The morning air reeked of scorched flesh and ruptured magic. Smoke still clung low over the plain, a heavy fog of soot and blood. Where once an orcish tide surged like a wrathful storm, now lay twisted bodies...some charred black, others torn open like butchered cattle. The Baron of Frost stood tall amidst the wreckage, his silver-blue armor splattered with gore, the tip of his glaive humming with residual magic.
They had arrived just in time.
Hours earlier, Major Gresham's battered force had stood on the edge of annihilation. The orcish offensive, led by their newly risen chieftain, had hammered his positions with unrelenting fury.
Waves of crazy orcish warriors threw themselves against the Threian lines, supported by trolls, goblins and beast-mounted riders. Even the sky had seemed to turn against them, clouded with ash and streaked by strange, dark-winged carrion birds, ready for the feast that the battle had served.
But then, the frost had come.
