Year 684, Irelasard

The sun was hot and heavy. It always seemed to be when there was killing to be done. Either that, or howling thunderstorms complete with flashing bolts of lightning, pelting rain if one was lucky, or hail the size of large rocks if one wasn’t. But it was hot that day. Captain Brevyl Levinton of the Aston Wolves raised a tired hand and took off his bloodstained helm. The heat was unbearable enough without that piece of metal suffocating him.

He scanned the battlefield and tried to ignore the cries of battle and death around him. The enemy, consisting mostly of orken and Dark Knights, were in their hundreds of thousands. The defenders were outnumbered badly, five to one odds if they were lucky. His Wolves could not hold back the lines for long. It was only a matter of time before the lines broke. Then, more chaos would come. The beginning of the battle seemed like a story from a fairy-tale book. The hordes of orks, soldiers, knights, all lined on top of Willow Hill, readying for battle. The combined forces of the Four Kingdoms in formation below them, just before the walls of Irelasard. Sunlight glinted off all the weapons and armor of both armies. Then the fanfare, the bugles, the charge, the blood fest. They just kept coming. One after another. He must have killed about five of them before this brief respite.

A yell near him woke Brevyl from his reminiscence. Just barely, he brought his sword up to deflect an incoming blow from a Dark Knight. The shock from that blow numbed his entire arm and his blade dipped in response to his weakened state. The enemy knight grunted and tried to skewer Brevyl but a slip on the bloodied ground cause his aim to veer off, glancing off the captain’s armor. Brevyl reacted instantly and swept his blade upwards, slicing up from groin onwards. The knight fell. Brevyl leaned on his sword, exhausted from that short fight.

“Hey, you ok?â€