The heavily-laden carriage, a testament to Lazican opulence even in these strained times, rumbled along the dirt road. Inside, The King of Lazica stared out the small, barred window.
The landscape, a combination of muted greens and browns, offered little comfort. The escort, a formidable presence, mirrored the uneasy peace. Three distinct military forces moved in a carefully choreographed dance of protection and wary observation.
To his left, the disciplined ranks of the orc's 3rd Warband of Yohan 1st Horde marched with a quiet efficiency that spoke volumes of their military discipline. Their armour, though showing signs of wear, held a threatening gleam in the afternoon sun.
Their faces, grim and weathered, betrayed nothing of their thoughts, their gazes fixed straight ahead. The king heard the stories whispered about the orcs; their brutality, their ruthlessness. Even in their role as escorts, their very presence was a silent reminder of the precarious nature of the truce.
