A madness that ought not to have been allowed to be. Years of scheming, corruption, and unpredictability.
Tension once more, ever tense.
When Blackthorn leaned over to whisper to Oliver, he flinched at the touch of her hand on his shoulder – the tension was reaching him too.
She did not seem to notice. "Is that blood?" She asked, pointing to the lead-most man of the scouts.
There did indeed seem to be a splash of red up along his right hand side, but the colour seemed too orange to be blood. Oliver deferred the question to Verdant.
"That's a stain, I think," Verdant said. "Likely from blood – but it isn't bloody now. I'd wager it's from the men they slaughtered yesterday."
"A quiet return, then…" Oliver said. He thought that to be a good sign, at least. Somehow, they'd managed to keep a quiet approach all this way, and now they were only a short distance away from falling upon the enemy. "Do you think we've gone unnoticed, Verdant?"