The smell of war was always a bitter tang in the air.
The scent of iron and fear lingered in the chill bite of the winter breeze, and the undercurrent of smoke only rose as fires began to flare.
By Aric's command, the Byzeth soldiers marched into the settlements, dragging families out of their homes before promptly setting the houses on fire. Men pleaded for their families, women pleaded for their children, and the little ones could only cry and scream, adding to the symphony of disaster as their homes crackled in the flames.
The dark winter night was painted orange by the flames, and as Aric gazed at the chaos he wrought, his dark mask glowed gold from the fire reflected upon it.
He could hear the screams of the community and their pleas, but he remained indifferent, his heart and mind as cold as the winter chill that bit through the steel of his armor.