Fritz stood before an army. Walking confidently ahead, his face was a mask, hiding his inner turmoil. The people behind him called out for blood. The rivers of fate flowed towards inevitable destruction. Every manner of beastkin was at his beck and call. All would die in his name, for he strode forward with the Goddesses' authority. His dress was simple, yet he was unmistakable. He was a stranger in a foreign land, surrounded by those he little understood. Yet nothing mattered now, time was running out. His true destination awaited him, and he could not ignore it.

Smoke, ash, blood, and death filled the city of Hueryss. All would bow before him and bend to his will, or die. Weapons his bloodthirsty champions could never imagine glistened with morning dew. Yet the destroyed city would not know his crusade much longer.

Behind his warriors, the old and young formed an impossibly long baggage train. Nobles mixed with commoners, as all were now equal in the wake of the city's destruction.

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Bodies littered his way. The decayed, desiccated, and burnt enemies of the goddess lay before Fritz's path. With his eyes trained forward, Fritz ignored the constantly vigilant warriors searching for survivors and hidden foes. Leaving past the gates, he stopped.

Ruined fields stretched out for miles. Explosions and fire had destroyed the countryside for miles. The walls of the city stood defiant. Scorch marks from forbidden sorceries littered the ancient defenses. His devoted stopped with him, as if on command.

Turning around, Fritz beheld them. Warriors at his call. Subjects to build cities. The resources to build an empire. He had everything, yet nothing before his eyes sparked any desire. His mask never faltered as he cursed inwardly. The annoyance passed as he quickly killed his self pity. Turning around, Fritz led the beastkin forward. An unstoppable tide propelled him forward past all his wishes towards inevitable bloodshed.