A frozen landscape lays ahead of the kingdom, silent and barren, as the our king fearfully awaits the cold hand of death. Our soldiers stand straight, aloof, and strong, seemingly unbeknownst to what is to happen, although, the fear in their tired, broken eyes is evident. The civilians cower and silence reigns, the gates are drawn, and I, a simple scholar scout from above scratching down what I observe. The king paces nervously near his throne, enlightened by the destruction that will occur, breaking the peaceful demeanor that our merciful ruler usually holds onto. Hours pass. The wind explodes on our faces as the night is much harsher than we expected. The archers grip their bows tightly, because the waves can arrive at any moment.
A sound is heard. Quick as lightening, bows are drawn, swords are unsheathed and a guarded stance is observed. Just a snow hare, scurrying across the land. The moon rises. It is a strangely starry night, not quite the most prevalent weather in these regions. How curious. Maybe the gods know of what is to happen. They clear the clouds to look down at the bloody massacre which is about to unfold. Melancholy chants can be heard from deep within the city, the civilians hidden in the dungeons, in complete blackness. A sad, depressed tune plays from a lure, a song which tells the story of a tragic kingdom that fell beneath the crushing foot of the enemy. How ironic.
Owls screech. Our flag is raised. Have they come? Are they finally here? Ah. From the distance we spot a minuscule red flag flapping in the harsh gale, followed by the flag bearer upon his supposedly mighty steed. Fear dawns upon my face. They have made it. The war has begun.