The cold wind blows from the east and the flames fickle. Every night we gather around the campfire, we stare at the burning wood looking deep into the fire and see nothing, only an empty stare. Beyond the fire, darkness… the smell of fear and the certainty that the beasts lurk in waiting for the sun to rise and… fall upon us again.
No one talks, no one has to because our language is more eloquent that words and higher than sounds muttered with mouths for we all have battled together, bled together and defied death while holding the line shoulder to shoulder, sword to sword.
Our language is made out of battle cries, clanking metal, shattered banners and victory chants that our voices sing together when the mighty enemy is routed by the power of our arms and the strength in our hearts.
Our language is only known by those that have been tried by the consuming heat of battle and have courageously come back victors to become forever more brother in arms with the bravest, finest heroes this land has ever seen.
The cold wind blows from the east…