[b]15th day, 8th hour, Marching Orders. Road to Nubina.[/b]
 
Hild was giddy.
 
Certainly, the holy woman wouldn't have phrased her situation in that manner, but such was the case. The ache in her ears from the [i]explosive enthusiasm[/i] of the earlier events in the camp had faded out long ago, but the eagerness had not yet faded. Truly, the duchess was an inspiring woman, full of fire and wrath. She was an inspiration, in some way, ready to bring a crusade down upon the foul and wretched things that had taken land and lives. It didn't change that she -and her army- were quite [i]loud[/i].
 
Loudness was not something Hild was unfamiliar with; warfare ensured that she experienced it quite often. But such a magnitude of voices... Tens of thousands of men and women, a vast portion of them hollering for blood, fire, gold, and faith. It rattled her down to the bones, and left her eager to retreat from the center, to begin her preparations for the long journey ahead. Chased away by the howling of mad men and women, surely as mad as her, in their own ways. They were going to the same hellish place as her, after all.
 
Now upon the march, here she sat astride a respectable mount, as silent as the grave that she exulted. Usually, this was the role of her mounts; to guide her on long journeys, journeys that were fraught with peril for one who could navigate effectively on their own. This one was trained and loyal, and required minimal aid from her to remain on its path.
 
And thus, Hild was allowed to wonder within her mind. The words circled in her head, endless repetition. Like a mantra, a prayer to Nethelin. There stood the Duchess, the Lady Stormsparrow who commanded above all others in this moment. Her sword raised to the sky, her armor gleaming. Or so she imagined, at any rate; all that she had to go by was the voice of the woman, and the noise of metal. Sharp and commanding. [i]"I swear on my Banner. I swear on my own heart. May it be torn out of my chest before I give up or stop."[/i]
 
Hild's fists tightened on the reins, and her lips moved with a quiet huff of breath. "Burn them, burn them." Her smile showed teeth.
 
Truly inspiring.
 
Suddenly, she tensed without warning, her hands jerking at the reins as some subtle instinct kicked into play. Her smile had transformed into a snarl before the soft ringing her ears had even grown to a full, constant... Warbling. To describe the noise was to describe a color to the blind such as herself, an impossible venture, but she [i]knew[/i] this tone, this note that assaulted her sensibilities and made her heart flutter so shamefully. It was a sound distinct from any other in her hearing, possessing depth beyond the norm.
 
Possessing [i]rot[/i].
 
Hild was urging her horse forward before her own bubbling fury had fully formed, before stopping just as suddenly.
 
The army was not mobilizing, there were no furious cries or preparations to meet the cries of the dead. [i]Why?[/i] Several moments of listening, and of her keen awareness of where exactly the undying curs were positioned, answered her own question. Like taking water to a torch, she could hear it, the shifting of the crowd. The dying of the spark of confidence. Not a complete destruction, nor all at once, but she could hear it. Fear and awe and disgust, tones with which she was more than familiar.
 
That glorious and familiar sound, the prayers of Nethelin, that was a welcome relief, but it did not dull the ache. The anger. Hild gave a disdainful sniff as she turned her head to and fro. The hymn came through her lips naturally, though she did not beseech her lord to invigorate the words with his power as he did for the others. The steady noise from her own lips at least succeeded in drowning out some of the quiet concerns of the rabble. They were as loud and clear to her as any conversation.
 
[i]Show them uncertainty, and the whole will break, starting from the weakest links. This cannot happen.[/i] "Are you truly so scared of the ragged dead, the flesh that stalks our land?" she growled, half to herself and half to those near her. She could not tell their reactions, save for the quieting of the murmurs, but she did not particularly care. "These are simply mongrels who have not yet been taught that the dead must stay dead. Is that not why we are here? To show them fire, and steel, and the grave? These are unholy things, rotting meat who must be shown the proper way of things. Even forsaken the use of my eyes, I see the truth in this matter."
 
She tugged the reins once more, felt the steady movement of her horse beneath her begin once more. She urged him in the direction of the prayer, closer to the Knights of the Grave. "That they will all burn," she muttered, her voice growing quieter once again, "That is our mandate."
 
[i]Yet another small tragedy.[/i] Hild was no longer giddy. She would preserve the miracles bestowed upon her for more difficult trials.