"This'll be the war to end all wars.. After this t'ere won' ever be anyone tryna challenge Oren in th'field.."
Says a Northern footsoldier, marching in a long line headed south.
"Oi just hope I don' return all pale 'n cold..."
The Brothers of the crow would likely be marching in the front, by the duke and the lords. Banners waving proudly in the wind, confident men, the time they have trained for has come. Behind them however, follow the levy soldiers from all through the north, footsoldiers mostly. Many a man would say they reek of fear, homesickness and ale. They were pulled away from their families, a spear shoved in their hands, what else could they smell of?
"You ever seen these Dreadlan'ers foight?" Asks a young lad, barely sixteen, probably hasn't seen a bloodied sword yet.
"Aye.. It's said their skin falls off their bones when you hit 'em, but their skinned bodies keep runnin', keep choppin', keep killin'.. Monsters of Iblees they are, we're fucked if we face off with one of 'em.. I'd jus' stay back.. Those runnin' corpses are too good for us lot. Let the crows foight 'em.. Crows eat corpses."
would be the first reply, a middle aged man, farmer from the looks of it, Hoping to stay behind in the battle to avoid being killed.. Unknowing of his true purpose.. The northern meatshield, a tougher variant of the southern meatshield, but a meatshield nonless.