He found himself in the Emerson Capital, but even in arriving there, he was too late. He took the main road, and found the evident remains of a massive and recent battle. The scattered soldiers of dead Emerson men, wearing those red surcoats, now dyed the deeper red of blood, fallen down in a ditch on the road. Hundreds of fallen banners. A few hundred Blackthorn men amongst them.
He carefully picked his way through them. Some men were still groaning, likely having just woke up from unconsciousness. Edward stopped to help those that he could, even as urgency drove him on. For most, however, it was a simple sip of water that he could offer them, before they drifted off into the next life.
