Hvítreiðr, Northern Gate.
As the battle raged on, just two hundred meters from the fortress walls, over a dozen northerners stood watching the conflict unfold. Their stances, attire, and the auras they exuded made it clear—they were no ordinary warriors.
A burly man, his body covered in tattoos, scowled as he gestured toward the ravenfolk fighting ferociously on the walls. "Damn raven shamans, using their disgusting creatures again!" he growled.
A man wrapped in black leather garments, his presence more subdued, nodded in agreement. "If we don't act soon, the young warriors of our clans won't make it out of Hvítreiðr alive."
A broad-shouldered man gripping a long staff clenched his teeth, his voice filled with both regret and anger. "Sending our people straight into the enemy's heart for nothing…" He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.
