We are stood here in the beating rain, four of my kinsmen amongst the ruined pillars as statues of old. Indeed, several of the brigand-folk below have wandered past the old masonry, mistaking our stilled forms for the likeness of bygone kings or sentinels. Our cloaks are useful here, blending seamlessly with the hues of night, scrubbed against the barks of trees and the soft earth that we roam by so as to hide our scent. We watch and we wait. Our senses become aligned with the stones of our forefathers, the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain our silent war chant.
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Ranion
