Four days after leaving Karl's dungeon-market, the brothers rolled their wagon across the rolling grasslands. The oxen plodded steady, dragging behind them crates of supplies. Ahead stretched peaceful plains, dotted with low huts and tilled fields. Smoke rose from cooking fires, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth. The orcs here were bent to the earth, farming beans and barley, their children running barefoot in the dirt. It was a simple sight, and one that made Simon's chest ache with hope, while Schalezusk's fists clenched with a fierce longing he rarely showed.
Three orcs working a field noticed them first. Their hands tightened on sickles and hoes, their eyes narrowing as they moved to bar the path.
"You shouldn't be here," the tallest one growled. "Take your wagon and go. Outsiders aren't welcome."
Simon raised his hands, palms open. "We came with food and tools. Medicine too. We want no trouble. Only to share."
