The cold winds blow without mercy, howling through the night like a wolf cry. The trees shiver and shake, the snow falling off the branches. The blood runs from the lifeless bodies on the ground, staining the white snow red. The black birds fly above circling in the sky, cawing and crying as they fly. The stench of the rotting bodies fill the air here and away as the wind carries the smell of death throughout the air.
A figure adorned in all black walks along the carnage, the ice and snow creaking and crunching under the weight of the figure's black boots. It makes it's way across the scene of death, eyeing every corpse that ley in the snow. It walks among the bloodied and rotting bodies, it picks at them like a vulture or crow scavenging for it's meal. The black figure stops and kneels down in the snow as it searches through a mangled corpse, it picks and stabs at the bloodied body searching every crease and crevice. It finds nothing of want.
The black figure sighs and stands up as it makes it's way to another corpse, it kneels down again and prods it the same as the last. The black figure does this routine again until every frozen body is thoroughly prodded and probed. To the dismay of the black figure, it has found nothing of want. Only swords and axes, armour and cloaks, blood and flesh. Whatever possible valuables the black figure could carry and want have already been looted before it could arrive. Typical of a battlefield.
All along the blood stained snow lay bodies of dead soldiers. Their skin stabbed and sliced, their armour beaten and broken. A wooden spear with a metal end lays planted in the ground, on the end of it flys a banner. A banner of dark grey with a golden crown over crossed silver swords, this was the banner of house Aevreyne. The ruling house of the Aevreyne Empire.
"Capital Peacekeepers… heh. He he…"
The black figure cackles to itself, it reaches forth it's hand and grabs the banner. It admires the threadwork of the banner, clearly the work of a great artisan most likely from The Capital City. The black figure let's out a soft wheeze before pulling it off the spear and tossing it to the ground.
"Fools! Fools! Fools! Do they not know there is no damn peacekeeping anymore! Fucking morons! Ingrates! Foolish swine! The winds of war… they blow viscously, mercilessly, greatly! He he he…"
The black figure shouts to itself as it stomps and dances on the banner, it flaps it's arms as it cackles and dances. The large black cloak lined with black feathers the figure is wearing makes it look like a giant crow. The lifeless eyes of corpses meet the black figure, they watch as The Crow makes mockery of their lives, their purpose, their death. The silver armour of the soldiers shine, the golden etchings glimmer as the bodies adorning the peacekeeper armour rot in the snow. The dark night becomes darker as the clouds shroud the moon, what ever light there was before has now dissapated. The black figure looks up at the moon with it's bird like mask, it's black beak faces towards the sky.
The Crow stops dancing and falls onto the ground, it lets out a dissapointed sigh. Dissatisfied with the lack of treasures or trinkets it wished to scavenge from the area. Wishing for a possible valuable family hierloom or blessed trinket, it found only a few coins of gold and a few coins of silver. The Crow looks at the corpses and the surrounding area, ogling the bloody carnage from the percieved battle. Only capital soldiers lay dead in the snow, who ever killed these men either faced no casualties or have carried their dead away. The Crow reaches to it's head and takes off it's large brim black hat, it shakes it and wipes off the snow before putting it back on.
The Crow's head is wrapped in black cloth, a black mask with a beak rests on it's face, and the large brim black hat on the top of it's head. It's black mask and hat matches the rest of it's clothes. A large black cloak lined with black feathers on one side, with the other side being black wool. Under the cloak it wears a black tunic and a dark brown leather vest, a satchel is adorned across it's body. Black trousers with pockets cover the legs, with heavy black boots on the feet. The figure completes it's look with a pair of black leather gloves.
The cold piercing wind carries the stench of the corpses away, it blows towards the direction of Anneswrathe. A populous and historic city, and The Crow's destination. The snow crunches beneath the heavy black boots of The Crow as it stands up, it stretches it's back before moving. It walks away from the scene of the battle, moving with the direction of the wind and the scent of death it carries.