Late Ymiden 719
The heat was sweltering, and the stench of bog mist, arcane fire, and blasting powder were on the air. Clavam's feet marched in arrhythmic patterns with the men who accompanied the wing of archers. They had a score of men to safeguard the archers. Sent to slaughter so they could do the bulk of damage against the plaguemen. It was alright, that was what Clavam set himself up for. Truth told, he lived for this.
Two highmarks led two halves of the score off. Each half going its own way down the side of a leaf-slick hillock, from the flank of that wing of archers and scouts.
While there was a modicum of order, military organization was a thing of the past, for the time being. All that maneuvering and positioning got blown to shit when it came to the actual fighitng.