Fowl camps littered the pristine western ridges of modorhold, black smoke hung in the air, a grim odour filled the noses of the southern homesteads. All at once, the beacons were lit, battle drew near. The valiant men of north mirford gathered their strength, and the strong, beautiful wariors of southern mirford answered their call, ART and freefolk alike.

The combined might of order, og, art, and the free folk rode south to vanquish these invaders once and for all. Swiftly they rode, down through the homesteads and the forrest, sounding the horn, declaring war. Long they fought, into the night, the enemy forces growing in size second by second. Yet, little did the remnant know, a plan had been hatched.

5 brave riders followed the western path, under the noses of the enemy, swift, silent, with one combined mission. Destroy the camps. Under the cover of the night they traversed the daunting screes and clifs, fought off wolf and bear, until, they reached their prize.

Flasks in hand they charged, ailed remnant were caught unawares and were vanquished, outlying camps were dealt with swiftly and with unbridled efficacy. The thin protective walls of the main camp were no match for the combined might of those brave riders and within minutes the scourge was routed.

With the source removed, the mighty fighting force broke the remnant line and pushed them back all the way to the clifs, where all they were met with was the sight of their camps in flames. Some gave up, others ran bare clothed too the wolves, few died standing, but it was too late. The battle had been won.

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