The Quiet Dread
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Word spreads swiftly through Arabel’s streets, carried on anxious tongues and uneasy glances. House Delzuld led a scouting expedition against the Mountain Orcs--but what they found, if anything, remains a mystery. They returned bloodied and battered, their caravan bearing the dead. Among them, bodies clad in Delzuld’s colors. Some whisper it was an ambush, others claim they stumbled into something far worse than mere Orcish raiders.
Now, uncertainty festers in the hearts of the people. If even a noble house's forces falter, what hope does Arabel have against the coming storm? Merchants clutch their ledgers a little tighter, smiths work longer into the night, and wary eyes turn toward the walls, wondering if they will be enough.
Meanwhile, under Nahlo’s quiet command, Helmites have begun patrolling the streets--not as city guards, but as watchmen of their own accord. A welcome sight to some, an unsettling omen to others. Stranger still, warriors bearing the crimson of Tempus have been seen at their side. Some call it a show of unity in troubled times, others an act of desperation.
And with each passing day, the weight of uncertainty grows heavier.
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Tilverton in Peril
Word spreads quickly in the aftermath of the Mountain Orc assault on Tilverton. Though the defenders held the walls, the cost was high--too high, some whisper. The dead still smolder where the Azure Flame skeletons burst apart, their icy fire leaving cracks in the stone. Survivors tell of orcs clad in blackened iron, fighting with a savage coordination unlike any Tilverton has faced before.
"Tilverton still stands, but barely," one weary soldier was heard muttering over his drink. "We lost too many good folk, and they took some, too. Right in the middle of the fight, the orcs just grabbed them--ripped them from the line and dragged them screaming into the dark. No one’s saying it out loud, but you can see it in their eyes: they’re scared. Maybe we all should be."
Even in victory, morale wavers. Some claim to have seen watchmen slipping away into the night, their armor left behind, their faces drawn with fear. Others say hushed conversations among officers speak of sending word to Arabel--Tilverton is the last true barrier between the orcs and the city, and its defenses have been shaken.
And then, there are the whispers of Avalanche herself. Some say they saw her at the heart of the battle, wreathed in spectral blue flames, her axe cutting down defenders like wheat before the scythe. "She is not mortal," one wounded man reportedly gasped before succumbing to his wounds. "She is something else. Something terrible."
"You didn’t hear this from me," a blacksmith reportedly told a traveler, "but some of the higher-ups are talking about pulling back. If Tilverton falls, there’ll be nothing between Arabel and that Azure-Flame. Some folk think we should hold. Others? They say we should run while we still can."
For now, the banners of Tilverton still fly, but doubt lingers in the air like smoke from the battlefield. And if the orcs return, there are many who wonder whether the town’s walls--or its defenders--will stand a second time.
