Sturmish

The Sturmish screams had soon sounded in the fog, signalling that the Wyldermen had found their prey. Onyx had heard the cries of men dying in battle before. Most souls who took to the battlefield were prepared for death when it finally came. They knew when the long sleep arrived it would be on the end of a spear, before an axe or beneath a hail of arrows. But the wails that had sounded in the fog were new to the Pantherlord. They were the panicked, hysterical cries of horrified men, a frantic overture of terror. Just when Onyx thought the cries couldn’t get any louder, they would increase in volume. These were the screams of men who were facing a foe fresh from their nightmares, an end unlike anything they’d ever imagined.

Occasionally, the group passed a body lying in the slush, torn and opened up, the steam still rising from the Sturmlander’s corpse. Thus far, they had encountered no survivors. As they passed between the giant wooden stakes that marked the outermost line of the Sturmish defences, Onyx heard the king chuckle.

B5 P4 C4