separate and ready them. But their big black eyes merely
glanced back, rolling in annoyance as they tugged at the
reins that restrained them and were slapped resoundingly
with sturdy wooden crops.
A thunderous howling broke out as the orc
warriors finally mounted their chosen steeds. Clouds of
dust spun into existence from a dozen places and meshed
to form one great billowing brown fog bank.
Wank watched as the riders clung precariously to
gray fur with clenched fingers and knees, their swords,
clubs and spears slung across their backs as the worgs
bounded into the forest, disappearing from the foot of the
Sotus. The half-orc had played this game as a child. And
then, as now, he was the hunted, the boar. This time,
however, his capture would mean no mere beating with
small, crude crops fashioned by the hands of orc children.
This time, capture would mean death. And the forest held
no place for him to hide.
With a heavy shroud of darkness gathered about
him, Wank scrabbled down from his perch. The prickle at
his neck had returned and, as he approached the main adit
to OrcHome, something else. Standing against the cavern
wall, its arched entrance curving above, his chest grew
heavy, a ghostly fist seemed to clamp onto his chest.
He sidled sluggishly in despite the omen, knowing
that to heed it would mean certain death this day. As he
struggled along the wall, putting the weight of the
mountain between himself and the sky, the grim sense
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