As the first light of dawn breaks through the dense canopy, the Blood Fang Tribe stirs from its slumber. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint embers of last night’s fires.

Orcs move with practiced efficiency. Dark green skin slips through shadow as tents are torn down, hides rolled, gear secured to restless wargs. Low growls ripple through the camp as the beasts stretch, their breath steaming in the cold morning air.

Darash stands above it all. Massive and Still.

Sazab moves among the tribe, her voice low, steady. A hand on a shoulder. A glance that lingers just long enough. The morning holds together where she passes.

Iron shifts. Leather creaks. A blade is tested against a thumb. Someone laughs, too loud. It dies quickly.

Ulokk’s gaze moves across the camp… and lingers on you.

A warg behind you lets out a short, sharp growl. The chain pulls tight. Then stillness again.

Movement at the edge of the trees.

A figure stumbles into the clearing. Mud to the knees. Blood on the arm. One of the scouts.

“Tracks,” he growls, breath ragged. “East. Wheels.”

A swallow. Then: “Human.”

Garr bares his teeth. Bolath watches in silence. Narog tilts his head slightly, eyes on the treeline.

Narog steps forward. Boot against damp earth. A dull thud. The nearest voices fall quiet. His gaze moves across the tribe… and comes to rest on you.

Narog steps closer. “Speak, What do you see?”