vicious fight.
A small number of orcs sat against the wall of a ruined building, talking with an even smaller group of trolls. They looked up as Ma-Gur and his two warriors approached. They were weary, but Ma-Gur could still see the thrill of victory in their eyes. They had defeated an enemy force nearly two thirds larger than their own. By Ma-Gur’s return they could surmise that the supply wagons were also theirs, so despite their heavy losses victory was theirs.
They were pitifully few in number, yet chose to take their rest in the open fields around the city, uncaring of the danger of such a decision. Around the wagons ragged bedrolls had been unfurled, upon which laid the sleeping warriors. A lone sentry had been posted, primarily to run off any carrion or wolves that strayed too close to the makeshift camp. The cries and howls of such scavengers rang out into the empty night was more than enough to keep the watchman from falling into slumber.
The ruins of the village were full of activity in spite of the lifelessness of those humans, orcs, and trolls present. In fact, these lifeless occupants were the reason for the activity. Carrion birds swooped down upon fallen soldiers, cawing and screeching as they picked at dead flesh. Wild dogs and pack of wolves fought their own battles over the meat in a strange parody of the struggle that had lead to this veritable feast.
Though considered by the majority of the world to be cold and fearless, even by themselves, many of the warriors could not find rest. The sounds of the scavenger’s feeding frenzy kept them awake. Experienced warriors could sleep anywhere and through anything it was said. Many now found that statement lacking. They had all killed and fought before, all were hardened veterans in their own ways. Yet they were primarily raiders, warriors who fought while on the move. This was the first time any of them had remained on the field of battle once the fighting and looting was done. They felt acid biting of fear and doubt, a sinister questioning that drilled its way into their thoughts. What more was a man, than eventual meat for others?
Upon awakening quite un-refreshed the warriors loaded their spoils onto the carts and began the journey in the last known direction of the horde’s passing.
“I was a little girl when they burned the village of Oxcrossing. My father ran a ferry down the way, and I was lucky enough to be with him on the other side of the river when the orcs attacked. Father and I had seen reavers come up the river in their longships before, and sometimes there was fighting, but they only ever took maidens and pigs. Yet orcs killed every one, slaughtered the livestock they didn’t take, then set the fires.” --- Shannon Dary, midwife
Things were not going well for the horde. Ghalik cursed under his breath as he ran alongside his warriors, the group of greenskinned creatures running down the slopes of the gorge. In the last few days the raiding had turned sour. Villages were becoming more heavily fortified as the threat of the horde grew with the telltale smoke pillars that told all who could see that yet another piece of civilization was burning.
The number of villages and townships that supplied the dwarven stronghold with most of its food and wood had been more than halved. The horde had been moving fast, pillaging with an almost desperate haste, leaving burning ruins behind them as they poured over the land. Ghalik had hoped that the sudden appearance of the rampaging horde would stir the slow burning fires of the stone men. He had gotten his wish, but it came in a form much different than he had expected.
Instead of one plodding army of hundreds of dwarves, the old wizard found himself fighting skirmishes with smaller yet more mobile forces. His plan of out maneuvering the dwarven army and entering the fortress behind them has dissolved into a full-scale brush war with many different groups of dwarven troops, and the numbers of his
A small number of orcs sat against the wall of a ruined building, talking with an even smaller group of trolls. They looked up as Ma-Gur and his two warriors approached. They were weary, but Ma-Gur could still see the thrill of victory in their eyes. They had defeated an enemy force nearly two thirds larger than their own. By Ma-Gur’s return they could surmise that the supply wagons were also theirs, so despite their heavy losses victory was theirs.
They were pitifully few in number, yet chose to take their rest in the open fields around the city, uncaring of the danger of such a decision. Around the wagons ragged bedrolls had been unfurled, upon which laid the sleeping warriors. A lone sentry had been posted, primarily to run off any carrion or wolves that strayed too close to the makeshift camp. The cries and howls of such scavengers rang out into the empty night was more than enough to keep the watchman from falling into slumber.
The ruins of the village were full of activity in spite of the lifelessness of those humans, orcs, and trolls present. In fact, these lifeless occupants were the reason for the activity. Carrion birds swooped down upon fallen soldiers, cawing and screeching as they picked at dead flesh. Wild dogs and pack of wolves fought their own battles over the meat in a strange parody of the struggle that had lead to this veritable feast.
Though considered by the majority of the world to be cold and fearless, even by themselves, many of the warriors could not find rest. The sounds of the scavenger’s feeding frenzy kept them awake. Experienced warriors could sleep anywhere and through anything it was said. Many now found that statement lacking. They had all killed and fought before, all were hardened veterans in their own ways. Yet they were primarily raiders, warriors who fought while on the move. This was the first time any of them had remained on the field of battle once the fighting and looting was done. They felt acid biting of fear and doubt, a sinister questioning that drilled its way into their thoughts. What more was a man, than eventual meat for others?
Upon awakening quite un-refreshed the warriors loaded their spoils onto the carts and began the journey in the last known direction of the horde’s passing.
“I was a little girl when they burned the village of Oxcrossing. My father ran a ferry down the way, and I was lucky enough to be with him on the other side of the river when the orcs attacked. Father and I had seen reavers come up the river in their longships before, and sometimes there was fighting, but they only ever took maidens and pigs. Yet orcs killed every one, slaughtered the livestock they didn’t take, then set the fires.” --- Shannon Dary, midwife
Things were not going well for the horde. Ghalik cursed under his breath as he ran alongside his warriors, the group of greenskinned creatures running down the slopes of the gorge. In the last few days the raiding had turned sour. Villages were becoming more heavily fortified as the threat of the horde grew with the telltale smoke pillars that told all who could see that yet another piece of civilization was burning.
The number of villages and townships that supplied the dwarven stronghold with most of its food and wood had been more than halved. The horde had been moving fast, pillaging with an almost desperate haste, leaving burning ruins behind them as they poured over the land. Ghalik had hoped that the sudden appearance of the rampaging horde would stir the slow burning fires of the stone men. He had gotten his wish, but it came in a form much different than he had expected.
Instead of one plodding army of hundreds of dwarves, the old wizard found himself fighting skirmishes with smaller yet more mobile forces. His plan of out maneuvering the dwarven army and entering the fortress behind them has dissolved into a full-scale brush war with many different groups of dwarven troops, and the numbers of his
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