Cold Foul Winds of Battle

A cold foul wind has blown in from the plains and upon it's tattered wings the wretched smell of battle. Storm clouds gather like generals, to darken the land with their rumbling threats of war. Vultures circle high above, greedily awaiting a grim outcome for their feast. All around us the enemy is encamped and readies the siege machines. These are great warriors of old. Ancient mongers of fear and hopelessness, who carry with them the seeds of doubt. They are preceded by the cries of the afflicted and weak in this land ravaged by famine. They reap what they did not sow, these lying thieves of deceit and trickery. We wait and hope in the deliverance of the Ancient One, our shield and strength.