In the night, several pairs of slowly gathering, reflective eyes revealed vague black silhouettes. Four hooves stepped lightly across the dry earth. Their massive bodies bore humanoid upper torsos, and their rough, powerful hands held sharp Battle Axes.
Amid their heavy breathing came the occasional horse-like snort.
They gazed from afar at the Orc camp, listening to the constant laughter drifting over. The scent of roasting meat filled the air, along with the intoxicating aroma of alcohol. All of it made the Centaur warriors swallow involuntarily.
Soon, an even larger Centaur Khan stepped forward. After listening to the scouts' report, he looked toward the Orc camp in the distance and began assigning the ambush. How could they possibly let such fat prey slip away?
A small force at the scene quietly circled around to the other side, while an even larger army gathered behind the Centaur Khan. They waited silently for the order.
In the Orc camp, Thrall was making his rounds with several local Orcs. He strictly rationed the alcohol, afraid the Mag'har Orcs would get drunk and botch things. Yet he still found several drunks along the way. They were all stronger Orcs who had naturally seized the inferior liquor allotted to others and drunk their fill first.
On the Nagrand plains, they could barely fill their bellies, so how could the Orcs possibly drink alcohol often? Thus, when Thrall distributed a batch of liquor carried with the wagons to raise morale, the stronger Mag'har Orcs followed the old rules. They grabbed other people's liquor, drank first in salute, and kept drinking until they collapsed.
Seeing this, Thrall knew he could not stop them. It was an old Orc custom. He could only order the sober Orcs to settle the fallen drunks properly, fearing they would be carried