The Black Talon

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Kern was a harsh, unforgiving place, especially in the drier, dustier regions to the southwest. The overcast sky this day did nothing to negate the heat and, in fact, seemed to amplify it. The parched ground and jagged hills of brown rock that made up the landscape looked almost as if they thirsted, so marked was the absence of any trace, any hint, of moisture.

That would soon change … but it would not be water that drenched the land. It would be blood.

The two armies were maneuvering into final position, their contrasts as striking as their similarities. Pride, as well as the harshness of the land, demanded that they move around in the open. Other races thought them nothing but beasts and butchers, but among ogres there was a brutal code of honor, a sense of what was correct and proper … and what was not.

And because of that, the battle had grown inevitable.

The higher ground belonged to what the Knights of Solamnia or any of the other human factions would have readily recognized as a horde typical of ogrekind. Hundreds of fearsome, tusked giants were brandishing their clubs, axes, and other weapons; at the same time they roared their impatience with those keeping them from charging forward. Squat, flat faces-like some parody of humanity-contorted horribly as their bloodlust rose. Under heavy, bushy brows and framed by mops of lice-ridden hair, jaundiced eyes glared at those on the opposing side.

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