You scramble to your feet.

You do your best to catch your breath, and with shaky legs, you scramble to your feet. Unfolding around you is pure chaos, Myhrinese troops scattering in every direction, some with greater courage forming some semblance of a defence as the riders from the west came crashing down into the camp.

You stand there, stupidly, mesmerised by awe and fear at the scene of war going around you. You are snapped out of your trance-like state by a fearsome cry behind you.

You turn around and see an armoured warrior, the Llewyn wolf emblazoned on his chest, barreling towards you brandishing his sword. You turn back around sprinting to get away from the warrior, adrenaline pumping through your veins, you keep running until you feel a gauntleted fist hit you in the back, causing you to fall and hit the ground, hard.