The rain fell hard on the heathen plains. It was a cold rain, fat and heavy, soaking everything with doom and sorrow. The surrounding lands had given nothing but blisters and dust for over a month, and when the horns of battle finally rang out, the heavens shrouded themselves within a thick, grey shield and assaulted the earth with its icy weapons.
The ambiance of battle, once built of wave upon wave of challenges and shouting, the melody of swords against steel, and the percussion of rocks against stone, had at first dimmed into a foggy buzz in the back of the head, and now the rain had completely masked all sound. War had always been a fleshy sensation. The smells and sounds and sights were always the first casualties of mass conflict.
