“That’s the count! Burn the rest!”

As the words carry through the village, your raiders light their torches and hurl them up into the rafters of the thatched, circular cottages. Soon thick, black smoke begins to fill the air, and the roar of flames drowns out the screams of their Feyren captives. Stumbling through the smoke come those folk who had been hiding; secreted in piles of hay and beneath floorboards. Coughing and spluttering as the ash fills their lungs, they make their way to the edges of the village, desperately searching for some relief from the heat. Their hairy limbs are ignited by falling embers. A scream cuts through the crackling of the inferno. Then another. The cavalry begin to circle around the village, screaming with frenzied glee and the villagers stagger into their paths. The frenetic stallions run down the wretches, trampling their corpses into the sodden muck.

As the train of captives begins to worm its way from the destruction, one of the riders approaches the leader of the band. “Shall I send word to [Team A Leader] of our victory?”

“Yes, let them know that their blood quota is met. Soon our demonic kin shall spill into this world my brother, then you and I may revel in [Team B]’s destruction.”

“Chaos reigns.” The rider charges forth from the writhing worm of stumbling bodies, hollering with unfettered glee.