Rögdûl the Black (Main), Outskirts of the Northern Hills near Gloria, Prealium

Fire swells into the chilling air, the flame provides sparse light for the entire encampment. At the crown of the fortess stands Rögdûl who peers into the vast black of the Northern plain; a disparaged place in the daylight--an abandoned catacomb in the night. Behind him are the soft clanks of wooden sticks from orc children feigning battle with one another,

"Undur kurv!" shouted the chubbier of the kids.

[color=green][i]"Watch your mouth."[/i][/color]

After rubbing his head, the chubby orc child (dubbed "the Fat" by the older orc juveniles) waddled off.

	Rögdûl returns to watching over the Northern Hills, his mind rife with the rumors carried to and fro from the other bandit tribes who had heard of the turmoil happening just over hills where the savage lands end: Praelium had been bested by some random group of [i]starkok[/i]. Typically, a bandit raid on Praelium meant nothing for the tribes surrounding its Northern border than that Praelium would bolster Gloria's fortress and make it even harder for the barbarians to poach. . . but this was different. If Praelium had lost to unorganized, distasteful brutes, it is a fright to imagine what may happen if they were to face an enemy who was organized.

	Rögdûl shuttered at the thought. If Praelium fell, it meant that whomever it fell to had access to some of the finest weapons in the land--and that meant death for the Red Claw. That couldn't happen, not on his watch. Beside him whisked his tribal flag--his history, his father's legacy, and he'd be damned if some [i]starkok[/i] took that away from him. Tomorrow, he and Nehrakghu rode to to Praelium.