The soldiers seem almost frustrated by the lack of conflict. Beyond getting shot at, the vast majority have seen no fighting. But you know it's coming. It has to be. As you move through their ranks and gatherings, you assuage their fears.
You tell them that the fight is coming. You tell them to make right with their brothers and their gods.
But you come across a particular gathering that draws your attention. Just outside their barracks, a group of men are sitting around a fire, drinks in hand. It is a typical scene. However, one man in particular draws your eye.
He stands away from his comrades, leaning over a set of barrels, staring out at the enemy camp, far in the distance. You ask a nearby levyman, "What's up with him?"
"That's Vjeran, Marshal. He barely spoke to us when he joined our barracks. After that ambush, he don't speak at all," he says with a slow shake of the head, almost as if he's disappointed.
You look over at the distant man.