Graeme felt himself in a fine murderous mood. Some 3000 men of the empire, all hardened soldiers had set out to do battle here on an unexpected field, and instead of taking the victory as he had hoped, they had instead not even drawn, choosing to retreat back to this d**ned stronghold. More than half of the horse, and a third of the foot were left behind, dead. Morale was shaken, these men were not accompanied to loss in such a fashion.
It had been a day of wolves and broken shields. He listened to the constant banter of the other commanders, d**ned Elves and satrap hicks. Both seemed to think that a charge was a brilliant idea, because it had worked so d**n well last time. To beat the ogre horde, they would need a signifigant advantage, as well as major reinforcements.
"All of your noise is getting on my nerves." He said, standing and turned, striding out of the room. He sought the upper passages of the keep, not satisfied until he found the top of one of the fortesses turrets. Reaching the top, he ordered the scout down back into the castle and to not return unless summoned. Graeme settled into a cross-legged position, and laid the scepter across his lap.
Brother, are you there? He enacted the sending, a gift that only worked with his brother, and might work with other blood relations provided they were of sorcerous bent.
I am, how did the battle fare? Baird responded.
Very Poorly, the ogres held the field, though they lost two of their chieftans.
That is good, the old chieftan had great power. His replacement is young, and lacks the temper of his elders. Baird said, his voice seemingly thin across such a distance. I think your chances of victory are greater now for his inexperience.