"So, did you get the news about outside?" a robed figure questions as he walks into the room. His brilliant black robe makes him stand out in the yellow sands that he calls home, but at this time of day--or rather, night--he blends in. The yellow trimmings decorating the robe reveal how this robe is custom designed, just for him.
"What about them?" a figure by the fire questions, holding his hands out for warmth.
As a sidenote, the robed figure stares at the night sky, full of the stars he knows all too well. "A lovely night in the desert. Liuda can be quite beautiful." He then continues "I don't know how long ago; knowing here, it well could have been five or more years ago, yet could have also happened yesterday. But they say that a 'Count Olesa' marched on BlackWood. Some of us know the place all too well, so don't just go rushing out of this land to see there. Rumor has it that this Olesa is a dragonknight, though I hope such rumors are false. Anyway, I hear that some of the most well-known fighters of BlackWood--Porel, Derez, Roz, and Cozak--perished in battle. The warlord Alixander Fey managed to single-handedly wound--some even say kill, but I doubt that--the dragon mount and earned the title 'Dragonsting'. If you go by the less-than-likely latter, than that name is Dragonbane.
"Anyway, the armies attacking--did I mention how they were undead 150,000 in number?--were crushed by a brilliant strategy. I hear it had something to do with a sword and a shield, or was it hammer and anvil? Considering how news travels, I can't say for certain. Anyway, we should stay away from such topics; the very thought of lands other than our own and those of dragonrings make me sick. I got a written version of the tale, if you wish to read about it." The figure who had asked sighs, before responding "No, I do not wish to. I, too, hate such rumors. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing is just a legend some poor sap in an inn was telling in the hopes of getting a free stay."
The two share another round of laughs before the one at the fire asks "Alacos, Any undead nearby? With your wizard powers, you should be able to tell."
"Feris, by now I thought you could overcome the misconceptions about magic from your land. You yourself have done a little work in it so you should know by now: As much as I'd love to call myself a wizard, I'd be dead afraid to cast magic against another magicer. I am merely a mage."
"Stop degrading yourself. You simply don't train enough. You have experience, but you have the disadvantage of little time to practice and also the little fact that you have only been doing magic for a few years. I hear it takes some to do in a lifetime what you have, Alacos."
The conversation killed, Alacos joins his friends by the fire, extending his hands to warm them; deserts at night are quite the cold place to be. "Oh, and Feris, Jax, Meldor, Stromus, yes, there are some undead nearby. They just set up camp a short distance away; tomorrow, we can raid them. Now, let's get a good night's sleep for battle tomorrow. It isn't good for the leaders of the army sections to all be tired in the heat of battle."
The next morning, the small group of people assembled last night are ready, each taking five men from their divisions. Alacos leads the magic experts, Feris leads the knights, Jax leads the archers, Meldor leads the Pikemen, Halberds, and Spearmen, while Stromus leads what little cavalry is ridable in the heat. "Come on boys; let's have some fun!" Feris shouts as the group charges over the hill, battle-ready. This raid is just a normal raid for them, nothing that they consider worth noting. As they charge over a hill, a force of 300 greets them. "Thirty Versus three-hundred...outnumbered thirty to one...this'll be fun!"
A young man runs towards a room, the importance dire. Running in, he takes little note of the red carpet, the yellow brick walls, nor the black flames glowing from each torch. He is not vampire, no soldier with extraordinary powers. Just a normal messenger. "My lord, they did it again!" he panics as he runs to the center of the room. He puts his hands on his knees and his head toward the ground, some sweat coming from him. Kneeling down but still not making eye contact with what he knows must be a large throne, he reports "The rebels did it again, my lord. We just lost a valuable force of three-hundred undead."
"A loss, but undead can be replaced," the voice booming from the throne comments, clearly annoyed at his servant's dismay. He has far grander plans than mere rebels attacking his petty forces; he has many left in reserve. "Do not repeat this kind of petty incident again, puny human. You're lucky I allowed you to live under my services instead of killing you and turning you into another simple undead, Grelos."
The servant identified as Grelos is still heartsriken with fear at his master, simply muttering "Y...Yes, sir Sir Reff"
"And try not to call me by that pathetic name you humans call me. I have a much grander title to go by, you know. Prepare a strike force if these rebels truly worry you, Grelos, I shall give you a thousand undead; the rest is up to you. Travel now and strike at them with your forces. I may actually respect you if you return alive with results."
"It shall be done."
"Crush them, Grelos. Leave none alive."