[TT] The generals meet to discuss the terms of surrender.

...

Jarl Congrad stood beside the remains of Doterra's once expansive armies, frown etched deep upon his face.

What had not even a half-season past numbered well into the tens of thousands, was now nothing more than the ragged dregs and weary. Reduced and cut away by battle after battle upon the Southern Plains of the Western Wastes, holding to perhaps a a generous tenth of its former standing. Truly a disturbing contrast to his own small force, which while not numbered far beyond several hundred- had never done so, escaping yet relatively unscathed during the fiercest fights of this terrible war.

As such, unrestrained glares settled on his clean and immaculate steed, narrowing like drawn bows towards his gilded leather and polished armor: Anger clearly and loudly proclaimed, even with the silence of his approach. The butcher's bill had come due and been collected, and it was plain to see Jarl had let others pick up the tab.

How much of that was luck, skill, preparation or simple circumstances- he knew none of those tired and hateful eyes would care. To the many soldiers who had fought and died on the Southern Campaign, Jarl and his army were nothing but a motley gaggle of cowards, walking in on a hard-won and bloody victory. A gallant leader marching at the head of a great band of cheats.

Yet Jarl approached all the same.

He'd prepared long and hard for the campaign, knowing full well the dangers. How many times had the Church sent men North to die in vain? How many had succeeded in returning? Let those ignorant eyes watch and loath him all they wanted, Jarl had kept his own alive, and they had accomplished the tasks assigned to them without assistance. On their own Northern Campaign, Jarl had not possessed a Great and Ancient Dragon to pave a path through his enemies, nor armies of trained soldiers by the thousands. He'd had his wits, his resources, and the preparations made by his own coin and effort.

Marching upon the meeting of Generals beneath the Dark and twisted Tower of the West, it was in this manner Jarl and his entourage held their chests proudly. Be it himself, the Baron, the many Mages or Warriors in his company; Jarl was confident that none who had been a part of the journey felt their survival anything but rightfully earned.

"So he finally arrives!" A loud voice boomed over the bloodied steps of the blackened spire. "The Unscathed Genius of the Northern Legion." The Sarcasm dripped like venom from a viper's tooth as the cold hostility of Men at war turned itself to stare down upon Jarl's approach. "And here I thought you might continue your leisurely journey among the wastes for another few days, and let us clean up the mess ourselves."

The cold laughter did little to lift what flicker of spirits remained. Eyes settled to blank and thousand yard stares, looks as if to pull daggers from their belts on a moments notice. To think this was the great meeting of war heroes upon a victorious campaign and crusade. Had he not known it well himself, Jarl might call the proposition mad.

"Paladin Clark. A pleasure to see you've survived." Dismounting his steed with a dignified grace, Jarl responded with a slight and regal bow; indifferent to the glares which directed themselves upon his person as he left the horse in the waiting hands of his attendants. Alone he approached the gathering settled upon the Great Tower's Base, silence greeting both his back and his front as frosty glares exchanged between the parties.

Tensions, even in the final days. It was just, he supposed, considering many of his men were little more than criminals in the eyes of Holy Justice. Sheltered and protected criminals, enlisted carefully beneath Jarl's own service.

Almost unwillingly, his eyes followed up towards the four compassed peaks, squinting in the late-afternoon sun to witness the frame of an Ancient Drake settled on the Eastern most portion. It seemed scorched and smoldering with flame, but in the manner of a fight long since won- and no longer waged.

"To see you joining us at last... By the Light I'd say you've made better time than I'd ever expected for someone of your reputation." The Large man of white armor and cloak gestured absently at the rough congregation now setting camp among the masses, Jarl's banners lofted over the horses and carriages to billow quietly in the wind. "It's a shame you were not here to share in the glory of a true victory, Congrad."

"I have accomplished was was asked, both in arrival and in my original orders." Jarl smiled coolly, bowing once more as his right hand let itself lift away in a grand gesture of respect. "All in service of the Holy Church, of course. May the light shine upon you."

Paladin Clark eyed him with barely contained venom, face contorting at the perceived mockery beside the rest. Finally, like steam vented from a pipe of cast iron, his expression cooled to reach a simple reply. "Indeed. May it shine."

It seemed to suffice, even among the many other worn and exhausted faces. Young men outnumbering the old by a great margin before Jarl's eyes. It seemed there would be a great revival of the Guard, saying they all made it back to the Eastern lands alive. Promotions were commonplace after a victory like this one, considering how many open positions suddenly needed to be filled. The Church coffers would be resting happy and heavy on their return.

Dead soldiers don't collect their pay, after all.

"The Dragon has dealt with the Dark Mage's own General upon the Spire's peak, and their Orc-bodied armies have staggered themselves into hopeless routes." Clark's stern voice returned, sneer fading off in the strict face of his responsibilities. "Our remaining archer Squadrons will deal with them by the week's end, we have several cavalry units drawing and harrying them towards the slaughter as I speak."

"Their numbers?" Another asked, sword shifting on their hip.

"Down to the mere hundreds, barely a chief left among them."

"It is done then." One of the rare few men present with gray upon his face and beard spoke, eyes peering from beneath an open-faced helm of worn and dented steel. Paladin Clark nodded once in reply, before speaking with pride.

"It is. The war is won."

Jarl watched a collective sigh of both relief and grateful respect seemed to settle over thick shoulders and heavy armor. An odd wave, not of substance, but of motion itself. Some of the men bearing witness bowed deep with murmurs of prayer right then and there.

As it seemed with any among the Faithful of the East, Doterra's Holy armies were little different from the rest. Gods and Light, prayer and thankfulness above all else. An unfortunate rift of separation.

With little hesitation, Jarl turned to leave.

"So you leave us?" Clark's voice rang out, rage once again returned to a boil upon his words and spittle. "Does this great victory mean so little to you? Does even god's grace hold lacking value to your heathen eyes, Jarl Congrad?"

"You declared this campaign finished." Jarl turned back, catching sight of the many faces now watching him once more. Clark's massive figure seemed to have puffed up larger still beneath the polished breast plate of silver steel and crest- anger pressing him as if flame to air.

"Have you no respect for the dead?" The hatred seethed with every word. "Your blood runs cold as your father's, already rushing back to your forsaken lands in the North."

Jarl's smile wavered, however slightly, glare settling on the Paladin's face with a cold expression void of any discernible emotion.

Finally, he replied. "Yes." Turning back to the waiting camps distant the gathering of important men and polished armor, back to the company he had arrived with. "So it is that you understand why I must now take my leave."

Spit hit the black and bloodied stone beside their feet, cloud of dust lifting from its surface as if a single drop of tainted rain. Still, Jarl carried on, letting his steps take away the reach and close distance to the gathering of rank. It was finally over.

"Faithless Coward!" Paladin Clark shouted again, fist slamming against a thick breast-plate.

Jarl's steps carried him further, back towards his waiting men. Each one of them watching with grim faces, anger rising among their own ranks.

"Run off and cower! Cower in the North with the filth and the Bloody Baron!"

Jarl stopped, eyes held tightly closed beneath the pounding of blood in his ears. The ever-powerful force of logic had fixed him cold, tying him and dragging him down the path he'd kept, but in this moment he was tempted.

"Mage or not: You stand for nothing! Your blood is damned Congrad! Damned, just like that Bastard and the whore who spawned you! You abomination!"

Sorely tempted: More tempted than he ever had been to live up the the cursed reputation that proceeded him. To prove to them, all of those men with their divine purpose and faith- the sheer truth of his blood. The Lineage that they spat upon to casually. The long traced curse back to the darkness which haunted the world over.

So it was that he held in place as if balanced on the edge of a wicked sharp blade, drumbeat of war and chest drowning out almost everything else.

Almost

For in that instant, Jarl could hear a message whisper. A strange a terrible voice of quiet suggestion, eyes watching from a shrouded distance.

Passive and ancient, it smiled at him through the wizened face of deception as it spoke softly in his mind.

Kill them.

Kill them all.