Fortifying the Pass of Worr Croa

Cold wind sweeps the bowl outside Worr Croa, rattling new fences and pushing smoke low over the farm plots. Druk reaches the fort entrance as shouting rises from the fields below.

A Mogol giant storms between the houses, fur pelt swinging, crude branch club crashing through a wall and scattering tools, sacks, and splintered beams.

Along the palisade, the crossbow troops snap into line, bolts half-raised, spears braced, all eyes on the giant and on Druk.

The Mogol turns, snorts, and squares its shoulders at the noise, club dragging a line through the dirt as it looks for the next thing to smash.

Druk stands at the edge of the chaos, with the fort, the troops, and the ruined farm all waiting on his next move.

The shout cracks across the bowl. Heads snap toward Druk, and the troops answer at once, clattering for weapons and turning from shock to purpose.

A runner jerks open the nearest armory chest. Crossbows come free, spear shafts thump into waiting hands, and the palisade line tightens with grim discipline.

Below them, the Mogol pauses mid-stomp, blinking at the sudden order. It lowers its club and starts toward the noise, but now a bristling wall of steel and bolts meets its path.

From the left fence line, one scout points through the smoke, spotting the giant's muddy trail back toward the river ditch.

Druk snaps the order, and the line moves with him. Crossbows swing out toward the muddy trail, bolts already nocked.

A vacant crossbow is shoved into Druk's hands with a thick pouch of bolts, still warm from the rack.

He takes the weapon and strides off the wall line toward the smoke, the armed troop fanning after him in a hard, disciplined pull.

Below, the Mogol giant lurches along the ditch trail, club low, dragging a wake of mud and splintered reed.

The first bolts whistle out into the smoke as Druk closes on the chase, and the giant starts to turn at the sound.

Druk settles the crossbow against his shoulder and picks the giant's head through the smoke.

The bolt cracks out, striking high into the Mogol's face and upper chest. It jerks sideways, bellowing, its club arm flaring wide.

The giant stumbles into the ditch trail, more blinded than advancing now, and a fresh gap opens between it and the farm plots.

Smoke curls around the left fence line as bolts keep snapping after the giant. One lands in the mud at its feet, marking the trail it leaves behind.

The Mogol throws its head toward Druk's line, hurt and furious, but its footing is broken and its charge has lost shape.

Druk does not hesitate. He sights through the smoke and sends another bolt hard into the giant’s face.

The Mogol’s head snaps back. Its club arm drops, and its knees buck in the ditch trail.

It crashes down on one side, half-buried in mud and trampled weeds, no longer reaching the farm rows.

Smoke rolls past the left fence line while the giant claws weakly at the ditch, pinned and dazed under the rain of aimed weapons.