The Fall of Modon

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the fortress city of the Modon. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The once-proud walls of Modon, a bastion of strength and defiance, now bore the scars of relentless assault. The soldiers on the ramparts, their faces streaked with sweat and soot, fired volley after volley of arrows into the advancing horde of Orcs. The twang of bowstrings and the whistling of arrows filled the air, punctuated by the guttural roars of the Orcs as they surged forward.

Many Orcs fell, their bodies riddled with arrows, many raised their crude wooden shields, deflecting the deadly rain. The Orcs were relentless, their eyes gleaming with a savage hunger as they pressed forward, undeterred by the losses they suffered. The defenders of Modon, though outnumbered, fought with the desperation of men who knew that defeat meant not just death, but the annihilation of everything they held dear.