The raging cries move over Jarl Harris' men as they breach the gates of Fort Vega, pushing their adversaries back into their own defences.
They advance steadily, trading blades and blows. The men under Harris' banner are true Vikings, with bare chests and heavy axes, they cleave into the opposition, deathly clouding their enemy's morale.
But then, a boot stomps and a horn blows drawing attention to Lord Vega, a knight in all her glory, the confidence of her gait and the gleam of her very armour set her men back in place, with their morale touching the blue sky above the siege.
Jarl Harris is yet to be seen, and Knight Lord takes no prisoners, dashing the lives from the fools who dare to cross her path. Her round table disperses, hand picked soldiers making her proud.
Then...
It flies across the battleground, like hawk over sea, landing with a spray of dirt at the Knight Lord's feet.
It's a head, clad in the finest helming from her personal armoury. She takes up courage and turns the head, knowing fully well the lifeless face she is to greet.
Her own beloved, the only child she ever had. The brave king kisses his head one last time and charges into the onslaught, her war cry reaching the heavens.
At her greying age, her eyes and limbs should not agree easily, but she makes quick work of her foes; holding the title of Silver Devil high.
A resounding thud shocks the battlefield anew, knights are flung in her direction, clearing a path for the Jarl.
The young king of the unethical and the savage the new generation of might. His thick dreadlocks fall over his massive brown chest as he heaves.
The old knight of the unblemished and the worthy, the old generation of grace. Her grey streaked brunette locks dance in the wind as she discards her helmet.
He smiles hauntingly, she grimaces.
Then, they charge