[Calaethis Dragonsbane]

Word had reached them. Another village - some pitiful hamlet had fallen. So be it. Unimpressed and impassive past the point of disdainful, Kul Gildun cared less for the village than he did for the bug he had just crushed beneath his boots. The flies were rampant here. At the very edge of the realm, on the border, he and his horde watched with ever-growing anticipation as the news the Queendom along the Gerry was falling. His horsemen were born from the stuff of legend, and they would take this land by storm. But he was patient. He would wait as the armies of this realm battled it out amongst themselves, and while they were weakened, in chaos, then the storm would truly arrive. He was its herald. Behind him, the nomads began to chant, cheering him. Their dark banners held high in their hands, only a raven pierced by a spear could be made out, against a lightbolt lit field of black.
The first riders would be sent out soon. This land was ripe for picking. Only the slaves, in their camp, twenty miles behind, and their booty, were testament to the lands that came before. Slaves from all different lands. And he, Kul Gildun, was Kul of the entire Stormflyer nation. That is what they were, after all: Children of the Storm. All would learn to fear and despise their name. Behind him, the five hundred thousand strong host would follow. Fifty were with him; the rest would come. Every stone would be levelled, every road razed.

Turning his steed, he held up his palm. They would not be assaulting the realm this day. Five hundred horse turned and wheeled as one, retreating back into the mountains.

Above them, the storm clouds began to gather.