The cold air blew hard across the Coronian fields, tall grasses yielding in soft, flowing waves. An orchard of barren apple trees raised their skeletal arms to the heaven, dotting the eastern cliffside as if in disbelief. The sun, like Storm, was well past its peak, slowly descending towards the waiting rest at the edge of Althanas. The sky was still a pleasant blue, but its time left was unknown. The darkness awaited, in a future not so far off.

Atop his large black horse, Commander Storm Veritas couldn’t feel the crunch of autumnal leaves beneath the hard hooves of Attila. He couldn’t hear damned near anything, as the droning white noise of his followed thousands stretched in scattered packs just behind him. The rangers and guardsmen were mixed in throngs near the cliff, as the larger units continued to set up camp along the west. Peeking down, the omnipresent sun hid their numbers from him, but he knew well what was at his disposal.

“Keep the big bastards and the guns inland, but make sure the cannons can reach the cliff’s edge. Some other pack of damned fools will find their way up here soon enough. Radasanth always sends heavy hitters down the coast to defend their watch, but we’ve got the Rangers and damned near half the guard – spread out ranks wide enough and we’ll scare any defenses shitless.” A small drink of water satiated him for the time – there was a buzz in the air and it wasn’t time for firewater just yet.

“Har!” General Garron the Mighty, a mountain of a thing, tapped the extended handle of his mace in his hand. The thick stock of wood thumped hard against his massive calloused hands, and the meaty edge of steel at the end of his weapon moved as though he wielded a child’s drumstick. Gesturing wildly to the troops, Garron spoke in echoing words that rang like thunderclaps. Men and giants alike clanged sword and shields together as they fell into rank and file, a wonderful tension filling them.

“He’s coming back quick, big fella. He’s seen something.” The wizard rubbed thickly muscled neck of the horse, and Attila appropriately showed respect to the moment by relieving himself onto the crisp mat of orange and red maple leaves beneath him.

Bet half of these gods-damned chickenshits are doing the same under their pretty green tunics. It’s alright, I suppose. Fear sharpens us; it keeps us alert. Let them shake a little now, I’ve got a feeling the grounds beneath us will be moving soon enough.

Marching the coast to Radasanth had been advertised as a fool’s errand. No one had successfully broken through the gates of Radasanth in over four hundred years. Storm Veritas had slowly climbed ranks, his career stifled by an uprising in Whitevale and the bullshit politics of the born rich. He had waited long enough; his time to take what was his has arrived. The very element of electricity already bent to his will; it was time for the capital of Corone to follow suit.

Commander Seamus Brackett rode hard to him, flanked on either side by two serious looking young soldiers. The men were hawk-eyed, their gaze fixed on the tree line behind their leader, careful to avert their gaze from him. Seamus was cut from bolder cloth; he held his tanned face direct to the leader, his own squared and fixed jaw twitching as his teeth clenched. A stirring came about the camp; the soldiers bristled as they whispered in hushed tones. They struggled to listen without encroaching the two warriors that met atop horses at the front of the ranks.

“Remind me to play you in poker the next time I’m short, Seamus. We got company?” Storm’s voice was serious, the joke falling by the wayside of pending bad news.

“Aye, cap. Scouts came back. They're loaded. Thousands of them. Mages. Swordsmen. Everything. Damned if they don’t spot us up man for man.” Seamus’s thick brogue reminded the magician of an old friend, a treasured beauty of a woman who’d long departed for Am’aleh’s embrace.

“The thing is… well…” Seamus’s continuation was stymied by a lump in his throat.

“Cut the shit, Brackett. What is it!? Out with it…” A glowering mix of skepticism and anger whorled about Veritas, his electric energy generating a scent of ozone in the air.

“Their leader… He’s… well, it’s Shinsou.” The commander finally broke his gaze, looking out over the thousands of troops prepped in large squares of men. They stood before a large open space, dotted by marsh on their left and cliffside. Thousands of eyes were fixed on the tandem, chattering and bouncing with enthusiasm and paralyzing fear. In front of these men stretched a terrible hard-packed bottleneck, capped by a colossal horde currently out of sight. Worse, the horde was led by one terribly dangerous man at the other side.

“Of fucking course it is. It’s the only way this could have gone.” A deep breath, and his eyes fixed on the horizon, where he thought he heard the distant thunder of troop march foretell the coming hellstorm. Without thinking of it, moments later a tiny glowing orange pulsed before his face, the cigarette filling his mouth with a warm oaky flavor. His fingers twitched, tiny arcs of white and blue chattering between them atop the placid horse.

“Disregard the spread. Shin’s men won’t run; no use trying to puff our chests. Back the giants and cannons back a hundred yards and down the crest; hide our ranks. Give him a chance to come into range before he finds out what we’ve got.”

The warm glow of late day nearly disappeared as the commander took his leave. Clouds had popped over the western horizon, thick and fast moving and angry. His eyes fixed fast on the dropping sun, now almost totally obscured.

The darkness comes for all of us.