Craig and Garth started marching in pace with the rest of the shield wall. The men on the second row pulled the butts of their spears out of the ground and followed suit, then the rest of the army. The soggy soil made the field hard to traverse in full armor and weaponry so the advance was slow, but Garth knew that the horrible weather meant they would not have to worry about archers; Craig had told him that with poor visibility and hard, fickle winds neither troupes could afford to fire, in case their arrows would hit their own soldiers. He'd been paying attention to his leader giving orders to soldiers behind them to be given to his right-and-rear-most gang to go and fortify the troupe's right wing; Craig expected the enemy to try and sneak through the forest to get behind the shieldwall there which could tear a hole in the Wolf's troupe and possibly spell defeat. Cries of laughter from the first few rows suddenly muted the clattering of the moving army, accompanied with faint cries of shock and horror from across the field, 'causing the two armsbrothers to turn their heads.
Garth's jaw dropped a few inches as his eyebrows raised by almost the same amount, while Craig burst out in laughter so hard that he almost fell over forwards. There, in the middle of the field, stood the remaining six of seven Wolf lost souls. They had their backs to the shield wall and were naked to boot, so the teenager probably wouldn't have recognised them if it wasn't for what they were doing. Amidst three or four corpses in the field around them, they each stood holding up a limp body by the hips, defiling them in front of the Bear's army.
“What. The. Actual. Fuck.” Garth said as he watched on, still marching forward and still slacking his jaw several inches low.
“Possessed by gods it is, then.” Craig replied with a grin.
“Yeah, sure. But why?”
“Because they're drunk and demented.” The pack leader snarled while adjusting his grip on his sword's hilt. “And it'll do more good than just give us a good laugh too.”