Hours of bloodshed had passed as quick and fast as a rushing river, accompanied by the ceaseless, deafening clash of steel and the ragged screams of dying men.
Arrows whistled through the peaceful blue sky, its rain whittling down levies and horsemen alike. Azanians died by the swaths like common flies, their flesh rended open just ahead of the ancient white walls of the city they had willed themselves to perish for.
Fools.
Though Blake would readily grant they were courageous fools, and exceptionally valorous at that. It had been three long winters since he had last overseen a proper battle, and though he favored the bloodshed well enough, he found himself misliking the still, stagnant land just as much as he always had. Only when sailing on the open water was his restless soul truly calm. No matter the blessings of this strange land's sky-gods, he was a man of the sea at heart.
He found that thought strangely comforting.
