The scorching bonfire crackled in the dark night, whole roast lamb grease dripping onto burning coals and kicking up tiny sparks.
Grum Ironjaw, old chieftain of the local orc tribe, sat cross-legged on a beast-skin mat and handed a wooden bowl filled with Mare Milk Wine to the dust-covered Royal Tent Emissary.
"Drink, brother from afar!"
A bold smile hung on the old chieftain's rugged face, the bone ornaments tied to his gray braids swaying gently with his movement. "Tell me, how is the war in the south going?"
The Royal Tent Emissary puffed out his chest. "Naturally, it goes smoothly. The Great Chieftain's army has sent the humans scurrying."
The old chieftain narrowed his eyes, rough fingers stroking the rim of the wine bowl. "I heard the humans built iron walls and have Witchcraft Weapons that spit fire?"
The emissary suddenly straightened up, a fanatical light bursting in his eyes. "Ha! Those cowardly humans did pull some tricks, but before the Great Chieftain's mighty host, they are nothing more than laughable stunts!" He gulped down a mouthful of strong liquor, foam splashing onto his beard.
"Just a month ago, our iron cavalry swept through three human fortresses!"
The emissary waved his furry arms. "Their firearms hadn't even lit their fuses before they were drowned out by our arrow rain. Abaal Great Chieftain personally severed the human general's head, and now that head hangs on the Royal Tent's battle flag!"
"Then the lads of our tribe..." The old chieftain paused, a trace of hard-to-detect softness flashing in his eyes. "When can they come home?"
"Home? Why go home?"
The emissary took the wine bowl and drank it dry.
"Do you want them to return to this grassland where livestock freeze by the herds and people starve by the groups every