Black Power

Sorel, General of the Black army, fearfully approaches the Temple of Erythnul.
A thin, dark skinned man sits at the top of the steps. He is unarmed and bare chested.
“Please Lord Catidsis. Our men desperately need more healing.”
The priest sneers as he literally talks down to the General.
“Men? Mice is more like it. Vermin. We supply healing as a reward for the death of our enemies. The White army. We will heal one of your number for every one of theirs killed. Is that understood?”
The General looks down at his ragged boots. “Our skirmishers won’t survive another battle, but those Northern scum won’t give us any time to recover.”
Lord Catidsis stands up abruptly and shouts down the marble steps, “It is not us who raids your lands and kills your children. Fight, perhaps die for your lands. If not, then you truly deserve your wormish fate.”
With that he signals one of the lower members of his order to bring out a trunk.
“Take this. You don't deserve it. It's full of healing potions. Use them sparingly and when we hear news of your glorious victory, you shall have more. Much more.”
General Sorel grits his teeth as he moves down the hill towards his men. “We have what we need. Now lets see if we can kill more of those White devils!”