Rise of the Horde

The clearing reeked of blood and feathers. Torn remnants of Owlbear plumage littered the ground, interspersed with splintered wood from shattered trees and the scattered remains of broken weapons.

Galum'nor, a hulking orc, lay propped against the base of a large rock, his breath ragged. His armor, once gleaming, was now a tapestry of rents and tears, stained crimson.

Multiple lacerations crisscrossed his arms and legs, some deep enough to expose muscle and bone. His face, swollen and bruised, bore the imprint of a claw, a jagged furrow running across his cheek. He groaned, a low guttural sound, as he attempted to sit upright. Aro'shanna, a ferocious woman of her own right, leaned against a tree trunk not far away from him, efficiently cleaning a deep gash on her forearm with a strip of cloth soaked in a dark, viscous liquid.

Her own clothing was similarly torn, though her injuries were comparatively minor: a few scratches on her arms and a superficial wound above her eyebrow, already beginning to scab over. She worked swiftly and systematically, her movements precise and efficient. The liquid, likely some potent herbal concoction, seemed to staunch the bleeding rapidly.

A group of Verakhs, expert in their own right, huddled near a makeshift fire. Three of them tended to each other's wounds. One had a deep puncture wound on his shoulder, the ragged edges suggesting a claw attack. Another Verakh displayed multiple gashes across his chest and abdomen, his breathing shallow and labored. The third was relatively unscathed, his role seemingly that of tending the fire and assisting the injured. Their armors, typically a dull color, were dulled even more with blood and dirt.

Further away, several orcs—Galum'nor's own warriors—tended to their wounds. Most were relatively minor, consisting of bruises, cuts, and scrapes. Their expressions were grim, but their movements lacked the urgency of those attending to more serious injuries. One orc examined a deep bite wound on his leg, his face etched with a mix of pain and grim determination. The sight of his exposed, mangled flesh suggested a brutal encounter. Another orc, his arm hanging limp, seemed to be struggling to control a tremor in his hand. The stench of blood and sweat hung heavy in the air. Galum'nor, despite his injuries, appeared to be the most gravely wounded orc. The extent of his injuries was a stark testament to his aggressive approach during the battle. He had charged the Owlbear repeatedly, absorbing much of the beast's fury, his hotheadedness leading to his more substantial wounds. His muscles, normally taut and powerful, now trembled with pain. He tested his legs, wincing as sharp pains shot through his body. His breathing remained labored, punctuated by pained grunts.

Aro'shanna finished cleaning her own wounds and applied a thick poultice. The dark, viscous liquid smelled strongly of herbs and something akin to burnt sugar.

She then examined her other injuries, methodically assessing their depth and severity. The precision of her movements suggested extensive experience in treating combat wounds.

She glanced around at the other injured combatants, her expression serious but not panicked. The situation, while grim, was clearly under control. The most critical injuries were being addressed, and there was a sense of grim competence in the air—the aftermath of a fierce battle with a formidable beast.

The scene was a macabre tableau of survival, pain, and the relentless resilience of the orcish physique. The setting sun cast long, skeletal shadows across the clearing, highlighting the grim reality of their survival with the unexpected encounter. The air was thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and the lingering scent of the Owlbear—a potent reminder of the near-catastrophe they had narrowly escaped.

*****

The Threian column, thinned by previous fighting, snaked its way down the mountain trail. Captain Baldred, his face grim and etched with fatigue, led the way, his two lieutenants, Kael and Gerber, flanking him. The air hung heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, the only sounds the rhythmic crunch of boots on loose shale and the occasional ragged breath from the exhausted soldiers. The moon, a sliver in the inky sky, offered minimal illumination against the thick cover of the shadows of the towering trees around them.

The Owlbear, their previous pursuer, was gone. A sense of fragile relief settled over the group, a deceptive calm before the storm. Unbeknownst to them, the Dargan, a hulking, feline predator, had been shadowing them since the initial encounter. Its camouflage fur blended seamlessly with the night, its movements fluid and silent.

The Dargan selected its targets with predatory precision. It targeted stragglers, focusing on those whose exhaustion had slowed their pace. A simple soldier, near the rear of the column, stumbled, his foot catching on a loose rock. Before he could regain his balance, the Dargan was upon him.

The attack was swift and brutal. The creature's claws, tipped with razor-sharp talons, tore into the man's flesh. A guttural roar cut through the night, quickly silenced by a choked gasp from the soldier. The Dargan's grip tightened, its powerful jaws crushing his skull in a sickening crunch. The body slumped to the ground, a dark stain blossoming on the rough terrain.

The sound of the attack triggered a momentary chaos. The soldiers, jolted from their exhausted stupor, spun around, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. But the Dargan, a master of stealth, had already vanished back into the shadows. Baldred, his senses honed by years of experience, instantly recognized the danger. He barked a sharp command, ordering the men to close ranks and increase their pace. The column pressed onward, their steps quicker now, though their fear was palpable. The Dargan, however, had not finished. It continued its hunt, patiently stalking its prey.

This time, it chose another exhausted soldier, a veteran whose strength had begun to fail him. The man, his eyes half-closed from exhaustion, was unaware of the danger until the Dargan's shadow fell upon him.

A sickening thud echoed in the mountain night as the Dargan's massive paw connected with his temple. He crumpled to the ground without a sound, his body convulsing briefly before falling still.

The Dargan's sharp teeth then ripped into the soldier's throat causing a gurgling sound which was soon cut short. The Dargan, satisfied with its work for now, melted once again into the darkness. The remaining Threian soldiers pressed on, their pace frantic, their eyes darting nervously into the surrounding shadows. The scent of blood, sharp and metallic, hung heavy in the air, amplifying their fear.

The Dargan's third victim was not a soldier, but one of the exhausted workers, a young man who had been shivering in fear all this time, who was tasked with carrying supplies. Dragging behind, he was struggling under the weight of his burden, his gait unsteady. He tripped and fell, his supplies scattering around him. He had barely begun to pick them up when a claw raked across his back, ripping through his worn leather jerkin, tearing deep into his flesh. A muffled scream was cut short by a sharp, deafening shriek from the Dargan as its fangs sank into his neck, swiftly ending his life.

The remaining Threian soldiers were now consumed by a wave of panic. The attacks had shattered their sense of security. The rhythmic crunch of boots on shale was now accompanied by the terrified gasps and strained breathing of men on the verge of collapse.

They moved as a unit, but the fear was spreading faster than the Dargan's attacks, threatening to unravel their formation, and leave them vulnerable to further attacks. Baldred, though equally afraid, maintained his composure, leading the men with stoic determination, his face a mask of grim resolve.

The mountain trail seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, each shadow a potential threat, each rustle of leaves a harbinger of death. The Threian retreat continued, marked by the blood and bodies left in its wake, a grim reminder of the terrifying power of the Dargan that was still lurking in the darkness, silently waiting for its next opportunity.

The exhausted survivors pressed on, driven by sheer will to survive and escape the unforgiving mountain range and their unseen predator. The night held its breath, the silence punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the survivors and the distant howl of the wind.

After an entire nerve-racking night, the darkness finally faded away, but the effect had clearly left its mark on the Threians, the surroundings of their eyes were almost dyed black, courtesy of being always on alert against the Dargan's next attack. None among them had a good night sleep, as they were all aware that their next sleep might be their last.

They were all exhausted near their limits, their minds near their breaking point, but the view of clear opening from the distance gave them hope, they were already near the very edge of the mountains, leaving the mountains would mean that they would be able to leave the nightmarish environment behind them, so they pushed on.