“Today My blood shall run upon the dirt”
-Carved on a Great Oak Tree by Artamoth the Conqueror

Grofaln’s hands trembled and he gripped the reins tighter to still them. His mount’s flanks trembled as well, No doubt sensing my own fear, he thought, or something more? Grofaln scanned the clearing wondering how such a small force, forty-odd men and horses, could ever hope to assault the Tower Keep. We ride to our death today, of this there is no doubt. Artamoth has artfully used strange tactics before, but this is suicide! Grofaln looked across the clearing where Artamoth was kneeling in front of a great red oak, it’s thick limbs reached high above all the other trees in the canopy. His face was raised to the sun, his ruddy features obscured by his thick beard. His armor gleamed in the dappled sunlight that trickled through the trees.

Finally Artamoth turned and mounted his steed and without a word rode into the seemingly impenetrable forest. Grofaln nudged his steed to follow Artamoth to their death.