Duskfire Glacier mission

a heavy weight to bear in the frost of the storm. to ask these people to go to war. faust had made him warbringer—and was that not what he was?
warbringer.
he stands, quiet. a shadow picked apart by the corvids that flocked him, now, a gaze cast over his shoulder. there he sees the raven come, land roughly upon his scruff, the carcass of a frozen rat in beak. an omen. an offering.
the people cry. cry out for war, for justice, revenge. they thirst for blood and it only alleviates little of the guilt he feels. people would be wounded. people might die. but his campaign that had begun as to liberate morwenna from the chains that bound her, had turned swiftly into a crusade for vengeance.
when those eyes turn to him, he steps closer. raven wings stretching, flapping, shadowing him in a crown of onyx. his lips, pressed to a firm line, move.
war is not easy. his voice is sour. he inhales heavy, emotional gulps of breath. war does not change. he seeks to look upon each face, to memorize those who would soon fight his battle. his twin sister, there, amongst them.
a inhale, and his voice rises in strength. but we do not falter. we do not sway. teeth snapping, gnashing, the thrill of war to come filling him. projecting his voice out into the coming dawn.
the first shreds of light peek. blackfell is there to greet it, onyx crown raised.
there will be no greater war than the war in the north! a shout that resounds heavily, powerfully, into the bones of those who chanted for the bloody justice. they will know no greater fear than that sown by those born of the ice's flesh. for darukaal!
for gjalla.