The Battle of the Embrin Downs
Flags and pennants flapped in the cold, fell wind that drove down from the North, into the borderlands of Galdornia. The wind carried the breath of change, of life and death for men and nations, proceeding the black hordes pouring out of their mountain fastnesses in Gheldeth and Narasul.
King Palanthir, who would be named the "Victorious", sat atop his bay charger, his golden armor glinting in the failing light of the sun, watching as dark clouds descended over the field ahead. Clouds that covered the advance of untold thousands of barbarians and thrallachs, armored in black leather and charcoal suits of iron ringed mail. Their crooked spears and jagged swords waved above them like a sea of dying grass.
The mighty King shook his head and spat on the ground in disgust and shame. Shame for not seeing the mustering of the North until it was too late. Now he faced the storm alone, even as his allies to the south mustered their own forces. They would come too late, and only in time to bury the dead.
Arrayed behind him, was the indomitable host of Galdornia. Ten thousand stalwart warriors clad in glimmering steel. Long spears rested against mighty shields, ready to form a unmoving wall of death. Yet higher on the hill stood the Galdornian archers, the finest shots in the Northern realms, armed with their Elven heritage and ironthorn longbows. On the flanks, and hidden behind the rolling foothills of the Embrin mountains, were the unwavering Galdornian Knights, cavalry waiting for the right moment to charge into the enemy's flanks.
The King turned his charger and rode along the front, saluting his men and giving them courage. Courage alone would not be enough. King Palanthir had been born for this moment, so the prophets said, and he would not fail. Iron will and the determination to survive as a people would propel the Galdornians to victory.