In the vanguard of the formation, the Red Dragons. The outer spawn of noble houses, raised for war in the Red Eyrie.
Their breaths plume in the frigid air the same as their steeds. Their scale armour clinks gently with each movement. What isn't scaled is plated. Their horses are similarly armoured in chain and plates. Their helmets bear the likeness of dragons. They sport steel lances in one hand, steel banded shields in the other. On their hips, bound by a white sash, they carry a light cavalry mace and their Kyrsa, a dagger so large it could be a short sword.
And all of it, their armour, their horses' armour, their helmets, lances, and shields, all of it is lacquered a dark red. The red of blood. Of war.
These are not men who attend the balls of the high court. These are not men to tell gilded war stories to the bards of the common quarters. These are men who are kept high in the mountain passes around the Red Eyrie away from all but the serfs that serve them. They train night and day for wars that might never come.
But on a day like today, the Red Dragons are given purpose at last. With terrible clarity they execute the one task for which they are raised: winning wars.
It is not done with gallant dances, or honourable duels, or even with great skill. It is done by killing so many of the enemy in a single charge that they have no one left to stand against you. It is about taking every unfair advantage you have and using it.
The Red Dragons are brought to the field to find victory for Great Morvia and nothing more. The red smear they leave in the snow is for someone else to turn into a tale of glory.
Paddy Dobson
29th October 2021