The evening's breeze carried up from the field and caused Allowyn to shiver. Blood and steel. He had always thought it funny that that which was spilt might smell so similar to that which had spilt it. Well maybe more perverse than funny; either way, the crows certainly cackled over it. He pulled his cloak tight about him and shuddered to think that all his efforts might have been a carrion's joke.

Across the field, staggered along the foothills edge, fires fought back the cold, the dark, and the encroaching whispers of defeat—or at least that was what they were meant to do. From where Allowyn stood opposite, the sun had still not settled behind the trees and the breeze was truly little more than an early autumn's breath. The flames had been stoked more to ease the men's minds than their bodies, a distraction from the days events and those parties that still trundled back and forth from the field carrying ever more casualties and ill news.

Allowyn couldn't help but admire their hope, despite all the frailties of the body, and he had heaped many upon them, their spirit remained indomitable. He sighed, at least until the light of dawn. For he led an army that had broken the bounds of spirit, for which the cold of night was a welcome surcease from the chill of the grave, and whose ranks grew with every battle—victory or defeat.

Unwilling to consider them anymore, he turned his back on the unsought enemy and descended from his vantage point. If they would not flee then at least his ever-present feathered friends would not go hungry.

Marden sat postured across from them, indulging their flattery, when a chill ran down her neck, nearly breaking her poise. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a cold had crept into the room, and with it the sickly scent of decay. Marden watched both her guests closely, her patron's cavernous-eyed companion particularly, but if either of them noticed the change they showed no sign of it.

The aura continued to invade the room. One she had felt long, long ago and was still all too familiar.

But she was no longer a lonely battle maiden, wedded to the sword, staring out at annihilation come. She had made her bargain—her soul for countless thousands, to be repaid one for every hearth outside Idruis' walls.

And she had paid. All but the last. For now she was something greater than she had been, something far more. She was a bloodletting storm, a whirlwind of sharp edges and deadly intent, and she would not have ruin heaped upon her again.

She bandied words with the men and she waited. Ready.