well use it as a hammer. Again and again he struck the beast in this manner, until it finally had had enough, and rode away to seek easier prey.

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In the face of this hell, in the wake of seeing all his friends be butchered like the swine he had grown up tending, Cristobal did the only thing he could: he died. 

Though he suffered no wound, he was paralyzed, his muscles locked into place. To his horror, his legs gave out, and he fell first to his knees, then face-first into the blood-soaked mud. After a moment, he felt a painful shock as another man collapsed on him, his open throat spraying blood all over him.

Some small, sane part of his mind screamed at him to throw off the corpse, to get up and run, to flee, to live. But it was powerless: he remained there in the mud, soaked in the blood of his countryman,  unable to so much as blink his eyes. What will it take to wake from this nightmare?

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A week ago, Pelicar dined in halls of gold. Now, he crawled through the muck of the battlefield, dragging along his useless leg. He did not know how the battle was going, though he suspected the answer was "poorly". It did not matter.

All he could think about was reaching the banner planted in the dirt ahead of him. The twin snakes emblazoned on it was his own crest, and that of his father, and his father before him. It flew from every corner of the kingdom of Merida, his kingdom. Well, except maybe for the castles of the whoresons who refused to acknowledge his supremacy. 

The bastards. The dukes Rannon, Forozan, Limbeo, and the others... they were just as responsible for this catastrophe as the orcs. With their support, he could have mustered an army twice the size he had. Their inaction was to blame for everything. He cursed them silently as he continued to drag his way to his banner.

It was so close, now. He could touch it, if only he extended his arm...

And then his head was yanked up with rough force. Raising his hands instinctively, he was too slow to prevent the orc from delivering the coup de grace, slitting open his throat.

[center]*     *     *     *     *[/center]
When Cristobal came to, the sun was already high in the air, revealing the carnage of the previous night. 
[i]I'm alive? How?[/i]

Not daring to move a muscle, he strained his hearing. The first thing he noticed was the relative silence; absent was the sound of slashing and slamming. The battle was over, then. The second sound he noticed was the flapping of wings. Vultures, he thought. Come to feast on the banquet we've given them. It was with some disgust that he realized that one of them was eating the body of the man on him.
 
He had to move. He dragged himself in the mud, the body slipping of him as he went, the carrion bird flying off in surprise. Cristobal paused for a moment, and he almost couldn't hold back the tears. But the situation was too dire to cry over, so he kept quiet, and raised his head, slowly.

If there were any sights that could still shock him after the horrors of that night, it was that of the carrion field that morning. Aside from the vultures, there was no movement, only corpses, corpses as far as the eye could see. He could not hear the moaning of the dead: no doubt the orcs had already passed through, finishing off any survivors. But then, how did he...?

He looked down at his tunic, and began laughing hysterically, no longer caring about the noise. He was covered in blood and gore, they must have simply assumed he was dead already. Somehow, that seemed like the funniest thing in the world at that moment.

When he composed himself again, he took a good look around him, trying to determine the best course of action. A disturbing column of smoke drifted from the direction of Capora. He saw no better option that to walk in its direction: though he risked encountering the greenskins, he needed any supplies he could scavenge. Besides, he knew that it was on the way to his village, so he might as well stop by. Maybe he could make it to his home alive.

Truth be told, all he found in the ruins of their once-great camp was smoking ruins, corpses, and the corpse of the King, stripped naked except for his golden crown, and nailed to a post.  "Your Grace," he said respectfully as he bent the knee. One always had to show respect to a King.

[hider=Visual Aids][b]A neyrahn, mounts of the Orcs[/b]
[img]http://pre04.deviantart.net/df2b/th/pre/i/2013/201/f/9/lizard_mount_by_galiford-d6eerp3.jpg[/img]

[center][b]Steps of the Battle of Capora[/b]
1. The orcs and humans assemble and stop in front of each other.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/X2QmbVk.png[/img]

2. The orcs retreat and split into two groups; the Meridan knights charge in pursuit.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/FjtUPpT.png[/img]

3. The knights are surrounded and massacred.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/UW8A2jC.png[/img]

4. The orcs reform into two lines, and fire arrows. The Meridan foot charge again.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/7op3Hl7.png[/img]

5.The Meridans are surrounded and routed
[img]http://i.imgur.com/CxPWRJN.png[/img]

[/center][/hider]