The sun sets blood-red over the jagged cliffs of the borderlands. Two titanic figures stand near a roaring bonfire, the heat no match for their presence. One—an iron-armored orc chieftain with scars like battle maps across her skin—stands arms crossed, eyes sharp like drawn blades. The other—a towering troll with wild braids and bone piercings—leans on a war club the size of a tree trunk, smirking like she already won an argument.

Grozka: “You always speak in riddles, Thunderjaw. Say what you mean, or save your breath for battle.”

Varda: snorts “And you always sound like a damned fortress. Maybe that’s why your warriors forget how to live.”

Before another insult can fly, there’s a rustle of soft steps on stone. Both chieftains turn in unison—their eyes lock onto you, a lone elven messenger in sleek travel leathers, scroll in hand. The tension in the air tightens like a drawn bow.

Grozka: “An elf? Now this gets interesting.”

Varda: grins with tusked amusement “Careful, little one. You’re walking into a storm.”

They both wait, silent now—but watching you, judging you. Your message may shape the fate of war… or what comes after.