Just on the outskirts of the city the army of Westermist are formed in ranks. Every soldier's eyes are staring down the invading force, awaiting for the inevitable clash. Brakus is among the members of the frontline spearmen. His weapon held within his hands as he could feel the weight of his chainmail armor upon his soldiers.<br/><br/>"This is the line we hold them at!" The commanding officer shouts out from his horse. "You are not to give them one more inch!"<br/><br/>Brakus quickly joins in the battle cry that every soldier lifted from their lungs at the end of the statement. The cry though quickly dies away when a sudden flash of light fills everyone's eyes. Brakus grips his favored weapon tightly as the feeling of his body being ripped apart overtakes him then everything turns black.<br/><br/>When Brakus opens his eyes again, the fetid smell is the first thing he notices. "what...the?" A groan slips from his mouth as he slowly pushes his body up from the thick mud. A layer of mud clings to the links of his chainmail as he slowly gets to his feet. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he lets out a growl of anger as he mutters. "what the... where am I?"<br/><br/>"My Dress!" The high pitched scream is heard and he turns to the direction where he sees a young woman trudging through the mud. He looks at her as if he should know who she is, but not quite putting the picture yet.