Falcon in winter
The Imperial Orcs were coming.
No more would Skarsind be part of Wintermark, now it was a place for orcish ancestors and orcish children. Skarsind would no longer be a place of Stormcrows, hospitality, and runesmiths. Now it would be a place of shamans, pit fights, and objects of "worth".
The skien of Skarsind had been snapped. it's history had been discarded.
This was not about ownership or property, it was about history, about tradition, about the sacrifices made to tame this land. About the debts owed to all those who had died to build Skarsind.
Dogri did not hate the Orcs; he understood too well what it felt like to live at another's whim, to be told you had a place in the Empire, but it was not truly your place. The bile in his gut was for those who would give away his lands - not for those who had been given them.
Why not Holberg? Why not Karsk? Too much money and too much influence was why. No, let Wintermark give up their lands. Wintermark the loyal. Wintermark with it's broad shoulders could carry this burden. But even the strongest oxen could be given a load too heavy to bear.
"Sir?" The messenger was young. She looked worried.
"I said that out loud did I?" Dogri chuckled. He looked at the messenger properly. She was very young. To young for the scars that marked her face - barely old enough to be away from her parents, but old enough to be marked forever by the Thule war. She was young in years, but her eyes were old. The eyes of a veteran like many here, like many who understood the cost of loyalty and pride. He could see in her eyes that she had the courage to stand up for her traditions, for her ancestors' traditions.
"Tell them to collapse all passes except Pioneers Way, and send the message to Anvil. They may pass what laws they like, but this is a place of Loyalty, Pride and Courage. The Orcs may have the rest, but Crows Ridge is Wintermark still. As long as we draw breath, it is Wintermark still."