In a graveyard overlooking the Field of Strife, a small amount of dirt and ice is dislodged in a puff of steam. A glowing eye (which would be seen easily, if anyone were taking the time to notice such things) peeks out. A larger puff of steam jets out from the grave with the sound of a rattled sigh: "bah...still so much haste - and so little strategy...". The steam lessens. "Someday perhaps. Not just yet I think."
The dirt settles once again and the warmth fades.