The brooch that fastened the monster's cloak was a sharp, silver falcon, though its predatory silhouette might have passed for an eagle to any man who didn't already know the identity of the butcher wearing it. Beneath the heavy wool, the morning sun caught the shimmer of chainmail, links that looked as though they hadn't been unlaced since the first drop of blood hit the earth at the Ford.
Above the mail, the man was encased in the functional of war: greaves, gorget, gauntlets, and pauldrons. But it was the breastplate of blackened steel that drew the eye, dark as death, grim as a cardinal sin, yet still not half as dark as the man's expression when the Prince of Oizen finally marched out from behind his walls to receive him with company.
Sorza had agonized over his own attire, eventually settling on his finest war-fitting garments. His plate was a polished gray, worked with silver and gold that formed the radiant emblem of the sun across his chest.
