War Machine

It was the night before the end of the world.
The two armies had gathered on opposite sides of a blasted
vale. Once this had been a verdant valley, its wide plain shaped
by a wide, meandering stream, its flanking hills blanketed by
thick groves of oak, blanchwood, and ironroot. Now these trees
were gone; no more than ragged stumps remained, the grass burned
away, and the earth beneath packed hard and barren. The stream
was a sluggish flow hidden by a thick film of oil, its surface
broken only by the shadowy masses of nameless solids.
Thick, inky clouds concealed the moons and stars from sight.
It had been overcast and cold on Argoth, despite unseasonably
warmer weather elsewhere on Terisiare. Both sides in the upcoming
battle had taken to torching the forests they found, if only to
deny their opponents supplies and support. By day the cloud
canopy was a dull gray, a sheet of rolled and unfinished steel.
By night it was lit only from below, by the tho...