Crow cawed sharply from Axelius's shoulder, its feathers ruffling as it leaned forward and pointed its beak toward the thick line of trees to their left.
Axelius followed the direction with his eyes, and through the haze of shattered trunks and torn earth, he spotted a figure limping slowly into view tall, blood-soaked, and still very much alive.
It was Vargosh.
His massive form was a silhouette at first, smoke and dust rising around him, but as he came closer.
Axelius could see his left arm was completely gone, severed clean from the shoulder, blood dripping heavily down his side and soaking the ground with each heavy step.
But Vargosh did not look weak.
He didn't cry out, didn't stumble. He kept walking forward, one powerful step at a time. His eyes were low, and his breathing rough but steady.
The orcs behind Axelius stopped chanting the moment they sensed their chieftain returning, many looking up with wide eyes.
