[TT] No sound was heard but the crunching of snow beneath booted feet.

...

The wagon rocked and shook, as wooden wheels and spokes conquered the stones and divots of the ancient western roads. A steady hand, gloved in the finest velvet and gold, nursed a crystal glass of amber spirit above such travels. The liquid held beside the window's edge, cast reflections upon the wood-crafted works within the small but detailed space of the cabin.

Sipping the liquor to the taste of a dull, but fiery burn, he stared out at the world. Watching the endless landscape of black sand and gray dust from where he sat within the private carriage, Jarl Congrad could only see three things wrong with the day so far. One of the recent past, one looming future, and one growing but certain present.

First and foremost, was the lingering issue of that evening prior; of a rare upset, and a deal gone awry.

Foreign hand-gestures and unfamiliar sarcastic inflections aside, Jarl recognized blatant disrespect clearly enough even before he passed the man his winnings. As the commander of a small army, possessing both title and rank which demanded respect and gratitude, Jarl had found himself publicly mocked by a man who had (until quite recently) had owed him a rather decent sum of coin.

The sting of a lost bet was painful with only the price of gold involved, but by personal reflection Jarl could determine the aftertaste of salt in his wounded ego did few favors for either involved party.

Normally, this behavior alone might have been enough of a trigger for Jarl to quietly cut a person down and string them behind his personal carriage as an example. Unfortunately though, the recent matter possessed more than just a fair number of witnesses, so Jarl had been forced to politely make amends. Taking the ever mentioned high-road: He went about wearing a smile, while silently brooding on the subject and imagining how many swords he might stick in a body before it turned to a corpse.

At the very least, visually, Jarl was certain most around them considered the topic tabled for a later date; though the seething frustration he felt could take weeks to simmer.

For the second issue of wrongness on the day, was thankfully less of a personal fault, though others might not see it so kindly. Along the Church's communication, sent by manner of the scribe's network, Jarl's motley army had been issued yet another order upon report of their successful Northern Conquest.

Just the very fact an order had been given at all, bordered on outrageous. By all accounts and historic review, Jarl had lead an unprepared force to an impossible victory. By his own purse and resources, he had compensated for their lacking numbers, supplies, horses, wagons, weapons, accurate maps and intelligence... The list might stretch onward for as long as he'd seek pursuing the recollection. That the Church might ask more of them, after signalling their triumphant and unfeasible return home alive, only assure Jarl of the obvious and bitter truth.

The Church either wanted them all dead, or they were foolish enough to believe their goals possible.

He'd read the reports from the Southern armies as they passed along the scribe's network, pages the leather-bound and runic imbued book presently sitting quietly on the shelf once filled with blood-soaked ink and warnings. Beside his sheltered window, should he reach for it even now and open the text to read what information awaited him, Jarl had no doubts to the little change in that regard.

Their greatest armies were in dire straights. The losses to the south had been catastrophic: At the most favorable estimations, thousands were dead- crushed and bloodied between two hordes of Orc warriors in a weighted ambush. For the less favorable, the numbers left more dead than alive. According to the rough handed reports, those once great Holy armies only held with survivors due to assistance from the Great Dragon that had come along with the venture: A legendary beast Jarl was still quite hesitant to believe existed without witnessing the monstrosity by his own eyes.

Regardless of the continued campaign, the forward march to rejoin the Nation's Holy Crusade towards the great and legendary Blackened Spire, or the pointlessly futile effort to slay the Dark Lord. Beside all of the wants and demands of distant Eastern men who held far too much power for their own good, there was a third wrongness with the new day.

A cold and bitter wind that seemed to sweep from a place far-off. An air with taste not familiar, a scent of hunger and thirst that seemed to only take in place of charity. From Jarl's view, seated beside the window of his carriage to stare outward at the expanse, even the gray skies above seemed to grow cold with the foreign light of a place they should not be.

Months ahead of its time and place among the seasons, as Jarl closed his eyes, he listening to the faint drafts of wind as they swept white flakes down upon the tired marching army. The longer he listened, the more muffled those sounds became, pooling together as he finished the glass in his gloved hand with finality, and rose to stand once more, stepping back out into the cold outside air.

Far all his eyes could see of men and armor marching, exhausted faces filled with worry and scorn alike: No sound was heard but the crunching of snow beneath booted feet.