December 3rd, Year 1193 of the Light Calendar.
Nine o'clock in the morning.
Overcast skies.
A howling north wind.
Outside Falcon Fortress stood a formidable force: two hundred packhorses, huddled tightly together, each one burdened with heavy sacks and supplies bound with coarse rope and rough canvas. Every horse carried several hundred pounds, forming an awe-inspiring sight of logistical might.
Beyond the packhorses waited a regimented mass of warhorses—taller, sturdier, and proud in bearing. Each wore black cloth barding embroidered with a soaring eagle insignia. They snorted rhythmically, warm breath steaming from flaring nostrils only to be snatched away by the frigid wind.
Past the line of horses stood three neatly arranged battalions. The recruits held their weapons at their sides, draped in thick cotton cloaks. Beneath these cloaks, they wore newly crafted half-beast-hide armor.
