White hand

The man stopped, standing still, not unlike a statue, as if some sort of spell had just frozen him. He narrowed his eyes as he recognized what was before him, the beast that had already defeated him once: a Warg, as big as a horse and black as the night. It could be any black Warg, especially since the last time it was in the Lone-Lands, miles away... but Ildrand knew it was that Warg. The same size, the same growl, the same eyes.

"Come on, come on! We're in Dunland, already. Few more days, and we'll be there."

"Mister Berrywine! What a pleasure! We couldn't recognize you, it is quite dark. What are you doing here, in the Vale of Andrath?"
"I'm going South."
"Where?"
"You'll find out when I come back."

Annaliesa stood up, watching as the men with torches scattered with the rest of the raiders, flinging them at the barn and the outbuildings.

Annaliesa sat on the wooden chair, a half empty bottle of whiskey wedged between her skirt covered knees.

This evening 3 to 4 men in hooded cloaks and bearing crossbows fired from the roof of the armory across the town hall at Billium Cutting, Thomas Bristlebrush and Bill Cornman. All the men belong were struck with bolts, Bristlebrush and Cornman died at the scene and Cutting is being treated by a healer at the jail. His injuries are several and one of them very severe, a puncture to the ribs by a bolt.

Once the anthill has been disturbed it isn't going to just lay to rest. The gates have been closed. No, if you would have asked yesterday, they would be closed. The gates are reinforced. Not even a raging troll could break them down now. Yet the half-orcs of Mudhlas Cadhus were not dealing with a troll right now. That would have been a small problem compared to this. The camp was quiet. The soldiers were already calling it the silence before the storm. Their leaders? They called it their last chance of adverting the coming onslaught.