Snow falls softly on the silent plains of Hildmoor. Rain is replaced by ice and cold, the glens have frozen solid. As the battle draws to its final conclusion, the two sides have gathered on an open clearing for the final lockdown.
On one side, great mechanical contraptions have been arrayed, steam powered engines that hurl fire and metal shards. Balloons hover overhead. The footsoldiers number in the thousands, grim faced men dressed in light armour for speed and efficiency, armed with long pikes and interlocking shields, which they draw close like an iron hedgehog, holding off arrows and riders alike. "The enemy has no chance," the commander whispers.
On the other side, a ragged band of horsemen and footsoldiers dressed in flowing robes and heavy armour, wielding swords and bows as in the days of old. Their helmets resemble the wolf, the bear, the raven, the dragon, and the eel. They look upon a sea of foes they cannot hope to conquer. But when all hope is gone, there is still honor.
And then the charge is called, and both sides are running like mad. An unholy light flares from one of the armoured rider's staff. "Death!" he cries.
With a loud tearing noise, the frozen glen under their feet begins to crack.