The dust swirled in a perpetual ochre cloud behind the horde, a testament to the relentless pace Khao'khen had imposed. The rhythmic thud of thousands of orcish feet on the parched earth was a relentless drumbeat, a symphony of exhaustion punctuated by the occasional grunt or groan.
The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat, grime, and the ever-present metallic tang of blood from the still not completely healed wounds, a lingering reminder of past battles that these warriors went through.
The chieftain's words had been clear: a swift counter-offensive against the invaders, followed by a punitive expedition into the lands of the "pinkskins," as the orcs derisively referred to the Threians.
The promise of more battles had initially fueled their relentless march. But the initial fervor was now a fading ember, struggling against the encroaching darkness of fatigue.
