Hatdhes
Lokenth didn't think it was his first battle, but it was.
For he'd fought before, against the undead, against the unnamed monsters of the wilderness, sword to claw and shield to fang, outnumbered and alone, the blood and the beatings and the sweat and the terror and the victory. He'd fought a thousand unsung battles in places that were on no map, against foes that only existed in rumor and trails of inexplicably slain livestock.
And since then, he'd led his Adventurers against the peasant militias, alongside the mighty army of Arcaea, banners waving, trumpets sounding. These were no single combats. They were battles, surely!
But they weren't. Nothing had prepared him for the assault on Hatdhes; not even the wise words of old captain Aldric. It wasn't about banners and trumpets then; they flew and they sounded, like figments in some murky dream. Scaling the walls; being thrown back. Again and again; he lost track. He couldn't find his men either, though in the back of his mind he thought they must be around somewhere. The shouting and clamor was so loud he couldn't tell what was going on. Death was everywhere, in the air, on the field, hiding behind stone fortifications and taking whoever it did. He thought he gave orders, shouted commands, but even he hadn't been able to hear himself, and who would listen to him in such chaos? Who could? The siege engines were incomprehensibly large, complicated beasts he warily ran about as he tried to advance. He couldn't remember if he slew anyone with his sword, but he was pretty sure he tried, here and there. His throat was raw and bleeding from the smoke and the shouting - so he discovered afterwards.
He discovered a lot of things afterwards. Most of his troops were dead, or presumed dead or deserted. Many, many people were dead. The battlefield stank of death worse than any undead horde. Fresh death, and fresh !@#$, and the iron scent of blood filled his nostrils as he stumbled around, exhausted, trying to gather anyone who survived. He'd felt more beat-up and put-upon than ever he had in any number of single combat engagements in the wild... and had he even fought anyone? Already his memory was fading. As he left the region in an exhausted daze he filled his mouth with warm wine and winced as it seared his raw throat.
Aldric had told him, had tried to. But no words could have described it.
