Pralgrim the Wise

Pralgrim the wise, beard heavy with rainwater, surveyed the shattered gates of Krandar. The Myrish onslaught had been relentless, a tide of scimitars and shrieking war cries. Now, under the bruised dawn, the once-proud city lay in ruins. Pralgrim, ever the strategist, excogitated a plan. Brute force wouldn’t retake Krandar. He needed a gambit, a manoeuvre as sharp as the Myrish blades themselves.

He spied a lone Myrish standard fluttering amidst the debris, a crimson eye on a field of black. A twisted brilliance flared in Pralgrim’s eyes. He barked an order, and a small group of Krandar’s elite, cloaked in the tattered remnants of Myrish banners, emerged from the shadows. Pralgrim donned a captured Myrish helm, the black metal a cruel parody of a crown. He would become the wolf in sheep’s clothing, leading the Myrish through their own conquered streets. He would retake Krandar not with a roar, but with a knife in the back.