[color=Silver][b]Greater Cardinal War Camp[/b][/color]

In the shadow of war, death followed.

Or so went the saying, Hild mused with a small sliver of private amusement. In reality, death's followers went in the shadow of war's [i]smell[/i].

Hild Zuversicht heaved a heavy sigh to dispel some of the foulness clogging her nostrils, as thick and suffocating as mud to her sharply honed senses. It was offset somewhat by the smell of her candle, but her nose was far too sharp to ever fail at catching the foul scents of war and the human body upon the wind, whether she wished to smell such things or not. The camp of Lady Stormsparrow was better than most, as heavy as it was with those who kept themselves (literally) religiously clean, but her nose was keen indeed.

These were familiar smells to the inquisitorial priest; her work was steeped in blood, death, and the foul aftermath of said death; she would be a poor servant of Nethelin if she could not handle offal and other... Camp scents. And she was anything but a poor priest.

By now, the stench was comforting in its familiarity, though no less foul for that bittersweet recognition.

Hild shook off the intrusive thoughts, deftly dipping two fingers into the basin that she knew lay beside her, to the right of her mat upon which she knelt. Her fingers found the flame, and snuffed it out. It was a treasured part of her prayer ritual, for all that she could not admire the flame as most others did. There was still something admirable to found about it, after all.

The smell of burning.

And thus, Hild's preparations were almost complete: Her various metal pieces were thoroughly examined by hand and cleaned as appropriate, including her staff, her clothes were as neat as they could be in the midst of a war camp, and the subtle smell of the candle that would cling to her for awhile longer would remind those around her of the flame -and keep their stench away. Were she traveling with other priests of the Dead Man, lengthier rituals and recitations would have followed. Alas, she had traveled here alone, though those of Nethelin's faith were still highly prominent.

With a twitch of her lips, Hild dragged the comforting band of black cloth back over her sightless eyes, and quickly scooped up her staff from its resting position. Almost as pristine as the day she had first held it. Firm and familiar in her grasp, protection against gnashing things that were in need of her attentions.

A few short steps carried the priest of Nethelin out of her favored tent, though the world remained as blackened as it ever had been for the grim woman. The scent hit her like a flying fist, but it remained a familiar strike against her senses, and was weathered with all of the grace befitting a priest of death. The rain was less welcome. Hild's resting grimace became a cold frown as she centered herself, and considered the sudden rush of noise that had overtaken the camp. The downpour was... Comforting, but the mud would be hell upon her shoes if she did not move fast.

[i]If only I had a horse.[/i] It was no matter. With or without a mount which had functioning eyes, Hild had navigated the winding confusion of war camps thousands of times before. The trick to it was to move with the flow of the chaos; the noise had come from a particular direction, and according to the message most should be heading in that direction. Ergo, the simple trick was to follow the paths with the most traffic, judging by the level of noise. It was made somewhat more difficult by the noise of rain, but easier as well; a constant sound by which to judge distances had its applications.

Graceful and assured of her stride, the priest of Nethelin's trip to the center of the camp was made with only minimal snags; many years of practice within camps and one's entire early lifetime within the bustle of a town made blind navigation more of a chore than a challenge, and the sucking of the mud at her shoes was fought against with as much easy grace as ever. Her grip upon her staff remained firm as it became slick with rainwater.

And then, she was there, listening closely as men and women gathered in massive numbers. Distances were weighed, and numbers considered. Finally, she navigated herself to what seemed to be the edge of the center with an intensifying grimace. While her own antipathy was partially to blame, it was also a matter of simple pragmatism; the Duchess was an inspiring figure by all accounts, which meant many energized men and women, which meant much screaming and hollering and an almost solid wall of [i]noise [/i]against her ears would follow soon.

It was sure to be interesting, at the least; Hild could say that she did not hate the Duchess. Her words were to be listened to, and respected for the weight they carried with them. And so, she lingered and listened, her ears trained and her mind vigilant for that ringing that forever followed her sworn enemies.

These were fascinating times.