"A beast tide from the southern delta is a true nightmare," another warrior whispered to his squad mate in the ranks. "It takes everything a tribe has just to hold the walls. Honestly, nothing is more important than the survival of the tribe. Their lack of response... it's entirely understandable."
The narrative was incredibly powerful. To a tribal warrior who lived every single day fighting against the hostile ecology of the Great Orrath, the excuse of a beast tide was the ultimate, irrefutable justification.
You cannot send an army to help your neighbor when a swamp behemoth is currently tearing the roof off your own house. The deep-seated tribal empathy for defending one's home instantly overrode their earlier suspicions.
But unlike the relieved elders and the nodding warriors, Warchief Veylara did not relax her posture.
Her grip on her heavy bone-spear remained strong. She stared at Vane's face, her eyes burning right through his mask of exhaustion and humility.
