They were tired, weak and weary; overburdened and underarmed. Their home was gone, and with it much of their purpose. The great and promised war would never come. Dominion and victory, that had been the promise, but that promise was broken. Hope had long since abandoned them, as they sat around the dying campfires. These were many men, strong men, but they had not yet tasted battle and were already broken. They had not taken the field, but they were already lost.
Braeden knew this. His leadership had failed them, or rather his lack thereof. He was tired as well, his fire only embers, yet some remnant of that former heat remained. No, he thought, as he looked out at what remained of his Imperium, no this would not be the end. It was not meet that these brave men who had come so far would die of starvation and cold in the snow of the north. They would die as they deserved, with blood on their hands and clothes. It was not much, but it was what he had to offer.
He turned to his scouts, smiling as they had not seen in since winter broke.
"Find us a target. We're going to need supplies. Its time for us to go home."
It was time to die.
