The bellow of horns and thunder of war-drums gave rhythm to the destruction of the city. A throng of men, raiders mounted on horses 18 hands tall, covered in thick studded leather barding galloped through, setting fire to everything and anything that would burn. Those who fleed were either taken down by mounted archer, or would find their head cleaved from their bodies by blade or axe, or their skull shattered by the heavy head of a hammer.
Everything even slightly valuable was loaded into sacks, including any movable metals. It would all be smelted down and re-used, spoils of war that would contribute to the blood-thirsty culture of these nomadic warriors. Although, even in such absolute destruction a small handful of men had the courage to fight back.
Five defenders stood in a circle, backs facing each other. Large shields and swords clutched tight, the men fought off two of the invaders. Block and strike, dodge and retaliate, parry and counter. Eventually an opportunity was found and the men broke ranks, raining blows down on their opponents until the two offenders were butchered like pigs. The staunch footmen, emboldened by their minor victory howled with triumph and rushed forward, determined to make their valiant last stand.
One man, bent at the knee in twisted prayer to the Blood God heard the unfamiliar voices, but recognized the cry. He swiftly finished the blood-letting ritual, dropping the feeble old priest who'd served as provider for the ritual to the ground of the burning church. The scene was almost cinematic as the tribal warlord himself, master-mind behind this attack strode slowly, gracefully out from the razed building. As his broad, scaled mail covered shoulders passed the threshold the entire church came crumbling down, nothing more than a pile of smoldering timbers.
That steady, confident pace lead the man straight into the path of the five survivors. The emotionless expression on the warlord's face did not change in the slightest as he stopped and planted his feet. In one graceful motion the spiked chain that was wrapped around his waist and legs was pulled away. Then, that chain was set spinning through the air with the greatest of ease, building momentum until it was nothing more than a blurred curtain of certain death.
The confrontation was over before it even began, two precise strikes from the chain ripped away three throats. The third man disembowled with a dervish spin, the fourth and fifth blinded then exsanguinated. No sound came from the remorseless victor's mouth as he strode over the corpses, making his way towards the docks of the now ravaged city.
Fifteen minutes later the entire raiding party was re-united in front of their warship, carts heavily laden with precious metals, fine clothing, and other valuables. At least 10 new slaves were bound and shackled, though one of them was laid almost reverently out on her own cart, ankles and wrists bound. A young woman, nineteen at the most, and currently unconscious. The warlord stepped forward and tilted his head, looking down curiously at the strange twin markings beneath her right eye.
Markings was a concept the man was quite familiar with, his own body was covered by tattoos and ritualistically treated battle-scars. The most prominent of them being two symmetrical lines, thick at the top of his eyebrows that slowly tapered down to twin points at the middle of his cheeks. The lines were broken when his eyes were open, yet the design did stretch over his eyelids so that they would be whole during sleep, deep contemplation, or in his eventual death.
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