By the time Major Gresham's column sighted the banners of the Blue Countess, the air itself seemed weary of them.
The Threian line trudged through the orcish lands like ghosts of an army long since spent. Their banners hung limp and torn, the proud sigil of the Snowe family...the usually pristine banner now covered in burnt marks and dirt...some parts of it were even covered in dried blood. Boots sank ankle-deep into the thawing mud, each step marked by a wet squelch. The wind carried the stench of sweat, steel, and old blood...signs of too many skirmishes, too few victories.
