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.

A counter attack: Many were proud, many were sombre, but all knew one truth, a price must be paid for such careless trespass upon the fields of modorhold. Once more, mirford north was alight with the machines of war, gear was repaired, flasks were readied, artisean caravans were requisitioned. Repentance was upon them, and it was ready for blood.

North traveled the ancients, along the same lake of the crone that had been so desecrated by the remnant. North to the centre of their foul machinations of war. Camps were prepared and blades and wits sharpened, west they rode through the fields of their foes. Homestead after homestead fell beneath the fury of the ancients, gates rammed, loot pillaged, redemption was served, and it tasted sweet.

Few remnant cowered in their disheveled castle, loosing an arrow here and there but the ancients did not want their barren stone hovel, they came for payment. Atop a hill lay a large steading, filled with resource and treasure and forward marched those ancients flasks and torches flikering in the night sky.

They tore down the walls. disposed of the little challenge they found and took their winnings, that which the remnant so wished they could take from them. And with hand carts full they walked, head held high, through the enemy's own back yard, home. Back to the sprawling and welcoming lights of mirford north.