Part 2

⚔️ The Battle of the Black Oak Fort – Part II ⚔️

Victory from Ashes

The fire rose higher into the smoke-filled sky as Falmir’s torch lit the interior of the orc fort. Flames consumed the storage sheds and clawed at the ragged watchtowers. Outside, battle still raged—bloodied steel against rusted blades, desperate cries against orcish roars.

The orcs, still numerous and snarling, were slowly being worn down. The ragtag war band, bolstered by grim determination and desperate camaraderie, stood firm despite their wounds. Orothel though her leg throbbed with pain from a vicious wolf bite, continued loosing arrows, her bowstring creaking with every shot

Turning the Tide

Suddenly, a war cry cut through the chaos. Eryndor, ranger of the North, emerged from the burning fort like a spirit of vengeance. He charged into the melee, blade flashing, and in a single, sweeping stroke, cut down one of the enemy. His arrival, timed with surgical precision, shattered the orcs’ flanks and sparked hope across the weary warband.

The orcs faltered.

Not only did Eryndor slay an orc, but his action gave the Lon Deer Warband a new edge. Their formations held firmer, strikes landed truer, and with every blow they pushed back the tide.

The warband seized the momentum—driving forward in coordinated strikes. Another orc fell. Then another.

Now, only a scattered few remained

The Last Stand of the Orc Chieftain

From the smoke emerged their leader—towering and clad in crude armor blackened by fire. He roared his challenge and met Eryndor in brutal combat. Blades rang, fists flew, and blood was spilled on both sides.

At his side, Falmir, with blade drawn, struck when least expected—slipping beneath the brute’s guard.

A flash of steel.

A cry.

A piercing blow from Eryndor found the orc’s heart. The great beast toppled, and in that moment, the battle broke. With their leader slain, the remaining orcs turned and fled into the smoke-wreathed woods, abandoning the burning fort behind.

Ashes and Aftermath

The fort was lost—to flames, to ruin, to the vengeance of the Lan Daer. Any hope of salvaging supplies or intelligence was consumed with the timber and stone. The scent of burned oak and charred orc flesh filled the night air.

Wounded and weary, the warband did not pursue. Orothel collapsed, clutching her leg, her breath shallow but steady. Haldaen and Vaelith bled from shallow gashes. Alric and Kaelrn, though less injured, dropped to the ground in exhaustion. Falmir, remarkably unscathed, moved to check on his comrades.

Eryndor stood amidst the ruins, his blade low, his eyes scanning the forest’s edge, not with victory in his heart—but caution. Somewhere beyond the trees, evil still stirred.

A Broader Threat Looms

Though victorious, the skirmish raised more questions than it answered. Where had these orcs come from? Why were they gathered here? And what of the name muttered in dying breath—“the Black Hand”?

This fort had only been a shadow—an outpost of a much darker force on the rise.

There would be no rest for long. Wounds would heal, yes, but ahead lay a greater journey—one that would require strength, wisdom, and perhaps the return of a certain grey-cloaked wanderer.