Truck Alpha 6 was the first to spot them. The radio crackled to life as Private First Class Enilya Drypaw’s voice broke through the tense silence.

“Alpha 1!” she called, excitement and tension mingling in her tone. “Caravan spotted! It’s to the south, range... 900 meters!”

In response, Sergeant Targzon immediately swiveled the Remote Weapon Station (RWS) to the south, his eyes focusing on the incoming convoy. The zoom function of the camera enhanced the distant figures, and Targzon scrutinized the details: no Austorian flags, no banners of any kind, and nothing that resembled the usual Imperial insignia.

“Alpha1 this is Alpha 2.” Targzon reported over the radio. “I’m not seeing any military insignia. There is a small horseback escort, but they don’t have any banners or displaying any weapons. Could be a refugee convoy, but no guarantees.”

Tarfire’s voice came back, calm but alert. “Understood Alpha 2. Keep a close watch, over.”

At the Roadblock; Staff Sergeant Wellknife, binoculars in hand, peered across the plains. His eyes narrowed as the caravan drew nearer. The absence of any visible military markings didn't ease his caution. The Beastkin had heard of slaver caravans disguising themselves as refugees before. Slavers had used the trick of hiding soldiers among wagons, bursting forth with weapons once the defenders lowered their guard. He steeled himself as he was not taking any chances.

"Stay sharp," Wellknife warned his men. "Something's off. Could be a trick."

The caravan lumbered toward the roadblock. Oxen pulled the creaking wagons, and the lead driver hesitated, clearly puzzled by the obstacle. The Beastkin soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, hands gripping their weapons as the tension mounted.

“Echo 6, signal them to stop,” Tarfire’s voice came through the radio. “Let’s see what their intentions are.”

“Rodger that, Alpha 1,” Wellknife replied, raising his hand to signal a halt. He glanced at the approaching figures, then added, “Alpha 1, I think this is a refugee caravan. The drivers… their ears—they’re pointed. Elves, most likely.”

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“An elf caravan?” Tarfire’s tone carried a hint of doubt. “Be cautious, Echo 6. We still don’t know if this could be a ruse.”

“Understood, Alpha 1” Wellknife replied, voice steady. “We’ll proceed carefully. Echo 6 out.”

He turned to his men. “You, you, and you,” he gestured to three soldiers nearby. “You’re with me. Keep your weapons ready, but no sudden moves unless things go south.”

Weapons at the low ready, Wellknife and his security team cautiously approached the stopped convoy. As they neared, an elf man jumped down from the lead wagon and began walking toward them, his steps careful, hands visible.

The two groups met halfway between the wagons and the roadblock. The air crackled with tension, neither side fully trusting the other.

A breeze whipped between them, causing the Elf’s brown tunic raise to show the Green and gold Tunic he was concealing underneath the coat.

Wellknife took a breath and spoke in clear, measured Elvish, “We are the Beastkin Unified Army, from the Cursed Sands. We offer greetings in these dark times. We come as friends. May you be friends to us.” He stated as he bowed with his arm across his chest.

The elf leader blinked in surprise, his pointed ears twitching at the sound of his language from a Beastkin as well as an ancient Elven greeting of friendship. His shock quickly gave way to a smile. “To you, a warm welcome, for we are indeed friends,” he replied in Elvish, extending his hand.

Wellknife grasped the elf’s hand in return, giving a nod. “Good to hear. You’ll want to speak to our commander. Follow me.”

The elf turned and called back to the ox driver, who visibly relaxed and relayed the message to the rest of the caravan. The refugees let out collective sighs of relief, peeling back their hoods to reveal tired faces, some smiling with hope for the first time in days.

“Lead the way,” the elf, Lorian Yellowbranch, said with a formal nod.

As the Beastkin soldiers watched the exchange, the air of tension began to ease, though their vigilance remained. Wellknife escorted Lorian through the Beastkin lines, his security detail keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. As they approached Tarfire’s command truck, the soldiers parted to let them pass.

Back at the roadblock, Tarfire issued orders over the radio. “Let the caravan through. They look to be refugees. Keep your guard up, but let’s help them through the lines.”

The convoy began to move forward again, this time with relief spreading among both the Beastkin and the elves. The mystery of the caravan had been unraveled, but the mission ahead still hung over them like a storm cloud on the horizon.