The Iron Council

Bitter winds swept down the war-torn field surrounding the small city of Trent. A stink carried on the air, mingling scents of dying embers, anticipation, bad news, and sweat with that of dead men, urine and fear. Small patches of thick mud, earth mixed with blood, stood out in contrast with the large swaths of arrows sticking out of the ground – small flags marking a country yet to be named.

Ten figures were all that remained of the Fist that was left to take the city. Some looking to the city walls, others huddled around the dying breakfast fires, with the remainder sleeping off a long night of watching and waiting. Out of the three looking towards the city, two men of differing heights were dwarfed by the giant minotaur standing in between them. The back of the tabard, seemingly once a brilliant white at one point but had now settled for a dingy opal color, fluttered behind the bull in the breeze. Contrasting with the dirty white was the minotaur’s armor – a set of half-plate armor that was pain-stakingly cared for. The plates running down the left shoulder, stacked so neatly on top of each other, showed little wear despite the numerous fires that had reflected off of it.

“We will not take the city…” Podrus’s usually booming voice tapered off, possibly taken with the wind.

“Not today,” said the man on the left, “…not without another Fist coming to help.”

“They’re coming back, right?” the man to the right of Podrus looked over, and up, to the other two.

As if to steal any given answer, the wind picked back up. A low whistle, barely audible, whined as the wind passed through the various fletchings of all the different arrows pock-marking the ground in front of them.

The Iron Council