Concealed behind the gentle slope of the hillside, the eight figures remained patient, their senses keenly attuned to the subtle shifts of the twilight, awaiting the opportune moment to strike.
As dusk deepened its embrace, the trolls who had ventured out to hunt began to return to the encampment, their shoulders laden with the spoils of the day. One by one, bonfires sprang to life within the camp, casting flickering shadows that danced across the crude tents.
With the exception of a handful of trolls positioned as sentries around the perimeter, the remaining members of the hunting party dispersed around the crackling bonfires, seeking warmth and rest. In a dimly lit corner, several trolls clad in rough gray linen busied themselves preparing the evening meal.
At the largest bonfire in the heart of the camp, a cluster of trolls adorned in worn leather armor, their axes resting at their waists, were gathered around an elderly troll whose face was obscured by a weathered wooden mask.
One of the tallest troll warriors, his voice carrying a note of deference, respectfully reported the day's acquisitions to the masked figure. "Lord Hex'jin, today our hunt yielded eighty highland spiders and twelve swift raptors. We have collected their venom sacs and hides. We also managed to capture nine young highland raptors and several unhatched eggs."
Hex'jin, the leader of this hunting expedition and a respected troll witch doctor of the Witherbark tribe, slowly nodded in acknowledgment. His white wooden voodoo mask concealed his features, but the long strands of emerald green hair that cascaded messily down his back and the two massive tusks protruding from his lower jaw lent him a distinctly menacing air.
After listening to the warrior's report, Hex'jin's gaze swept over the trolls seated around the fire. "The spider venom sacs take priority this time," he rasped, his voice surprisingly high-pitched. "Our brethren in the Hinterlands are embroiled in conflict with the Revantusk tribe, and they require these sacs to brew potent medicines to bolster their strength. We must also ensure the prey reaches Witherbark Village. The young ones at home hunger for meat. Since that whelp from the Trollbane line, Danath, has emerged within the human army, our raids on their settlements have become far less fruitful. The Chieftain requires our hunting parties to scour this region to alleviate the growing food shortage within the tribe."
"Lord," another troll interjected, his voice guttural with resentment, "why don't we launch a full-scale assault on those pathetic human farms and slaughter every last one of those red-robed weaklings? We could feast on their flesh and claim their precious crops and livestock for ourselves!"
"Aye, Lord!" another chimed in, his eyes gleaming with savage intent. "Trollbane is our mortal enemy! We should spill his blood and send a message to the humans that the Witherbark trolls are not to be trifled with!"
"Kill humans! Eat! Kill!" a chorus of bloodthirsty roars erupted from the assembled warriors.
Listening to the escalating clamor, the tall warrior who had delivered the initial report felt a surge of anger. He glared at the loudest offenders and bellowed, "Silence! The temporary truce with the humans is the decree of the Great Chieftain and the High Priest! It is not for you to question. Be quiet and listen to Lord Hex'jin!"
His commanding presence and booming voice carried considerable authority. An immediate hush fell over the group. The trolls who had clamored for war and human flesh shrank back, their bravado momentarily extinguished.
Witch Doctor Hex'jin cleared his throat, restoring order. "This truce is but a fleeting respite. The Revantusk tribe in the Hinterlands have grown too bold. In their twisted rituals, they seize members of our own Witherbark and the Smolderthorn tribe as sacrifices to their dark gods. This conflict consumes much of our strength. When we are free from this entanglement, we will teach the humans a lesson they will never forget."
As a witch doctor, a rare and revered spellcaster within the tribe, Hex'jin held a position of considerable influence, privy to information far beyond the understanding of the common warriors. The friction with the Revantusk tribe was indeed draining their resources, but the tribe also harbored larger, more ambitious plans.
Hex'jin then addressed the tall warrior, Drek'maz.
"Drek'maz, our hunting expedition nears its end. Our primary objective now shifts to capturing live specimens for sacrifice. My lord Shadra hungers for living offerings."
Unbeknownst to Galen and his party, Drek'maz was more than just a great troll warrior. He was a seasoned hunter who had been tracking prey far from the camp and had only returned as night fell.
However, this unexpected presence did not deter their carefully laid plans. As midnight approached, Galen and his companions prepared to execute their attack.
The night was thick and heavy, the moon obscured by a blanket of clouds, casting only faint, intermittent light upon the Arathi Highlands. The eight figures smeared their skin with the prepared grass juice, a rudimentary form of camouflage, and then dispersed. With Galen, Omar, and Varokal forming the vanguard, and the five guards close behind, they silently advanced towards the brightly lit troll encampment.
Within the troll camp, only the central bonfire still blazed, its crackling flames occasionally punctuated by the sharp report of exploding wood. Most of the trolls had retreated to their tents to rest, a chorus of snoring rising and falling in the still night air. Two troll headhunters, their spears held loosely in their hands, stood guard on opposite sides of the camp.
The dense Arathi grass provided excellent cover. Galen crawled forward, stopping when he was a mere hundred meters from the edge of the camp. According to their plan, it was now Omar and Varokal's turn to initiate the attack.
On either side of Galen, Omar and Varokal also halted at roughly the same distance. Omar carefully drew a military crossbow from his waist, gently nocked a bolt, and slowly drew back the string. Once prepared, he emitted a soft, guttural sound, mimicking a frog's "Croak, croak."
On the opposite flank, Varokal had already readied his crossbow bolt, his aim fixed on the unsuspecting troll sentry less than a hundred meters away. Hearing the "croak" signal, he responded with a low "ribbit, ribbit," silently counting to three before his finger tightened on the trigger. The crossbow bolt hissed through the air.
Simultaneously, the distinct sounds of crossbow bolts whizzing through the night air reached both sides of the camp. The two troll sentries each staggered, a crossbow bolt protruding from their necks, before collapsing to the ground with muffled thuds.
Within the central tent of the troll encampment, the great troll warrior Drek'maz, who had been in a light sleep, suddenly snapped awake. He moved with surprising agility, leaping to his feet and bursting from the tent just in time to witness the fall of the two sentries. A guttural roar ripped from his throat. "Enemy attack!!" He spun around, snatched his massive great axe from within the tent, and charged out.
The piercing cry instantly jolted the sleeping trolls from their slumber. Some scrambled to their feet, grabbing their weapons and bursting from their tents. Others groggily poked their heads out, only belatedly joining the chaotic rush after seeing their comrades in arms.
Galen and his party's initial goal of a silent infiltration had been thwarted by the unexpected vigilance of the troll warrior. Though their primary objective had failed, they were now less than a hundred meters from the camp's edge. Retreat or a direct assault were their only remaining options.
Without hesitation, Galen surged to his feet, drawing his two-handed greatsword from his back in a fluid motion. He glanced to either side, seeing Omar and Varokal mirroring his stance, casually dropping their military crossbows and drawing their own weapons. Then, with a defiant roar that echoed across the highlands, Galen bellowed, "Brothers, follow me! Charge!"