The wind carried the scent of fresh leaves, wood and something else, something acrid and unsettling – the unmistakable tang of orc. The Threian Vanguard, a force numbering over a five thousand, stood poised on the northern side of the Narrow Pass. In front, nestled on the other side of the gnarled and rocky and narrow terrain, was the orcish encampment. A disconcerting stillness hung in the air, a silence more menacing than any war cry.
Captain Baldred, his face etched with lines of weariness and grim determination, addressed his lieutenants. His voice, though low, carried across the wind-whipped expanse.
"Three days," Baldred began, his gaze sweeping across the assembled officers. "Three days we've been stalled. No scouts return. No spies penetrate their defenses. What do we know about the orcs below?"
