The gale swept harshly through broken stones and shattered charred wooden posts and frames, tattered fabric snapping harshly, the screaming whistle and shrieking maelstrom, giving voice to the lost souls and spreading deaths coppery sent. Smoke billowed across the charred and bloody landscape, across a momentous wall that stood erect and foreboding only slightly blackened from the vicious fight that had stolen the life from the small fort. Another gust sent the cloaks of two riders sailing in graceful arcs of black and white as they stood astride valiant steeds upon a crest in the land, overlooking the damage.
What is the taste of freedom, some may never know, their very life ripped from them before they have set upon their path of destiny. Others, would never know but the first blissful bite before freedom is taken away from them and they live life with a bitter hatred to those who took what was rightfully theirs all the while striving to hold on to the small hope that what was lost, shall be found just around the corner.
The rider in black turned slightly as a roman messenger tried to climb the steep slope, the thick blanket of snow and harsh winds making it difficult on both horse and rider. By the time the herald had made it to the top of the slope the rider in black had turned away, surveying the carnage once again, while the rider in white merely nodded in the messenger's general direction. Reaching in his saddlebag the messenger, probably no more than eighteen years of age, grabbed a scroll and held it out to the riders. The rider in black took the scroll and glanced at it slightly before tossing it to the white rider and turning their dark gray horse and trotting down the hill. The rider in white glanced at the scroll before sighing and tossing the boy a coin for his troubles, turning their black charger they soon followed after the rider in black.