Edge of White mountain,
Late morning,
The cart hit a rut hard enough to rattle the cage, and the blue-eyed orc grabbed the bars on instinct before he caught himself doing it.
Ahead, two of the hobgoblin riders were still wiping blood off their spears. An hour back, something had come screaming out of the treeline, low and fast with bloodshot eyes
It had taken the better part of twenty minutes and three wolves working together to put it down. Dabok hadn't so much as raised his voice through the whole thing, just directed the newly evolved hobgoblins from behind.
"Do you not find it strange," Vargan said, eyeing the old orc once the cart started moving again.
"What?" Dabok asked with some amusement.
"...No. That was a Bronsaur, I see them a lot back at the arena." Vargan looked back at the treeline, uneasy. "But even I know that they are not supposed to be on this side of white mountain."
