"Clang! Clang! Clang!" The town's warning bell rang frantically. Militiamen, clad in leather armor and armed with wooden spears, rushed out one by one. They quickly climbed onto the three-meter-high walls, taking their positions behind the parapets. Their eyes held a mix of fear and determination as they anxiously watched the misty wilderness beyond.
"What's going on?" Beorn, towering like a giant, grabbed a passing militiaman and asked.
"Not sure, my lord… The watchtower's bell started ringing. We have to get up to the walls and prepare for defense," the militiaman answered hastily. After offering a quick salute to Beorn, he ran off to his post without delay.
"Damn it! Is someone invading? That shouldn't be possible, right? This godforsaken place… even orcs wouldn't bother coming here!" Beorn muttered gruffly, scratching his head. Deciding to check the watchtower himself, he stomped toward it.
"Guards! What's happening? Why ring the alarm?" Beorn demanded as he arrived at the base of the watchtower, looking up at the guards still desperately ringing the bell.
"M-My lord! There are so many of them! A whole sea of people! They're fully armed… They bring death! The glinting silver light is the gleam of their weapons…" one of the guards stammered in terror.
"Get a grip, lad! You might have the makings of a bard," Beorn chuckled, shaking his head at the trembling legs and pale faces of the guards. But inside, he sighed. This age was truly cruel to mankind…
These displaced refugees were constantly living in fear, never knowing if they'd survive another day. The militia, who had only recently traded their pitchforks for weapons, had little to no real combat ability. Yet, because their families were here, despite their overwhelming terror, none of them chose to run.
"Sigh…" Beorn's gaze swept over the townspeople standing behind him, all bearing different expressions of worry and resolve. He let out a deep sigh before addressing them in a loud and steady voice.
"People of Carrock! I stand with you! The Druid Clan of the Bearhide stands with you! I will fight by your side until the last moment—until you choose to lay down your arms or until life leaves my body! I will defend our home! Long live Carrock!" Beorn's roar reverberated across the town.
"Long live! For our home!"
"Fight! Fight for our home!"
…
"Damn… what's with all that noise?" Caslow rubbed his ears as the deafening rallying cries reached them.
"Something's not right… There's killing intent. Strong hostility from their side," Omsk frowned, his instincts warning him. As a Knight of Light and Shadow, he possessed a minor innate ability to sense aggression.
"Maybe we just scared them," Rynar shrugged, motioning behind him.
And well… could you blame them? A fully armed force of a thousand heavily armored soldiers showing up in this barren, middle-of-nowhere town? The sunlight reflecting off their armor could probably be seen miles away. If such an unfamiliar army appeared outside anyone's gates, who wouldn't panic? In Middle-earth, an army of a thousand fully armored troops was enough to wage an epic war. When a shimmering tide of steel crested the hills, any sane defender would feel despair.
…
"Oh, Goddess of Nature… have you abandoned us?" Beorn, now atop the town wall, looked up and swore by the natural order itself—just one glance was enough to make his knees weak. Even through the morning mist, those gleaming suits of armor stood out like stars in the night sky. For a split second, he almost wanted to shout for everyone to run for their lives…
But Beorn had seen enough of the world to know better. Holding the walls offered a chance, however slim. Abandoning them meant certain death. Even if he and his kin could escape, the ordinary townspeople would have no chance at survival.
"Goddess of Nature, protect us…" Beorn prayed devoutly. If the approaching force meant harm, then only a miracle could save them.
"Gods… there must be at least a thousand of them!" a sharp-eyed hunter exclaimed.
"Silence! Prepare for battle! Our families are here! If you don't want your wives and children to become playthings, then stand like men! The Northmen do not kneel!" Beorn shouted.
…
"Looks like we might've spooked them," Rynar smirked at the heavily fortified town.
"Shields up!" Omsk suddenly ordered.
"Clang!" The Zaltarion soldiers moved in perfect unison, raising their shields in formation.
"Defensive stance!" Balin waved his hand, commanding the dwarves.
"Clang!" The dwarves followed suit, raising their shields as well.
"Nani?" Rynar's face contorted into utter confusion.
"What the hell are you guys doing? We're not here to start a war!" Rynar exclaimed.
"As you said, we startled them. To prevent any unnecessary losses due to their nervous overreactions, we prepare for the worst," Caslow shrugged. After all, accidents were common when tensions were high.
…
"A human army? No, that's a dwarven warband! How could there be a human-dwarf alliance in the North?" Beorn's eyes pierced through the mist, locking onto the banner of the Dwarven Longbeards Clan. A red background (symbolizing the forge's fire), a snowflake-patterned border (representing the Longbeards), two axes and a hammer crossed over a black anvil, and above it all, a radiant blue Arkenstone.
"Erebor…!" Beorn's pupils shrank. He knew the dwarves had reclaimed the Lonely Mountain—he had even hosted some of their vanguard members. But he never expected them to assemble a full warband this quickly. What were they planning? And in the North, there was only one place worth such a grand effort—Moria!
"Wait, my lord! That other banner… we've seen it before!" one of Beorn's clansmen pointed at another flag fluttering in the wind, partially obscured by the mist.
"That banner… it looks familiar… Something with 'Lagra'…? Didn't those people's gold help us build this settlement?" Beorn scratched his head, trying to recall.
"Let's see… they might not be hostile… right?" Beorn hesitated. He couldn't fathom why any civilized force would be interested in this tiny frontier town—aside from orcs or other savage creatures, there was little worth fighting for here.
…
"Boom!" Thousands of boots stomped in unison, their synchronized steps creating a resounding echo. Omsk grinned at the cowering militiamen atop the walls—so they were just a bunch of farmhands after all, huh? They probably only put down their pitchforks yesterday.
"Hear me! The great Conqueror of Romanians! Guardian of the Northern Realms! Lord of the River Running Banks! Supreme Overlord of the Dragon's Domain! One of the leaders of mankind! His Majesty, King Rynar of Zaltarion, has come to visit! Your lord should grant us the proper courtesies, and we shall decide our stance toward you accordingly!" Omsk, atop his abyssal warhorse, rode forth and bellowed toward the town gate.
The silence was deafening.
The townsfolk, unfamiliar with such grandiose titles, were utterly dumbfounded. They exchanged nervous glances, not daring to meet Omsk's gaze.
"Pfft!" Rynar nearly spat out in laughter. What the hell was that? What was with that ridiculous list of titles? Since when was he some grand 'Romanian Conqueror'?! This felt like some exaggerated gang war name-drop! Rynar swore if Alexander the Great were here, he'd slap Omsk across the face.
"This is the domain of the Bearhide Clan! One of the Northern human settlements! Ruler of the Old Pass, the Karl Rock Crossing, and the Old Forest Road entrance—Carrock Town! I am its lord, Beorn! Welcome, Your Majesty. What brings you here, and how may we assist you?" To Rynar's absolute shock, someone actually responded.
And it was dead serious.
And they actually responded…
Responded…
Rynar stood there, feeling utterly defeated by the sheer absurdity of it all. What kind of awkward, cringeworthy dialogue was this?! He felt like his soul was leaving his body.
Just end it all already.