[center][h1]ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱[/h1][/center]
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While his compatriots discussed next steps among themslves, Renault had sheathed his blade and slung his shield across his back, giving his arm a welcome respite. Flexing the aching joint of his shoulder in hopes of easing tension, Renault dragged himself stiffly towards the others, ready to engage himself in the discussion. 

"Rats breed - and grow - fast. No doubt there's another brood ready to replace this one, likely almost fully-grown." He paused, tongue moving around the inside his mouth in contemplation. "Assuming [i]these ones[/i] are fully-grown." He finished, motioning towards the carcasses for emphasis. [i]'By the gods, the stench'[/i] he thought. Had he not known better, he'd have assumed the vermin had been dead-and-rotting for days, not freshly-killed and still warm.

"We'll have to purge the nest." He let the words hang, his expression shifted to one of momentary uncertainty, as if gauging all options in his head before speaking next. "But we've not had food or proper rest in days, some of us, weeks. We're in no state to fight a horde right now." 

Though no stranger to battle in his glory days, Renault had the good fortune of avoiding the more harrowing aspects of war. Where legions of men clashed against one another like waves rising and breaking upon themselves. Each crash would take soldiers on either side, leaving corpses strewn across once-green fields. The survivors would crawl back to camp: weary and struck with battlefield panic, heavy-laden with plate and chain mail. But even in those dire straits, the men would be attended to by priests and priestesses alike, weaving spells to mend injuries and cure fatigue. 

It was then that Renault began to understand the succinct and simple terror of the Marches. Beyond Reddenbarrow there [i]were[/i] no priests to close wounds; no battlefield camp to return to except one they made themselves; no rations sent from the lord's castle to keep the men strong and nourished. It was only them and whatever foul creatures were thrown at them. 

An ordinary man might've panicked, turned tail and run back towards civilization without ever looking back. But Renault was long past that point of self-preservation. Even now, at the furthest spiritual point he had ever been from Erithar, the apathetic disregard he had begun to feel for his own life would have made him a martyr to the Order.