It was dead silent in the ranks, so breathlessly tense that the creaking of our leather armor felt deafening; just as silent as our Davokar outpost had been for the past three weeks. Even the sellswords that our Lord had hired in an attempt to tip the scales in his favor seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation – they made up the rear of the column, atypically in line, unusually disciplined. Silent.
We had no idea what to expect. The scouts had not come back, neither the first, nor the second troupe that had left for the outpost. Some homing pigeons belonging to the latter returned, but without information about what had happened. Was it a belligerent branch of Clan Karohar? A raving liege troll or a pack of predators? An ancient or dark contagion, or indeed some roaming abomination?
The truth proved even worse: Iron Pact warriors, backed by Ironsworn barbarians. They attacked without question, without hesitation, without mercy – out of the shadows, from the foliage, from behind root and stem and stone. My advice to you who are to inherit my Lord’s domain is simple: Let yourself settle for what can be harvested under open skies; that which is shadowed by the trees of Davokar is not yours to own or salvage. Accept this, or join the ranks of the dead…
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