[sub][h3]Nikolai von Krähenvald:[/h3]
[indent] M A R C H I N G   O R D E R S ; R O A D   T O   N U B I N A  -  T H E   A T T A C K [/indent][/sub]
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Crunching of brittle, dry bone occurred over and over as Nikolai wielded his morning star and thrusted with lightning rain springing forth from the metal staff and piercing the Undead into gnashed stenches of worthless scrap.  His momentum picked up with each victorious stroke that turned the unnatural enemy back into fragments of shit.  His heart was racing at the intensity, and more of his comrades were joining into the battle. A surrounding synergy emitted from them all as Belia guided their movements and placed a strong, firm hand of mountainous strength around them. 

The low moans of creep and disgust echoing through the forest of the enemy had little impact when compared to the triumphant battle cries hoarding through the muscular jaws of the Duchess’ army.  It was natural to know not all of the army was fairing as well as the surrounding area.  It was clearly not humility to think such a thing but common knowledge for battle or war.  The loss of life, wounds to be smeared across allies or foes—all ridden for potential or unavoidable death, was such a thing expected.  If not his father’s own preliminary exposure to the horrors of battle and the accidental disgrace of death to curse his family, the world was not a place in which creatures grew to not know the customs of war.

Although, such a historic marker of naivety for the primary specimens entering war for the first time generally resulted in a hungered conscious trapped by the inevitable brutality and stone cold blood never to be washed from hands that came back alive.  If it was such an excuse to hold, the Undead were meant to stay dead.  The most holy Goddess Belia knew that the mystery expelling the enemy from their graves was a bad omen that needed cleansing.  Remorse shown on the enemy was nothing but insanity; the shallow end of war could be justified by sending the new mercenaries into a deadly vague trap.  Destroying a black soulless creature not worthy of this physical realm was nothing short of right and just.  The world was losing nothing by the onslaught created by the Duchess’ army.

It was the ones not worthy of Belia, who did not pray hard enough—the crumbled mess of the once living succumbing to their demise on the battle field—made the many masks of war hard to bare.  However, as Nikolai littered his surroundings in honor for Belia, the face underneath his own mask was knowing that the fallen had lost because Belia commanded it.  A lack of faith dealt their faults single handedly; a weak minded persons were no more helpful on the battle field than a nuisance.  They added unnecessary drama or an example of what not to be.  So, even with the few gashes that nicked his tough skin, the sensation of near destruction—imperfect living—only increased his stamina and adrenaline.  Belia had granted him favor; a gift with which he was not surprised to be blessed, "Oh, Mistress Belia, despise not our prayers like worthless pleeds, but delivers us from danger! For you alone art pure and blessed!"