Stone colored eyes stared out at the barren wastes, lit by the flickering pale lightning in the ashen sky. Zôrzimril watched for movement, for her scouts have reported members of Trev Gallorg moving through the area. Those spineless cowards, afraid to go to war, hiding out in their dung hole village ready to flee to the arms of the enemy. She sneered at the thought, some had run down Ram Duath already though Augaire still stood. It was well fortified in but soon it would fall once her father rallied all of the Duvardain together. They would serve their master once again, the Iron Crown was rising and they would finish off the men of the west and their fading allies, the elves. It would be she, Zorzimril daughter of the Black Sword, that would lead them to victory. A great alliance was being built amongst the hill men once more and the rumors of the hated Rangers leaving and going south stirred the lust for battle and conquering among the fractious people.
"There they are," she said in a hushed voice tense with anticipation. "On my word, send in the wargs."
Screams and clashing steel vibrated the air and the smell of iron filled her senses. When it was over, the blood soaked into the ashen soil, staining it dark. The crunching of bones and the shouts of victory as the warriors looted the dead were now the only sounds. Zorzimril cast a look down at the last man she fought, a man of middling years whom she recognized as her father's cousin. With a casual sniff, she reached down and yanked the silver chain from around his neck and kicked his body over, so that she did not have to see his face. The traitor had the nerve to wear a bloodstone. Gripping it in her hand, she rolled her thumb over the smooth cool surface of the red flecked stone.
"Abrazir," she called to her cousin who was also her bannerman, "Massen is dead by my blade."
The man was lean and hard, with sharp dark eyes and a thick black beard. "Uncle...fool that he was to favor Crannog."
"That he was," the dark haired woman replied, twisting the silver chain around her fingers, "He lost his way, his line lost our tradition. And now he paid for it. Did you know his widow?"
"Aye," he replied, plucking at a bit of broken chain mail, "He had two sons, not yet men."
Zorzimril nodded, the only change in her expression being her full lips pressing into a line. Her black hair flopped forward over her eye and she brushed it back as she turned on her heel. Her long sword bouncing against her back as she strode towards the cluster of warriors showing off their plunder, she spoke her orders, "Leave the bodies where they lay, gather the wargs and let us be gone."
