"Form up!!"
"Iron Hoof Army, prepare!!"
"Archers, notch your arrows!!!"
Sam Hoof Iron, a level 15 Centaur chief, stood at the forefront of an army of fifteen thousand centaur soldiers, his dark eyes hidden behind his armor, fixated on the equally massive army beyond a thousand blades—the Black Wind Tribe.
The location of the confrontation between the two tribes was a flat open space, its yellow, slightly cracked earth spotted with low wild grass, showing hints of green as the Planting Season approached.
The sun was covered by dark clouds in the sky, the dense clouds resembling a grand mountain horizontally spanning the horizon; the chill around intensified as evening approached.
The air, tense due to the standoff, seemed bitterly cold, the breezes cutting through like the edge of a knife.
War was about to begin.
Tap tap~ tap tap~
