Call of War

There were rumblings of a raid, that much Dread knew. That much Dread could be certain about. The conflict with the Raiders... it made sense, but it didn't mean he had to like it. He would be paying Deluge a visit, but it wasn't a social call. Dread knows better than that. A knot in his stomach, an ache in his side, he knows that this raid is serious. The most serious of his short lifetime, yet another conflict on the steady march toward war. What was going to become of it, become of him, and (perhaps most importantly) become of her. His heart squeezed at the call from his father. He knows.

But there's also the question of preparedness. Hazel had been helping adjust his new chestplate, still stiff and new. It had been cutting in under his armpits, leading to some discomfort and the skin ending up rubbed raw. While the General wasn't the most skilled or practiced in her maneuvers, she was trying her best. In the end, they'd managed to stretch it appropriately. Heeding the Warlord's call, the boy sauntered behind the general, though perhaps a bit more slowly. Dread took a seat beside his sister and waited for the meeting to commence.

"Dread Fatalis"