The banner of the falcon of Yarzat billowed high, its wings caught in the warm summer wind as if mimicking the animal's soaring.
Beneath it stretched a great ocean of green, the plains rolling wide and unbroken until they touched the far horizon.
The midday sun burned at its height, its golden light drenching the grass in a deep green, broken here and there by the scatter of wildflowers. It was this place of beauty, the land of course soon to be defiled, its emerald green peace would be stained with crimson and trampled under the iron heel of war that sees no beauty nor peace.
Never before had the falcon flown over these lands. Today it soared, not in the lonely pride of a hunter, but borne and brought by the will of thousands.
