Francis was overseeing the move towards the mountain. He had no idea where the mage was. He didn't really care either. So long as he was making that damn mountain training ground, he could be fishing in the pool in a pretty, green dress. What he did other than that had no affect on Francis and he really couldn't give a flying dragon what he did and didn't do. Unless he brought the wrath of Damien down on them. Then he cared. Francis had no desire to be part of the army of the undead. When he died, he wanted to say dead.<br/><br/>The hot sun beat down on him and his men as he directed them into columns and made sure the wagons were packed with the supplies they couldn't carry on their own. It was sweaty and grueling work, but he would see them moving by the end of the day. The only upside he could see to this is they would be far enough away from the King that maybe he wouldn't be breathing down his back every five seconds. That was the most annoying part of this entire thing.<br/><br/>When the little...Thing, appeared to say the mountain was ready, Francis nodded. "All right men! Time to move out and if I hear one complaint!" He made a slashing motion across his throat to illustrate his point. This army had no room for complainers. End of story.