Graceless. All of them.
That was the realization he made when he turned slowly to survey the men he was to lead into the mouth of the beast. They stood in the grey light of dawn, a ragged assembly of the desperate and the damned. The air was choked if not by the cowing of crows, by the rhythmic, shivering clink of chainmail, not the proud chime of knights ready for glory, but the frantic rattling of men whose knees were knocking together in terror.
Beneath the rims of their rusted helms, their faces were pale, haunted masks, the eyes of men who had already smelled the scent of their own open graves.
The Warrior might grant His blessing to those of extraordinary strength or unyielding will, but Mers knew, in the marrow of his bones, that there was no such favor here.
These men were forsaken.
