Mounted on their steeds, they both watched with bated breath as the dance of death unfolded below. The field was a tapestry of shifting alliances and embattled warriors, their swords glinting in the pale light. Soldiers from both sides clashed with a fervor that only the fires of war could ignite, their movements a deadly choreography of parries and thrusts.
Javorne, his gaze fixated on the unfolding spectacle, observed his brother Gwychards. With a stoic composure, Gwychards sat upon his wooden chair, his countenance a mask of quiet confidence. His eyes, sharp and focused, surveyed the ebb and flow of the battle, analyzing the tactics and strategies employed by each side. A subtle tilt of his head revealed the keen intellect and tactical brilliance that lay dormant within him.
