The sun, hot, harsh, a destroyer of things that might stay out too long in its glory, lurked like a red eye on the horizon, slowly rising. A chilling breeze slid through the ranks like a snake eager to strike at something, the flags snapping to attention as it slithered by.
And there, on this field were two hundred troops, barely of age to marry, trembling in their cold metal armor that's hug was not as soothing as their mothers tears had been as they had moved to march, to join the Empire. Small Empire that it was, only capable of mustering two hundred troops against the deafening roar of five thousand feet, drawing ever closer then finally stopping.
And it was a dead air. The breeze no longer playing, the flags once at attention drooping in the face of the onslaught they would soon be witness to. The flags of what could already be assumed would be a lost nation.
Who would lead these young men? Who had Sisters, Mothers, and old Fathers who could no longer wield blade for their defense