Ferich, warlord of the mountain tribes, marched into the Sacred City like his men, on foot. He had no chariot or mount but was an intimidating figure regardless. He wore creased and scuffed leather armor, great furs, and his mass of dark braids fell down his back, heavy with feathers and beads and battle-tokens. He wore no sword at his side or across his back but left it to be borne by one of the warriors that followed him.
The people of the Sacred City watched Ferich and his warriors from silent lines along the street. The wolves had come into the city, but they were lean and hungry and tired. They were fearsome, but they offered no acknowledgement to the people of the City, and they carried their wounded behind them.
The Temple servants lined up to meet Ferich, silent as the people of the City. They said nothing to his disgusted sneer as he found the Throne Room, still red and stinking. He, in turn, ignored them as he ordered the altars destroyed, and the gold and silver Temple instruments melted down. The Royal Temple was to be a temple no longer and became, instead, the Royal Palace.
Okay, housework calls again. Maybe I'll be able to get back to this tonight.
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