Fortifying the Pass of Worr Croa

The march starts to shake. At first it is only a pulse under Druk's boots, then a steady thud that grows louder with every step through the wind-bent grass.

Rounding a knot of mountain trees, the source appears, a 13-foot green ogre in neatly stitched clothes, working with grim focus at a remote dwelling tucked against the rock.

He plants a torch to the wall and watches the flame take. Smoke curls up through the branches while he stands back, deliberate and calm.

The ogre turns his heavy head toward Druk's column, broad hands still stained with soot, his expression unreadable behind the firelight.

The roof crackles louder. Bruk slows beside Druk, watching the stranger, while Roggo and the others hold the line at the tree edge, waiting for Druk's word.

Druk lifts a hand and speaks the spell into the wind. The smoke, the torchlight, the stranger, all of it sharpens into a web of falsehood and truth.

The burning house and the stranger do not lie. The fire is deliberate, and the calm in his voice is real.

Something else answers the spell, a hard-edged memory under his words. He is not a helpless wanderer. He has come here with purpose.

Bruk shifts beside Druk, reading the change in the stranger's face, while Roggo stays back at the tree line, ready for Druk's signal.

The flames lick higher behind him as the smoke thickens and the stranger waits, hands loose, eyes on Druk.

Druk lowers the hammer and points the war-band wide of the dwelling. His ogres answer at once, turning their line away from the smoke instead of toward it.

Bruk catches the order and gestures the guide route, while Roggo swings the supply line out through the grass and wind.

The burning house stays to Druk's left as they begin to arc around it, the fire cracking higher in the dusk air.

As the band clears the stranger, the flames throw a bright lick across the ground, revealing fresh drag marks and a split bundle dropped in haste.

The stranger does not move from the firelight. The dropped bundle lies open in the grass, showing travel-worn cloth and tools darkened by soot.

Druk lowers his hammer a fraction and makes the words plain. The stranger hears him over the crackle of the fire, and the wind carries the smoke away in ragged sheets.

The stranger eases one hand off the bundle and gives a small, satisfied nod toward the burning dwelling, as if Druk's choice sets a line in the grass.

The stranger shifts aside from the drag marks, leaving the bundle where it lies, and the way around the blaze opens for Druk's war-band.

Druk gives the stranger a brief wave and turns the column back onto the open grass. Boots and clawed feet take the clear route past the fire, the wind swallowing the last of the smoke behind them.

Druk keeps the same pace, but his eyes drift back over one shoulder. The stranger is still by the fire, smaller now against the smoke, and the cleared path stays open behind the war-band.

Roggo notices the glance and gives a short, knowing grunt, keeping his stride steady beside Druk.

Ahead on the grass, the split bundle lies in plain view beside the drag marks, soot-dark cloth tugged loose by the wind. A metal rim flashes once inside it.

Bruk slows half a step, glancing from the bundle back to Druk, his posture turning attentive.

Druk's backward look catches the stranger lifting a hand toward the burning dwelling, then lowering it again as if letting the place keep its secret.

Druk slows without stopping, lifts the chitin-lined flask, and takes a long pull. The lemon gin hits cold and sharp, clean enough to cut through the dust in his throat.

The flask feels steady in his hand, cool as if it has been resting in shade all day. A small bead of chill clings to its rim, and the march seems to thin around the taste.

The stranger keeps his distance by the fire, but his gaze flicks once toward Druk's drink, then back to the smoking dwelling.

Druk lowers the flask, the metal rim catching a stray orange flare from the burning house. The open bundle still lies in the grass, waiting, while the smoke drifts higher in the wind.

Druk draws out the chitin-lined flask, its cool surface beaded with a cold sheen. The lemon gin inside stays bright and sharp against the wind.

Druk keeps the column moving, boots flattening wet grass as the firelight thins behind them. He lets the flask drop to his side, then tips his head toward Bruk without breaking stride.

Roggo grunts approval, glancing from Bruk to Druk as the wind combs the plateau. The open bundle on the grass stays behind them, its metal rim catching a last dull gleam near the smoke.

Bruk snorts, then walks a little closer to Druk's side, easy now, as if the road itself has become less sharp.

Druk slows just enough to let the words land, his mouth curling under the pipe smoke. The wind pushes at his cloak while the burning hut shrinks farther behind them.

Bruk huffs a laugh, then lifts his chin toward Druk with open honesty instead of offense. The stranger's fire is now only a dim smear on the grassland.

Druk gives a slow nod, and the march keeps its easy rhythm. The wind hisses through the grass as Bruk falls into a steadier stride beside him.

Bruk glances back toward the distant smear of smoke, then forward again, his voice lowering with the weight of old things.

The words hang in the wind as Druk keeps walking. Bruk slows, then looks over with sharp interest, while Roggo's brows knit at the scale of it.

Bruk taps two fingers against his own chest, then points back toward the mountains, as if mapping the idea onto the land itself.

Druk gives the idea a shrug and lets it sit in the wind. The plateau keeps moving under their boots, and the smoke behind them thins into a stain.

The three keep walking in step, the wind tugging at cloaks and pipe smoke alike. Bruk studies Druk with open curiosity, waiting for what kind of dream he means.