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To be devoted to the Twins of Battle is to dance the measured steps of War and Death, and never to let a misstep become a mistake. Each victory you wrest from the fates is a bloody offering, an appeal to the gods upon their dread steeds, a call for their patronage. It demands your full being, your entire self. A sacrifice only few would, or could, make. Such a one is Leontopodix, bearer of Isfarrost, and Warden of the West Vale. When, in the winter, all others fled and yielded, abandoning their mountain holdfasts to the marauding Marchers, lousy lords of the lowlands, and they flying east beneath the banner of Orchitorix to find safer lands, Leon refused the call. To his banner he gathered those who would hold onto every last rock and begrudge every haughty hill, who would march into the midwinter, and take the fight to the foe. Now he stands, leader of warriors , his heart flickering with Cold Fire and his horn ready to sing. But another music, deeper, more terrible, more thunderous, comes roaring. A tremble in the very earth. The devotion, in the end, is blood. There will be much of it spilled on this morn.
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This is a design from my own story called 'TEGN'
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