The north wind howled through the ranks as the army marched. The forests of Nordland were known for being utterly claustrophobic with how dense they were. Every so often he would see a bit of movement to the flanks, though it wasn't cause for alarm. The army's woodsmen and scouts were known for their skill, very useful in harrassing chaos incursions before they met with the stubborn Nordland field armies. 

Cyrdic had some horse hide wrapped around his neck, something most of the men used to stave off the cold. In this soldier's case, it was to hide the love marks Camilla had given him the previous night. He usually wouldn't mind people seeing them. But to have the men under him jealous of their commander was not good leadership. It was why he led his horse along rather than rode, preferring to march with his column. Of course the Count rode his Griffon, but that was a different matter. They expected him to be a larger than life commander. Cyrdic was unknown to these men. Many of them were mercenaries, and some of the Nordlanders that followed him saw his Norscan shield and knew he was a veteran.  

Idly he reached up and fix his makeshift scarf. Hid mind drifted to Camilla, mostly because this was the first time he'd been without her for months. Whenever he and his companion had the chance to relax for a night, she always gave him that impish smile the next morning. This morning was replaced with her threatening him if he didn't come back alive, and him giving her a crash course in Norscan battle tactics. She had faced her fair share of Chaos spawn and dangers, but after two campaigns fighting them, Cyrdic knew they couldn't be underestimate. They were as ferocious as Greenskins, and many of them had mutations that made them far swifter or hardier than a normal man. He gave her particular warnings of the skinwalkers, the bastard brethren of the children of Ulric, only instead they transformed into great Lupin beasts from their taint of Chaos. The Hellhounds, skinless beasts that could only be truly hurt by magic weapons. And with this large of an attack, he feared they would have war mammoths and shamans to summon Daemons. 

He felt the hilt of his Sword of Ulric, a small reassurance. Cyrdic was not impressed with their army, even if most of the men in it were veterans. They simply did not have the numbers to halt the force Count Gausser had described. The Ostlander commanded a paltry force himself. Some thirty halberdiers and spearman, who's leader was Lance Ulfson, along with a score of swordsmen, and 10 handgunners under a sergeant named Johhan Wilhelm. He had to admit he was glad for the dozen Greatswords under his command. They weren't as famous as Middenland Greatswords, but they were still the most superb fighters in Nordland.

"So, did you really kill your own Baron?" 

Cyrdic turned to see Lance Ulfson catching up to him. A striking man with a scar that clefted his chin. It left a parting in his greying facial hair. Cyrdic raised an eyebrow. "Does that give you ideas?" 

The man laughed. "You just don't seem the type." 

"I did not kill him. But I beat him."

"You lived the dream." 

Cyrdic laughed, and couldn't help but feel a sense camraderie. "Yeah, I just had to break the law and survive ratment, chaos spawn, and a Dragon. But it was worth it." 

Lance's joking manner died and his face turned to confusion and even shock. "W-what?" 

The Ostlander blinked, catching himself. "Nothing. I was just joking with you." He said, clapping Lance on the shoulder. "There's no ratment." 

"Cyrdic Becker, as I live and breathe!" yelled a voice that sounded like stone grinding. It sounded suspiciously similar to Cyrdic. Then again, he'd not known many Dwarfs in his life. When the mercenary turned, he saw the last person he expected to see north of the Middle Mountains. It was Skaldi Forgehammer, the Dwarf soldier and cook from the Imperial Pride what seemed a lifetime ago. 

"Skaldi!?" Cyrdic declared in disbelief, grinning feircly. The Dwarf approached him as swiftly as his stout legs could, and they clasped arms. Despite his short height, Skaldi's arm matched Cyrdic's in strength. Dwarfs had a very odd way about their physiology. They were thickly muscled and stout, and yet somehow they had an innate strength and weight that surpassed expectations.   

They pulled back from a quick hug. "I heard ye were here, lad." 

"What are you doing here? You cooking for the Count?" 

"Ha! I never stop cooking, manling! But I'm a hired axe for the expedition. Where's the lass? Heard she was here." 

"She's with the vanguard. She's far safer than we are," Cyrdic said, trying to convince himself. 
[@POOHEAD189]