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The Badlands
Dragonfang-UPC border
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For over a decade the Grogar of the Dragonfang Clan have repeated their endless assaults on the defensive lines of the UPC remnants, and now another attack is soon to be dawning upon the UPC, a sad reality for the people trapped on the other side of the trenches.

Miles away from the trenches, Black smoke rises high up towards the skies as an outlining outpost was overrun and razed to the ground by the Dragonfang Clan, charred and severed corpses of the unfortunate soldiers standing guard littering the ground, an assortment of Grogar looting the dead for weapons, ammo and other gear, some even fighting over who would be able to feast upon the charred flesh, just the way they like it.

At the center of the frenzied mob was a tall imposing Highborn Grogar, a well-muscled brute of a beast, who had a strong resemblance to the Warchief Argon, and for good reason, he wa his the oldest son, Nog the Scarred as he was called. He was flanked by two more Ashen Guardsmen, clad in their signature grey armor, segments of the armor painted in blood with dragon shapes.

Nog let out a loud roar as he aised his battle axe up high, all turning their eyes to him as they cheered on with unholy and beastly zeal. "I'd says that was a job well down, right boys?!?!?!" He screamed out gleefully in a graveling tone, quickly followed by cheers in unison. "That's what I wanna hear!" he said, walking forward, the mob clearing away as he thrust his axe towards the north. "This is it you bastards, time to send a message to the plainers, the Dragonfangs are not to be ignored! We're gonna burn it all, and in the ashes, the Ashen Devil rises! Glory to Argon! Glory to the Warchief!"

They cheered once more as they all charged out from the burnt out husk of the Outpost, the same being repeated in other locations as the warbands gather for their daily incursion into UPC Territory.