Gorn Ironmaul stood at the highest point of the Ironmaul Clan's stronghold, surveying the landscape as the sun began to sink behind the jagged mountains.
The air was still thick with tension, the ominous sensation from earlier gnawing at his gut.
Around him, his Brutarian warriors prepared for battle, their armor gleaming in the fading light.
Huge, powerful figures, the Brutarians were bred for war, their four-armed bodies built for crushing enemies and withstanding pain.
But something felt off tonight.
The Pig Orcs had attacked once already, but that was part of the survival game's natural flow.
They had beaten them back, and it retreated for some unknown reason, maybe suffered losses, but survived as they always had.
Now, as Gorn looked out over the valley below, he saw them again.
The Pig Orcs.
Forming into lines.
Moving toward the Ironmaul stronghold like a slow tide of destruction.
