Let Slip the Dogs of War
The Red Hand, General Corlian of the Unfettered loomed over the gigantic terrain table that was Memora. The huge table dominated his command tent, and on it every army was represented in amazing detail. Behind him, the background behind him flew the Banner of Objective. Though there was enough room for twenty or more Unfettered in the tent he stood alone at the head of the table, gesturing and emphasizing his overall strategy. Through his Master Collar he relayed commands telepathically to his Captains across the world, and they understood his will completely. They would do precisely as instructed. No Mercy. No Quarter.
He could see that his mighty Dread Legion would be sorely pressed in the northeastern Old Plains. Even if that Legion was lost, there would be others. He sent telepathic commands to the Dread Captain.
He considered the Fury Legion approaching the southeastern Eclipsing Ruins. This would be a critical battle, as he could plainly see his foe had not sent so many forces to this location. Again, he telepathically updated his commands to the Fury Captain.
The foe’s strong easterly defense was evident, but the Unfettered would not be so easily defeated. He telepathically updated his marauder forces to take advantage of the gaps in the foe’s forces.
Looking to the westerly side of the map, he analyzed his foe’s feeble response. He wondered aloud from what idiots were his foes seeking council. Amateurs from the iron legion most likely. They must not understand the true nature of the Unfettered they face. The true nature of the Unfettered would soon become apparent to them.
He raised the Red Hand as if to crush the entire world in its fist; its red glow pulsing across the table and filling the room with lurid red light. Let’s see what those idiots think of this he thought as he dispatched his will telepathically.
Across the face of Memora, the world began to burn