Chapter 482

The wind whipped across the exposed slopes of the Tekarr Mountains, carrying with it the stench of blood and the chilling cries of battle. The Threian Marksmen, their faces grim and etched with exhaustion, scrambled higher, their retreat a desperate, ragged scramble against the relentless advance of the orcish horde.

Their lightweight armor offered little protection against the brutal onslaught; their "boomsticks," as they called their powerful, but cumbersome, rifles, the only significant weight in their meager equipment. The marksmen were skilled, but they were outnumbered and outmatched in a fight to the death.

Lieutenant Deramis, his breath frosting in the frigid air, cursed under his breath as he adjusted the sling of his boomstick. The weight, usually a comforting burden, now felt oppressive, a physical manifestation of the gravity of their situation.