Stean

Armyn in the Dunes

We moved swiftly through the dune, our mounts leaving whirling dervishes of sand in our wake. Thirteaight blazed a trail. His helmeted head swiveling to and fro, sharp eyes merely slits in his armor, on the lookout for signs of the enemy. We were well beyond the safety of the walls and they had already struck at us twice before as we raided a bandit camp in the shadow of a large dune. Viktre rode to on his right always watching in the direction he was not, yet sometimes it seemed as if her eyes lingered just a moment longer at her companion. I, Stean, rode at the back of the formation. Tome in hand I looked back occasionally to ensure we weren’t being followed.

"We’ll get them yet.” Thirteaight said calmly. After the last attack two of the vile elves fell back over the rise of the dune. Their camp in this valley was in the direction we were racing to.

"Aye, we will. Death Dealers deserve nothing but the light of Sigmar." I said, noticing the ichor that clung to my mailed fist having smashed the face of the Witch Elf that by the blessing of Sigmar had failed to find the chinks in my armor with her darkened blade...

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