Conqueror's Blade Lore
Born in the Saddle

At first, Saffron would move the bodies out of the cave and bury them in proper graves with tombstones, But near the end of the winter, he would just numbly carry the dead to where the snow wasn't so deep and bury them in a shallow grave. He bunkered down in the cave, trying his best to ignore the voices. "Pasture, it'll be fine once we find pasture", he thought. The snowstorms finally passed leaving only a few nomads. They tended their few sheep and looked at Saffron with their dead eyes, Saffron didn't know beneath which grave the village elder was buried, but he felt that he couldn't leave this place in this state. "Time to find pastures," Saffron muttered and wiped his face.

"War in the south will reach here. Better be prepared for it. There are always people hungry for power, fame, and fortune, or guided by faith. And the Conqueror's City happens to have them all." Molex blew aside the foam on his mead.

"The lords are afraid. They're rebuilding their city walls and hoarding up food and fodder, planning to lock themselves inside their stone bastions. No wonder they were taxing us four times more."

The old man went quiet for a while before drinking taking a pull from his mug.

"We'll have to prepare more food and hay. I feel it will be an extremely chilly winter."

"Oh? How do you know? The god of shepherds told you again?"

"We're nomads, and nomads listen to the god of shepherds. He's the messenger of life and the bringer of death] He brings our inevitable fate."

"Nonsense. The lords bring you death, and you fight for your own lives."

Saffron shook his head and dismissed the memory. Before him on the pastures, there was naught but dead grass and the howling of the winter wind. Saffron stood upon the blasted land, feeling his heart slowly sinking. Something inside him seemed to shatter, but his heart also felt light, as if he'd broken free.

Saffron turned back and asked a nomad behind him.

"What mistake do you think we made?"

The man slowly raised his head, "We… shouldn't have come looking for pastures?", he answered. "We're warriors, not nomads! We wish to die honorably on the battlefield, not merely survive!"

Saffron shook his head and said, "We made no mistake. Even though the Empire is no more vultures and maggots have crawled up from its corpse, and we can never return… We will live on with its spirit! "

Fierceness began to return to the nomads, or rather, warriors as they threw the reins from their hands, and a twinkle of life returned to their eyes.

"Yes, Commander Saffron!"

Saffron looked out over the grisly scene, illuminated by the flashes of explosions. There was a figure leaning on the tree next to him, wearing grey leather armour. The emissary spoke in a hoarse and low voice, scratchy from the dust of travel.

"How about it, aren't they easy to use?"

Saffron didn't answer, watching his soldiers make short work of the fleeing enemy.

"This is the gift from the master. There will be more in the future."

Saffron looked at the dark shadow and he was silent for a long time.

"Well, long live the Tyrant, rightful ruler of this land."

The emissary seemed satisfied with this answer and disappeared into the woods. The killing had come to an end, and the moonlight was obscured by the smoke of a burning spear.