A flotilla, some 30 odd transport ships full of Byokorani warriors, loomed at the edges of the northern edge of The Astapori Bay. After heading off a rough storm that pounded the flotilla for days, the ships made anchor a mile or so off the coast of the Petraea tribe's homeland. Small boats capable of holding a company at a time were slowly lowered into the glimmering emerald sea. The Byokorani warriors carefully climbed down into the small transports, their bright steel breastplates and mail glimmering under the brutal autumn sun. Spearmen were dousing the head of their weapons with poision, the swordsmen were using whetstones to get the nicks out of their swords, and the carefully constructed transports for the chariots and horsemen were full of whinnying stallions and their riders comforting them before the impending battle.
A breeze began to blow, and the Astapori transports quietly sailed their way to the east of the barbaric village. All the warriors were ready by the darkening of the sky, their officers going over the strategy of the absolute slaughter that was about to ensue. A few hours after the beginning of the new day, the march began.