Week 03: A meeting of orcs - part 2

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The camp was buzzing with activity as Fegnar rode in, fresh off his victory in Nogara. Everywhere he turned there were orcs bustling about, dotted with the occasional ogre or cyclopskin. War, he thought to himself as he studied the configuration of tents. It had been a long time, perhaps 5 years, since the Red Foot clan had all been in the same place, and their numbers here could only mean one thing. Fegnar carefully took it all in, gathering as much information as he could. 70, maybe 80 percent of the clan was here. Where were the rest? Why would so many be gathered and yet some were left out? Had the war already started? 
A contingent of crossbowmen momentarily blocked his way as they jogged across the camp. Rows of pikemen could be seen drilling formations, their 13’ spears reaching over the tents and encampments to reflect the colors of the sunset. Slaves carried hot meals to and fro. Vicious worg riders hazed their most recent additions with games of Tooth and Claw. This is what it feels to be alive, he thought to himself.
Spotting the command post behind a recently raised pavilion, Fegnar dismounted and walked his horse toward the tent, thrusting the reins into the hands of the glaring warrior posted out front. Inside the command post was another world. An almost magical silence blanketed the pavilion, disturbed only by the creaking of the chain links that kept a swaying lantern from clattering onto the table. Behind the figurines and maps sat Xerik, his chieftain.
“Did you find it?” Xerik growled in a low tone.
With a grunt Fegnar tossed onto the table the arm of a child, a human child, dashing papers about without knocking over the carefully positioned markers.
Silence
“Good work. I’d have hate for you to have lost yours,” came the all but whispered approval.
Fegnar shifted his weight uncomfortably. It was unlike his chieftain to be so quiet. Had it come from any other, Fegnar would have taken his tone as a sign of weakness, killed him, and taken his place as chieftain, but not Xerik. “Where are the rest of our men?” The question came out more timid and nervous than he'd have liked.
“I wasn’t sure if you could be trusted. They’re securing our southern position as we speak.” The sly grin Fegnar had come to respect showed itself again.
“And your position has never been stronger,” came the female voice from behind Fegnar.
Whirling around, weapons coming out from their sheaths, Fegnar dropped into a fighting stance at the elven accent. She stood before him with a dagger in one hand, spinning it underneath a finger warily. “Who is this wench?” He glowered with anger.
“This is Reina, and she has just delivered to us Trensgar and Fort Shimerstone. You had best be careful around her,” Xerik replied with sarcasm tinged joy. “The rest of our men will not be returning, but we will soon more than double our forces with the shattered remains of the Cragfall Clan.
Hobgoblins, Fegnar thought as he straightened up. How disgusting.
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