The humans hesitated for only a moment before their ranks parted, and from the mass of steel and banners stepped a single figure on horseback.
The emissary wore polished plate armor that glinted in the faint light, adorned with the sigil of a golden griffon perched atop a crimson shield.
He carried himself with the haughty air of someone who had never known fear or doubt in his life.
His horse, a magnificent white steed with golden barding, trotted forward with a confidence that mirrored its rider's demeanor.
Volk, standing tall at the forefront of his formation, watched the emissary's approach with faint amusement.
His crimson eyes flickered, a sardonic grin playing on his lips as he noted the man's utter lack of hesitation.
Does he not see us? Volk thought, his gaze sweeping over the ranks of Orcs and towering Ogres behind him. Is he blind to the hulking forms and gleaming weapons? Or is he truly that foolish?
