Trev Duvardain

                A light rain pattered down as Dinengel was traveling west through the rocky hills of the Ettenmoors. Swiftly and silently, like a gust of wind, he passed between the low trees and bushes of the region. The rain water soaking through his heavy green cloak, and his boots sloshed across the muddy ground.

The victory was a small one yet the celebration was intense, there was nothing like the hate between those close and the Trev Duvardain were at war with their own clan. Smoke rose in thin tendrils from Donnovail, an ancient city in the heart of Fai-a-Khro that they had forced the Gallorg out of. Zorzimril licked the grease from her thumb, enjoying a slice from a haunch of boar. The meat was tough and stringy but it was something other than infernal peas. All the side dishes were made up of the legume, which had been cultivated with success in the land outside the city.

Stone colored eyes stared out at the barren wastes, lit by the flickering pale lightning in the ashen sky. Zôrzimril watched for movement, for her scouts have reported members of Trev Gallorg moving through the area. Those spineless cowards, afraid to go to war, hiding out in their dung hole village ready to flee to the arms of the enemy. She sneered at the thought, some had run down Ram Duath already though Augaire still stood. It was well fortified in but soon it would fall once her father rallied all of the Duvardain together.