A pale light filtered through the thin veil of fog and snow that blanketed the camp. And a strange, taut silence hung over everything, a stillness that gnawed at the edges of the usual early morning sounds.

Even the youngest members of the Er'Dovaz, often found play-wrestling or chattering near the tents, huddled close to their parents.

For two blasts of horns had sounded.

Through the mist, the first of the wounded emerged. At first, it was difficult to make out details, their silhouettes barely visible. But as they drew nearer, Leon saw the shape of their exhaustion, the slump in their shoulders. These were not the confident, agile hunters he had come to know.

Some stumbled, dragging their feet, while others leaned on each other for support, each step heavy and labored. Dark streaks stained their makeshift bandages, dried blood smeared over fresh, jagged wounds that gleamed raw and painful under the light of dawn.

The assembled Er'Dovaz, who had been about to start their day, now bristled with a new tension as they began to recognize the implications of what they were seeing. Warriors who returned from scouting or gathering missions rarely came back this weary…or this wounded.

This was something different.

Leon, standing near the edge of the gathering, stared, his gaze flickering from one injured warrior to the next. A ripple of confusion and unease swept through the crowd, and he felt its undercurrents in his gut, a knot of uncertainty twisting tighter with each passing second.

He hadn’t even known scouts had been sent out, and it seemed clear now that neither had anyone else. Kraka must have sent them under the cover of night, a silent, strategic decision made in secrecy.

The leader of the scouting party moved at the head of the group. He was lean and wiry, his frame visibly hardened by years of battle and life in the wilderness. Yet even he appeared weighed down with fatigue, his every step deliberate, as if each one demanded more energy than he had left. Across his forearm, a long, jagged wound bled through a poorly wrapped bandage, seeping dark against his grey fur.

Still, he held his head high, his expression resolute, unyielding despite the raw evidence of battle carved into his very flesh. His eyes burned a vivid red, fierce and unwavering, matching the defiance in his stance.

The other scouts trailed behind him, battered and worn, faces cast down as though ashamed to meet the eyes of those who waited for news. Low whispers began to murmur through the crowd, passing from one Gnoll to the next, the language of fear and anger weaving its way through anxious, furious voices.

Leon could feel the weight of those hushed conversations gathering momentum, the air heavy with unasked questions.

Amidst the crowd, Leon's gaze caught sight of Borog. His face was drawn tight, the once jovial glimmer in his eyes replaced by a sinister intensity, and the warm smile that had greeted Leon just yesterday in the tavern was nowhere to be seen. Next to him was his son, Kraff, clinging to the leg of a female Gnoll whom Leon assumed was Borog's wife. She seemed protective, her gaze darting nervously among the injured warriors.

Standing just beside him, Khazarg’s towering figure loomed over the other Gnolls present, his expression mirroring the weight of the moment. A quiet tension settled between them as they took in the scene. Though he searched for more familiar faces like Varra, Kallia, or Barg, the throng of Gnolls around them made it difficult to spot anyone among the mass of bodies.

Kraka, standing at the forefront of the crowd, took several steps forward. His face was hard as stone, his gaze focused intently on the returning members of his tribe. He hadn’t intended for this news to break this way—not with blood and exhaustion marking those who had ventured out to confirm his fears. Though he’d had little doubt in the first place, he’d still needed to make sure.

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But there it was, stark and unavoidable, laid bare in front of the entire tribe. He turned, facing his tribe, his eyes sharp and grim as he took in the shock and apprehension around him. And the fury.

When he finally spoke, his voice held a quiet authority that rippled through the crowd, each word steady and deliberate, drawing every gaze and silencing every whisper. It carried an unspoken weight, firm and unyielding, pressing down on the gathering until all that remained was the stillness of his words.

[Commanding Presence].

“Grakthar,” he said, his words clear, controlled, “report.”

Grakthar stopped a few paces behind him. He nodded slightly, his voice rasping from exhaustion, but still holding a steely edge of resolve.

“The Windcloaks,” he began, pausing to steady his voice, each word emerging clear and hard. “They attacked us.” He hesitated, glancing down as though the weight of his next words pained him more than any of his wounds. “We... lost several during the escape. We ran out of Health Potions and had no choice but to leave them behind. They bought us time.”

A silence fell over the tribe. Leon felt his stomach knot as the full weight of the revelation settled over the Er’Dovaz. They realised this wasn’t merely talk of danger or a hint of trouble; this was war, and lives had already been lost.

The air seemed to grow colder, sharper, as though even the elements recognized the severity of what had just been spoken.

Kraka’s expression grew even more severe, his gaze like tempered steel as it moved from face to face in the crowd, assessing, calculating. His eyes lingered on each individual, conveying an unspoken demand for courage, for strength.

Then, drawing in a deep breath, he spoke again, raising his voice.

"This," he announced, his voice reaching every ear in the clearing, "was news I had planned to share with you myself this very morning. But the blood of our warriors speaks for itself. The Windcloaks have made their stance known, and war has been declared.” He glanced at Grakthar, who met his gaze with an understanding nod. “They will reach us soon—in two days.”

Across the gathering, Gnolls exchanged glances, jaws clenched, fangs bared. The children clung to their mothers, their eyes wide, while the older warriors squared their shoulders, their paws drifting unconsciously to the hilts of their blades or the shafts of their spears.

Leon, standing at the edge of the gathering, felt a strange mix of awe and trepidation. He was an outsider, not of their blood or race, and yet he was here, among them, bound by the same fate that all awaited them. Blood and death. Victory or defeat.

He could feel the intensity of their resolve, a quiet, steely determination that seemed to bind them all in silent agreement. These Gnolls, savage and brutal as they could be, were prepared to defend their home, their tribe, with everything they had.

Kraka, sensing the shift in the crowd’s mood, raised his voice once more, a fire lighting in his eyes. "We are warriors. We are hunters. We are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. Brothers and sisters. We are people. We are Er'Dovaz," he declared, his tone fierce, his words vibrating through the gathering. "We do not run. We do not cower. We will stand ready. We will show them that we are not so easily broken. We will show them what it means to face the Sheperds of Borealis.”

A low, rumbling growl began to build within the crowd, rising into a ferocious chorus that filled the clearing, a sound of unity, of defiance. The Gnolls around Leon lifted their heads, eyes gleaming with a savage pride, their howls merging into a singular, unbroken sound that echoed across the camp, rippling through the trees and seemed to scatter the mist around them.

In that moment, Leon understood the gravity of the bond that held this tribe together. This was more than a call to arms; it was a vow, a promise that they would not fall easily, that every breath they took from now until the day after tomorrow would be dedicated to preparing for the coming storm.

Leon howled with them.

…It was only at the end of the day, as he tried to sleep, that Leon realised Kraka had not spoken in Common. But in Gnollish.

[New Skill: Natural Allies - Er’Dovaz Gnolls]

[Sub-Skill: Gnollish Translation]