After leaving the tavern, Elminster strolled through the streets of a city at the easternmost edge of the Warhorse Plains, guarding the only passage between the Galena Mountains and Vassa. He took in its atmosphere of stark contrasts.
On one hand, the walls were being repaired day and night amid constant fighting, while the city center bustled with commerce and every kind of entertainment.
Barely a hundred meters separated them, yet they might as well have been two different worlds.
On the other hand, the Orcs' state of mind was astonishing. Despite being surrounded, they showed no trace of fear or panic. They simply went about their lives.
Some came down from the front lines covered in blood, took a bath, then sat down in taverns and restaurants to eat and drink their fill. As they boasted to their companions about how many of Gruumsh's followers they had killed that day, one could hardly tell they had just survived a fierce battle.
Other Orc Shamans held gatherings around the city, encouraging more and more Orcs to worship Warboss Thrall like a god.
An indescribable fervor was spreading at tremendous speed, swiftly becoming the power of faith.
Through the Silver Fire bestowed on him by Mystra, Elminster could even see the radiance of Divinity flickering ceaselessly above Thrall's residence.
Without question, the Warboss was steadily shedding his mortality and moving toward godhood.
And it was not just Ilinwuer. Similar signs had appeared in the skies over Vassa, beyond the mountains.
It was obvious that the Orc children, elders, women, and troops withdrawn from the Warhorse Plains had been secretly sent to that land, perhaps the most geographically isolated in all Faerun.
If they won this fight for survival, they could found a nation and civilization of their own, break free of