The river ruins stink of old stone and cold water.
Good.
My kind were born in places like this.
I move low through the broken arches, shoulders brushing moss‑slick rock. Mountain orcs aren’t tall — we don’t need to be. We’re built for tight spaces, for tunnels, for ruins where the ceiling wants to crush you. The rabble behind me pads forward in a loose wave, muttering, sniffing, scraping their scrap‑blades against the stone to steady their nerves.
They’re not disciplined.
They’re not pretty.
But they follow me, and that’s enough.
We came down from the high passes to hunt the Crown — the old river‑stone relic the Ivory Boughs hid here. They think it’s sacred. We think it’s power. And power belongs to whoever is willing to bleed for it.
The ruins hum under my boots.
The Crown is close.
Even the rabble can feel it — their ears twitch, their breathing gets sharp, their eyes go wide like they’re staring into a cave too deep to see the end of.
I raise a hand.
They freeze.
Good lads.
The river glints ahead, moonlight cutting across the water like a blade. The ruins rise around it like broken teeth. Perfect ground for a raid — tight, confusing, full of places to hide a knife.
But something’s wrong.
The rabble’s muttering dies.
The air shifts.
The river holds its breath.
Ivory Boughs.
They’re already here.
I bare my teeth. Fine. Let them come.
Mountain orcs don’t fear ambushes.
We make them.
Mountain orcs move differently from plains orcs.
Lower. Heavier. More deliberate.
That’s why I’ve been listening for them since dusk — not for footsteps, but for the scrape of stone on stone, the soft grunt of rabble trying to stay quiet, the way the ruins themselves seem to tense when their kind enters.
The river ruins are a maze of collapsed arches and half‑sunken pillars. Perfect for orcs born in mountain tunnels. But perfect for us too — if we get here first.
We did.
My rangers are already placed: one in the reeds, one behind a broken arch, two half‑submerged in the river’s cold shallows. We’ve mapped every line of sight, every choke point, every stone that can hide a bowman.
The Crown they’re hunting isn’t a prize. It’s a responsibility. A relic that remembers wars the world shouldn’t repeat.
The orcs don’t care about memory.
They care about advantage.
I watch their raid captain move through the ruins — compact, powerful, eyes sharp. He’s no fool. He’s reading the ground, sensing the trap, feeling the river’s tension.
Good.
Let him feel it.
I shape the signal in my throat — a breath that isn’t a sound unless you’ve been trained to hear it.
The river stills. Bows rise. Strings tighten.
The first volley flies.
The raid ends before the rabble even UNDERSTANDS it began.
-
Ivory Boughs Rangers: 14 models plus a Captain
- Ivory Boughs Swordsmen: 10 models
- Ivory Boughs Royal Guard: 5 models
- Dark Realms Rabble Warriors: 20 models plus a Captain
-
Ivory Boughs Rangers: 7 models plus a Captain
- Ivory Boughs Swordsmen: 6 models
- Ivory Boughs Royal Guard: 2 models
- Dark Realms Rabble Warriors: 12 models plus a Captain
-
Ivory Boughs Rangers: 5 models plus a Captain
- Ivory Boughs Swordsmen: 5 models
- Ivory Boughs Royal Guard: 3 model
- Dark Realms Rabble Warriors: 8 models plus a Captain
-
Ivory Boughs Rangers: 4 models plus a Captain
- Ivory Boughs Swordsmen: 4 models
- Ivory Boughs Royal Guard: 3 model
- Dark Realms Rabble Warriors: 8 models plus a Captain
-
The Crown Bearer
- The Mountain Monkey Guide
-
The Gardner
-
The Ancient Wight
