"Alright, here we are at the starting point of our journey—Old Forest Road!" Rynar announced to Balin.
"Let's hope the road ahead is smooth and uneventful..." Balin muttered, his bushy beard trembling slightly.
"There are plenty of beasts lurking here! Our scouts have spotted wyverns in this area before. It's possible that one has made its lair here," Omsk said gravely.
"There is indeed a draconic presence here—likely from the lesser wyvern lineage. If my reconnaissance was accurate, we might be dealing with an ice-attributed wyvern," Caslow added.
"Oh, Durin! I never want to deal with dragons again in my life! Apologies, Sir Caslow, I mean no offense to you," Balin shrugged, his long white beard quivering.
"No offense taken, Lord Balin. Your Highness, shall I have Kardo unleash its draconic aura to intimidate the wyvern?" Caslow turned to Rynar for instruction.
The dragon race had an extremely hierarchical structure. The presence of a superior dragon could exert absolute dominance over lower-tier ones. Very few dragons could resist the suppression of a higher bloodline, as it naturally crippled most of their strength.
"No need. The last thing we want is to end up attracting something even worse," Rynar sighed, rubbing his temples. He wasn't joking—if their luck was "too good," they might just end up luring in a Behemoth. Yes, that Behemoth—the kind that could rip dragons apart with its bare hands and was worshiped as a totem by the orcs. Who knew what kind of horrors lurked in the Shadowed Forest, which stretched all the way to the Misty Mountains?
"Fair enough," Caslow nodded in agreement. As a Dragon Knight, he had inherited his mount's racial memories, and he was well aware of the Behemoths—natural enemies of dragons. Though they lacked magical prowess, they had evolved unimaginably powerful bodies, capable of making even the mighty dragons despair. Even the lowest-tier Behemoth could match the sacred dragon lineage in combat. And if one encountered a Golden Behemoth... well, best not to get close. Many dragons had met their end at their hands.
"Still, we need to stay vigilant. Keep your eyes open; we don't want any foul creatures sneaking up on us," Rynar warned.
"Indeed. This region harbors the undead!" Balin fell silent. The undead were a grim topic—if given the chance to form an undead plague, even the mightiest kingdoms would suffer devastating consequences.
"Stray undead in small numbers aren't a concern. What worries me is the presence of necromancers!" Omsk tightened his grip on his spear. As a knight of the Light, he had a natural advantage against such foes, but necromancers had countless tricks up their sleeves, making them a formidable threat.
"Let's hope for a peaceful journey. I'd rather all battles take place in Khazad-dûm. Fighting here feels too constraining," Balin muttered, shifting his finely-crafted steel battle-axe onto his shoulder.
"Agreed. The terrain here does not favor us... This is a battlefield suited for rangers," Rynar assessed, scanning their surroundings.
"This place is even more dilapidated than before. We can't even find the road we cleared last time," Caslow shook his head in disappointment. When they had first arrived here, they had carved out a proper passage. Now, overgrown vegetation had erased all traces of their work.
"That's only natural, isn't it? Time erases all traces... even our glory," Balin murmured, his eyes moist with emotion.
"Then all the more reason to hold your head high. This is your best chance to reclaim that glory!" Rynar patted Balin's broad shoulder reassuringly. And indeed, they did reclaim their honor—only to fail in protecting it. Though Balin's reign as King of Moria was brief, his name would forever be etched in dwarven history.
"Shield wall!" At the command, the Zaltarion Royal Guards slammed their heavy shields into the ground in perfect unison. Their battle auras interlocked, forming an impenetrable wall that shielded those behind them.
"What a formidable force! They are as disciplined as Iron Guards!" Balin exclaimed in admiration. Indeed, the Zaltarion Royal Guards lived up to their reputation. Even the most demanding dwarven infantry would have to concede their superiority. The only force that could rival them had once been the legendary Iron Guards of the dwarves. But with the fall of the Lonely Mountain, the last of the Iron Guards had perished in Smaug's flames... Since then, no dwarven army had ever matched their might.
"What's happening?!" Rynar dismounted, unease creeping into his heart at the sudden formation of the shield wall.
"Unclear. Our vanguard sent out a danger signal. The Lordaeron Rangers have already been dispatched to gather intelligence. We'll soon know whether it's good news... or bad," Omsk said, gripping his shield tightly and staring into the distance.
"Let's hope nothing goes wrong. We can't afford to be delayed here. This place is far too dangerous—orc raiders, monstrous beasts... we're surrounded by threats!" Rynar said gravely.
"Patience, Your Highness. We'll have answers soon enough," Caslow reassured him, bringing his dragon flute close to his lips. No matter what happened next, his priority was to protect Rynar. As for the rest... Caslow trusted that Omsk, a sixth-tier hero, could handle them.
"What happened?" Rynar demanded upon seeing the returning Lordaeron Rangers, their bodies streaked with black-red blood.
All eyes turned to the rangers. Everyone wanted to know what lurked unseen in the dense forest. After all, fear stemmed from the unknown.
"Trolls! That's right—those trolls!" the ranger captain panted.
"Trolls? They still exist?!" Caslow was taken aback. Trolls had long been at odds with orcs. While trolls were allies to true orcs, they were natural enemies to half-orcs. The fact that trolls could exist in a forest infested with half-orcs was shocking.
"No mistake! Their spear-throwing accuracy is terrifying! If not for our reinforced armor, we would've lost several men!" The ranger captain shuddered at the memory. Fighting trolls in the woods was second only to facing elven rangers in terms of sheer misfortune.
"How many? What's the situation?" Omsk asked calmly.
"Twelve trolls—a standard hunting party. We wiped them out, but there are certainly more. This place likely harbors a full troll tribe! We just don't know their numbers yet," the captain reported. Trolls typically moved in groups, and a hunting party of twelve was the basic combat unit of any tribe. Such a group could easily decimate an equivalent force.
"We can't stay here. We need to push forward quickly. Everyone will have to bear with it—we won't be stopping to rest tonight!" Omsk frowned. A troll hunting party was a sword hanging over their heads, and none of them would sleep soundly knowing that trolls were masters of nocturnal ambushes.
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