The cycles of the sun and moon passed, stars shifting in the sky, as a not-so-long period of time quietly slipped by.
The Border Area remained under the rule of endless cold and snow, with goose feather-like snowflakes falling incessantly, the piercing wind howling without pause.
But unlike the deathly silence of days past.
The outposts of the Molten Iron Tribe located throughout the Border Area were, at this moment, a scene both solemn and boiling with energy.
Countless followers, whether it be the robust Ogres, the fierce Werewolf Warriors, the swift Centaur Knights, or the innumerable Jackal-Wolf Folk, Kobolds, War Lizardfolk... most had faces taut, an indescribable excitement suppressed beneath their solemnity, like arrows about to leave the bowstring.
They had been fully armed long before, frost flowers clinging to the cold armor, heavy weapons gripped tightly in claws or slung across backs, breaths exhaling as rapid white puffs in the frigid air.
