Kneeling in a circle of soldiers, his shield, bearing the insignia of a armored fist and a stylized eye, held in both of his hands, he speaks in a clear baritone voice. ""Lord Helm , give keep our eyes open and strengthen our hearts so we may do our duty to protect our wards this day." Silver light radiated out from his shield, illuminating the faces of his brothers-in-arms. Standing, the blonde man slid the plumed helmet on, shouldered his shield, and took the standard pole in his hand. He turned to his CO and nodded, "on your word, Sir!"
[Later] The blond man woke. there was something sticky on his face, and hands. Pain shot through his body as he tried to move. A crow called, sounding as if it were on the other end of a long tunnel. His eyes opened as his hand reached up to wipe the wetness away from his eyes, coming away red. The crow croaked again and a blurred image of the black bird fled across his vision. He struggled to sit up, pushing the body off his own. The remains of his unit, his brothers, lay about him, their silvered armor splattered with gore. In his hand, the standard pole ended in a jagged splinter after a a few hand lengths. Of the drow, there was no sign.
[Later] The fire from the dying pyre flickered across the man's face as he knelt, scooping the ashes of his fallen brothers into a clay cookpot. Standing, he slid the pot into his pack, and turned, wandering off into the dawn of a new day, the broken standard shaft in one hand, and the torn and blood-splattered insignia from the banner trailing in the other.