Standing on a black rock obscured by trees, Horn held a scope in his right hand, his left eye tightly shut, gazing toward the chaotic formations nearby.
On both sides of the country road, even the half-harvested wheat fields shone with a golden glow.
The morning sun stretched the shadows of a messy array of men and horses long, extending from their feet to the edge of the raspberry bush by the roadside.
The Night Guard placed their three-meter-long spears in their right palms, gripping the lower section with their left hands, the elongated spear shafts protruding from above like a dense forest.
However, the Salvation Army was at some distance, and for the regular War Monks, these large formations seemed like a giant brush of mixed bristles advancing.
A procession of knights, waving colorful flags, intermingled with them like a cloth beside the brush.
