Orc's Drift: Death on the Wind

King F'yar exalted in the sense of power that coursed through his whole body. The great dorsal muscles of his Wyvern mount surged powerfully beneath him and he narrowed his eyes against the rushing winds to gaze at the land that lay stretched invitingly before him.

Great mountains dwindled into foothills, the narrow passes widened into valleys, in whose depths rivers sparkled in the sunlight before vanishing beneath dark clumps of forest. His eyes lingered on the great patchwork of fields, ran along the roads that criss-crossed back and forth, and which led eventually to the glittering citadel of Palesandre.

He smiled to see the conflagration to the East - a sure sign that his alliance with King Murgol of the Hill Goblins was alive and well. A sure sign indeed that the Grand League had fallen for his plan and that the way lay open to his prize.

The Wyvern banked and swooped to a lower altitude with a little assistance from F'yar's boot and the landscape rushed to meet him. Ah, there it was. Still an insignificant speck nestled amongst the foothills, yet it commanded both the crossing over the river Canis and the main highway that led to Palesandre. If his army were to take the capital, Orc's Drift must fall.


And what of his army? The Orcish King once more scoured the roads and passes that wound their way down from the peaks. Small plumes of smoke punctuated the path his old Tribe, the Kwae Karr, had taken from Linden Way and it seemed they were within striking distance of Orc's Drift. His heart swelling with pride, F'yar searched eagerly for his allies.

Dawdling far to the North West were two ant-like columns, labouring their way down the Kachas road. Fools! They were a long way off from linking up with the Kwae Karr and their numbers seemed to have dwindled significantly too. Whether this was through attrition or cowardice, F'yar cared not. A black rage descended upon him and he plunged his hapless mount into a steep dive.

What need did the King have for such pathetic minions. He would crush them underfoot once he had wiped the remains of the Grand League's finest from his steel-shod boots.  Had not he, the Tyrant of the North, single-handedly  murdered the Half Elf King and plunged the Grand League into disarray? Had not he, F'yar the Merciless, laid a trap big enough for the Grand League's entire army? Had not he, Scourge of the Northlands, Crusher of Hearts, raised the largest, most fearsome horde of Orcs that had ever menaced the lands of Ramalia?

Yes, Orc's Drift was his for the taking. The glory would be his alone and those who cowered in his shadow would rue the...

A terrible rippling and rending noise from below tore him from his reverie and both the Wyvern and its incandescent rider were suddenly born upwards as if their load had somehow been dramatically lightened. F'yar fought for control over the beast and banked into another dive back towards Orc's Drift, growling as he went,

"By the Gods, can you not still your bowels even now?"