rolled 3, 4, 3 = 10
Another morning. Another day. The skies remain that awful gray, keeping the sun's warm light from peeking through. It's the perfect day for a send-off. A perfect day for a funeral.
The Master Armorer accepts the armor of the fallen, to be re-forged in honor, saluting the brethren of the dead as he and his men carry the bent and broken pieces to the furnace. The squad leaders cast the blackened uniforms into a pit of flame, leaving them to burn in silence. The ashes, spread in the center of the courtyard, are infused into its surface by the mages, so that they can never be recovered.
Ceril, clad in black, gold-trimmed dress, reminds you all of the luxury of service behind the lines, of the simple joys that do not exist in the wastelands of the front. Here, the bodies of the dead, empty as they are, can be returned to the families of their once-owners, and buried according to their custom. Here, the will and courage of the soldier can be honored in ceremony, where in the trenches, only a quiet prayer, if that, could be offered. Here, there is no war. There is battle, but there is no war.
You cannot help but think 'for now.'
The news has been growing worse of late. The Forusians have massed their reserves for a counterattack, and are pushing the armies of Perin steadily back, reclaiming the land of their borders. Incursions reach even to the cities, encroaching upon the Capitol, vomiting up great beasts of the earth to burn the works of man. It is, in a word, biblical. Were this to happen in your world, it would be seen as a foretelling of Armageddon, of a horrible cataclysm yet to come. The scryers, priests, and magicians of the old paths predict that the nation will be engulfed in flames, and the country itself will be consumed by the pit of hell.