A restless breeze moving through the air, Aribelle brought the cloak that she wore closer to her body as she stared out into the valley. The wind, provoking the dry yellowed blades of grass to sway, Aribelle noted them grimly. Knowing that they would soon be dyed red from the bloody battle that was about to take place there, she glanced beyond the vast empty stage. Hearing voices and the sound of marching invaded over the spiny ridge of a mountain range that marked the border between the little village and Dryden.