With that done, you decide that patience is key, and you must abide by it. You organize your troops....and re-organize them...and un-organize them... until you are so bored that you feel you would be better off in the heat of a lost battle.

Mercy gives you this wish without hesitation.

From behind, a huge wave of Dalnor soldiers floods your troops. You were outnumbered before, but this...? This is horrific.

You join the fray quickly, ignoring your nagging doubts that you may likely lose. Still, your battle is hindered with doubts and surprises unwelcome, and soon the majority of your troops perish or flee.

The merciless battle ends too soon, and you find yourself on your knees, being stabbed through the chest with a jagged pike. You revel, this is no way to die! and struggle with the last of your strength not for freedom, but for vengeance. But it is to no avail. You take no enemy lives in your efforts and fade away, peering through the mist and debris at the tall, sturdy dragonbone podium at which your faithful blue flag is burnt to the ground.