The moon is red with blood. It’s a happy omen. The Gods smile down on them tonight.
In their wake they leave a devestated city. The fire burns hot. The smoke glows orange with the coals.
The smell of roasting carcasses is heavy on the wind as they move on to the next city.
Desperate cries from captured chattle stir none of the Warrior’s souls. Freedom does exist for anyone. The delusion of which is more curse then blessing.
Most of the new slaves will be forced back to the homeland to work the salt mines and dig ore, or be house servants.
Some of the women will be lucky and get to pleasure the warriors until their bodies whither into uselessness.
Of the children, a few, will be raised up to wield shield and spear.
They will learn it’s an honor to die for the War God. They will learn this lesson well, or be sacrificed to the God of cowards to keep him away from battle.