Malaclypse, hearing the exchange between the Fallen rogue and the archer seeking combat from her tent, steps out into the night. She carefully bends over the dead soldier and inspects the crude drawing, stifling a laugh; it was pretty good, actually. You could even make out Loki's fabled bulge dangling longingly down his pant leg. She caresses the dead soldier's forehead, and removes the mock ceremonial Ragged Outfit from his body revealing a Fallen soldier.
She turns to the man- not an archer, a my old friendcher, a soldier or grunt, but an equal at the gateway of impending death- and speaks, "Don't ask me how we knew how he'd shoot this one- we really didn't, dumb luck..." she shrugs, kicking the body before them gently, continuing, "...it is... true, that many among our ranks will die. Perhaps you will be among them, and perhaps I will as well- our bent must by necessity be suicidal to fight uphill, yes. It will not be a fight easily won- things worth fighting for seldom are... but ask yourself, would you rather elevate yourself above others, follow the path of least resistance, or would you like to stand up to a greater challenge than you have ever known, with no keeps and murder holes to hide behind between knocks and releases?
... what's that? You say would rather be on the walls? Oh... well, okay then."
heh. A twist!
