Five hours later, when the sun blazed mercilessly above and the air shimmered with heat, a large force of Guardsmen assembled before the gaping mouth of the cave in Ivory Hills.
Their thick, leathery snouts twitched at the scent of dust and blood wafting from within, and when they spoke, their voices rumbled low, accompanied by the glint of fangs behind parted jaws. Shields were slung over their backs, while their sabers rested confidently in their claws, steel gleaming in the sun's harsh light.
About nineteen among them stood out, Alpha Dreadclaws, taller, broader, their black fur marked with streaks of gray, as if time and war had painted them. Each one moved with a deliberate menace, their predatory gazes scanning the surroundings.
The rest were standard Dreadclaws, still formidable and battle-tested. Together, they formed a terrifying phalanx of strength, eyes fixed on the cave as if daring to defy what was within.
