Over the hills of the battlefield, the standard of Drahomyr flies high enough to pierce the clouds. The wind snaps its tattered tails, and its colours are, themselves, enough to strike fear into the guts of an opponent. With rotted hands, more bone than desiccated flesh and pale tendons, the standard-bearer wields the banner as any soldier would his sword. He carries it with predestined purpose, a calling so deeply embedded in his nature that even in death, it cannot be ignored. He will carry the banner until he falls, until his bones are scattered–for now, he marches on.

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