1Harsh footsteps echo off the mountain peaks, bouncing within the deep crevices of the icy landscape. The sound of a thousand feet marching through a mountain pass. Snowflakes slowly make their way to the ground, floating gently to blend into the thick layer of snow already covering the soft soil, the only evidence of the blizzard that finally lifted, only moments before. Jagged peaks reach up to meet the clouds on either side of the pass, pure, white spikes set against the blue sky. One warrior lingers in the back, his hand resting uneasily on the hilt of a blade. His thick cloak hanging loosely around his shoulders, his eyes shifting, searching the mountainside nervously. Suddenly he feels it, he chokes out trying to shout a warning ahead.
A spray of red flashes out from the warrior's neck, as a silver blade slashes his throat. Three more dart past him, their blades finding their marks in the backs and hearts of more victims. The assailant, cloaked in white, gently lays the limp body in the snow, now stained red. The four dash forward, their blades felling countless unprepared soldiers. The horde treks on, unaware of the four slowly, silently diminishing their numbers.
Finally, a cry breaks through the silence. A blade stuck in his back, the warrior falls to the snow, the scream still fresh on his lips. One by one, the soldiers turn their attention behind them. Four white figures, barely visible against the red spattered snow, stand before them in a field of lifeless bodies; their swords gleaming red, clutched in their ready hands. The four stand motionless, their eyes shifting to look at each other. A roar bellows out from the horde blending with the ringing of steel as the soldiers' draw their blades. The charge is on; the first of the four turns and dashes into the mountains, the others, quickly following his lead, taking different routes. Hundreds of warriors diverge into the mountainsides, taking chase after the four assailants, cloaked in white. Like a raging river the horde fills the thin mountain passes, chasing their assailants into deep crevices.
A sharp cry pierces the mountain pass, shattering through the roar of the horde. A gasp for breath; a sharp, steel point, jutting from the back of his neck; a wooden shaft piercing his throat. A second stumbles, a shaft through his left calf, and collapses on the ground as a shower of arrows precipitates from the clouds. A flurry of arrows, coming from every mountain wall, surrounds the horde. Flesh pierced, men collapse to the ground in patches of reddened snow.
The leader of the horde charges past his men, his steed's mane, a streak of gold. His sword held high over his head, the first of the four in sight. A shriek breaks through to his ears, an arrow embedded in his mare's side. She trips over her feet and flails to a collapse on the ground, casting her mount a good ten feet ahead of her. Staggering to his feet, he stumbles into a charge, his sword held high to strike down his foe.
The first of the four, bow in hand, arrow nocked to the bowstring, aimed at the last of the horde. His steed dead, his men dead, he charges the only enemy he can see. Drawing his bowstring back, the first readies his shot.
Release. The twang of a hundred bowstrings, released at once, surround the leader. The ruffle of a hundred arrows as they soar through the air to meet their target.
Pierce. His body, limp; his eyes, dark; red trickles down his sides.
Collapse.