The prairie wind swept fine sand across the withered yellow grass. In an orcish tribal settlement, the herders were bent over packing their belongings. Tanned hides had been bundled tightly, and the pouches of dried meat were securely tied shut. The tents in the distance had already been dismantled, leaving only their frames. Dust hung everywhere.
The rapid beat of hooves approached from afar, making the ground tremble faintly. Amur, a Royal Tent commander, led a squad of fully armed cavalrymen thundering toward them. They wore heavy leather armor and carried sharp curved blades at their waists, looking thoroughly menacing.
The cavalry halted in the center of the tribal settlement. Amur dismounted and swept his gaze over the flustered herders before shouting harshly, "Where is the tribe's chieftain? Bring him to me at once!"
The Orcish General's voice echoed across the settlement. The chieftain had been directing his people as they gathered their supplies, but his expression changed drastically when he heard the shout. He hurriedly dropped the rope in his hands, hastily brushed the dust from his sheepskin clothes, and trotted nervously over to Amur. Bowing, he said, "So it's Lord Amur! May I ask what brings you here?"
Amur looked him up and down, the corner of his mouth curling into a cold smile. His gaze swept over the packed belongings and the cattle and sheep ready to depart. When he spoke, his undisguised mockery was obvious. "Orders? I'd like to ask you instead—what exactly are you doing?"
The chieftain's eyes flickered, and he dared not meet Amur's gaze. After a long while, he answered timidly, "My lord, the nearby pastures... The pastures have been nearly eaten bare by the livestock. There's little water or grass left, so we plan to migrate east to that lush area and