"Shel! Hold up!" The paleness of the land made it very distinguishable to spot anything moving about, unless of course there was a snowstorm. A young, pale orc sprinted after his even younger sister, shouting her name only to have the sound masked by the increasing draft and force of high winds. The thick snow combined with the hefty, various fur garments drafted over the young lad made it just that much more difficult to catch up with his spry sibling.

He could of swore he heard shouting, the clanking of steel and crumbling rocks. That could have been his imagination, though, blended in by the whirling, screaming masks of heavy and strong winds. White flakes by the millions flooded his vision, and he wouldn't realize the occurring events until it would be too late.

"Derthag!" A cry for help rang out, and suddenly before the young, ten year old orc lay a legion of dwarves abroad a heavily fortified castle embedded within the frosty mountainside. They were preparing a siege, and what was odd about the whole ordeal was how dwarves were not known for infighting. Feudalism, if you will, was not necessarily their motive.

Nonetheless, the two younglings were shocked. The gilded armor, the single filed groups, the inevitable charge into battle. Both brother and sister dug into the snow, watching blood spewing, walls crumbling down the mountain along with men struck with axes and arrows. Hearing the shouts of warcries, screams of pain and agony. This was the first they ever saw of battle, and they couldn't look away from it.

~

"Shel!" The abrupt shout caused Gut-Drench to heave upwards and yelp as Derthag clenched onto her fur. The other wargs snapped their heads and raised snouts to their wounded companion, every one of their individual hairs standing upright. Surrounded by the Malish defenders, Derthag quickly gave a compassionate scratching behind the poor girl's furry ear, dismounting her and beginning to lead her a bit behind the pack. Taking off his saddle and several other packs attached to her, he calmly set her down. It was just than Captain Lontok briefed Koloch on the situation. He didn't understand much human tongue, nonetheless motioned to Ygdri and Mutt as they looked his way. 

"Aye, she's a wounded beast. We'd not do good to put her down right here, lest' we disturb the pack. There's gotta be somethin', soothing herbs or just...somethin'." His face wasn't of despair or sorrow, more of a focused, determined look of hope. 

He quickly reached into his satchel and pulled out the pipe tomahawk, drawing in a long drag and letting out a controlled hit through the wounded girl's ear. Both rider and mount feeling a sensational calm overwhelm them, both feeling a better sense of situational awareness. As Derthag continued petting her and taking an occasional glance toward the human defenders, Gut-Drench's winces of pain turned to a condensed, furrowed look as she stared ahead, completely silent. Some of the crossbowmen were perplexed to say the least, normally a horse would be put down without remorse. Here was an orc, splattered and battered by the recent conflict, tending to his mount as one would a wounded, domesticated pet. They would soon come to realize these orcs did not fit the stereotypes they've embedded into their generations of offspring, these were no mere tribal, barbaric fiends. This was a full-fledged force, a company with finances to manage and contracts to fulfill. Wargs weren't necessarily hard to come by, but the hours and upkeep paid to train, control and feed such beasts meant they weren't about to simply whisk away such an asset to the business, not if they could at least do something about it.