The storm choked the sun, casting icy shadow upon the world below. Lightning streaked across the churning black maelstrom. Thunder crashed down over the wastelands.

Two armies stood at the heart of nature’s fury. Sleet drove into their eyes and wind howled around their armour. Pyrithian helms shone golden through the gloom. Atteronian horns glittered crimson. Splendid rapiers winked coldly at Pyrithian belts. Jagged sabres twinkled with frosty bloodlust. Armoured horses shuffled uncomfortably. But demons had no need for horses. 

“You will fall to our blades, Pyrithians!” a chilling voice hissed. For what seemed like eternity the thunder ceased. The threat was carried on the silence to the farthest soul. In answer, the rapiers of men became like stars above their heads.

“We are Pyrithia!” One man cried out into the dark. His horse whinnied and reared. Bolts of lightning struck the ground at his feet.

“We will not fall!”