The ravens circled overhead, their dark wings cutting through the heavy August air.
They cackled and croaked, a dissonant choir for the column of steel moving below. A thousand footmen marched with the rhythmic thud of hobnailed boots, flanked by thirty knights whose colorful surcoats were the only bright spots in the gray afternoon.
"A bit too many men to catch a few shivering peasants, wouldn't you say, Ser?" Ser Marvy Marlon called out, adjusting his seat in his saddle.
He was a cousin to the Prince of Ezvania, a third son so not entitled to any lordship, and he bore just like his blood, the same peacock-like vanity, though with significantly less grace.
He looked back at the sprawling line of spears with a scoff. "Does my cousin, and his grim Grace of Habadia, make us so fragile? Do they believe us grain to be harvested by a few scythes?"
