After Florian had taken his seat, Ludwik-Balbo regarded him sharply. 

"And why," Balbo whispered hotly in his ear, "Did you do that?" 

"We'll quarrel later, coz," Florian replied, looking off towards the ceiling of the tent. 

Then, the other commanders had spoken, with particular vitriol being vomited from the mouth of the Grand Duke Canalis. 

[i]His people have had the luxury of never having had to deal with the Orcs[/i], Florian thought, fuming in his chair. He took particular umbrage at the up-jumped Grand Duke's choice of words...his condescension...his jab about his inexperience. 

[i]I shall have words with him, before this all is over[/i]. [i]And they shan't be minced[/i].  

Then...the zealot queen had spoken. Her beauty was unwieldy; although her face was heavily scarred, and although she was undoubtedly fierce...unwomanly, even, it went undiminished. The Roffellans were barbarous, and, until the treaty was struck some thirty years ago, Galatia's most hated foe, who had committed unknowable atrocities in the name of their obscure goddess, or so it was said. Even still, he found himself admiring her, though with no small amount of shame. A word—[i]Eugenia[/i]—flashed briefly, and uncomfortably, through his mind, but he was quick to snap to his senses. 

Gyrid's argument was sound, though Florian did not entirely regret his words. It was his understanding, and that of all his people, that orcs were animals, vermin, savages, cannibals, monsters. They were, to put it simply, sub-human; they did not merit the luxury of living. The thought of having one of them lead a Western army was beyond an outrage, beyond thinking. He would rather submit himself to slavery than to serve the ends of an [i]orc[/i]. But the barbarian queen was right; if they were to make any show of force here, they had to be united. Alaric, being who he was, would seize upon any thread of weakness, any chink in their armor, and exploit it to the fullest extent; and what, barring hunger, was a greater weakness to an army besides dissension in the ranks? The gravity of his statement was finally settling upon him...what it indicated to the other commanders...what it indicated about himself. Perhaps what the Saqquar had said was not entirely incorrect...though he would not retract his words, nor his hatred towards the green ones. 

Barbarian or no, ancient foe or no, Gyrid at least was no Orc; for pity's sake, at least the Roffellans did not make [i]supper[/i] of the fallen. He was too young to have witnessed the war with the Roffellans, and he was beginning to think that, if her words were true, their barbarity could be of some use to them. 

But it seemed that none of the other commanders were of the same opinion. The tide had turned against him, and it appeared as if the orc would truly lead them on the first day. Mercifully, however, Pizurk's strategy did not involve any of their Galatian Riders; his lord-cousin's crossbowmen, however, would be deployed. On the one hand, he felt a pang of anger that he would be denied the glory of the field on the first day; on the other, he was forced, albeit begrudgingly, to recognize the soundness of the orc's plan. In any case, he knew that his Riders would not fight for an orc. 

[color=lightcoral]"This plan is adequate. The crossbowmen will be at their appointed places,"[/color] Florian said dismissively, with a wave of his hand and an obvious hint of disgust. Then, he stood to leave. [color=lightcoral]"My Riders have not yet found a place in the camp to pitch their tents. I'll go see to them."[/color] 

Without another word, he parted the canvas flaps of the entrance and went out into the bedlam of the camp.