Lugaria stalked from tree to tree. Staying hidden despite the fact that there were no eyes to see him. He would much rather be cautious than dead. It was quiet, and the birds only chirped when they deemed it fit. But this silence did not weigh heavy on him. In fact it was a familiar thing, almost comforting. He was skirting a path he had found earlier in the day and he followed it through the trees, west from the encampment.

He could move fast, on his own and he knew exactly where he could hide. Most would be nervous, or weary should they take his job. But his nerves were perfectly calm. He had nothing to be nervous about, yet. That would come when he found the main camp. There would be plenty of eyes in there.

He had only crossed paths with a few scouts. He had avoided them, or killed them. Poison was a useful thing when a death had to be quick, and quiet. But even the ones he simply avoided, would not find tracks of his passing.

The sun moved slowly today, as he loped through the forest. Eventually the forest fell away beneath his feet, and a clearing rested upon some small hills. Atop them was a congregation of old, pale buildings. Crumbled in places, but a wall stood tall and sturdy around them. Planks of wood and iron braced and reinforced areas where its structure had crumbled.

There were so many orcs. They milled about the place like ants. Heavy, grotesque hill giants were among them, lumbering around in shining plate armor that could barely contain their bulk. Fires sent wisps of smoke into the air. Forges sent the metallic scent of slag to him on the breeze.

We're going to need more men, he thought with a cold chill along his spine. He circled back into the forest, surveying the land. Situated on the hilltop as it was, and the thickness of its walls would leave them with no easy way to siege it. Their only approach as an army was towards the gates, across the grasses. They would be visible for at least a mile, and fighting for every inch of ground.

The forest behind and beside the walls had been cut away, the slender tree trunks cut and carved into sharp points, to hinder any groups travel. There were tall lookout towers along the walls, and six of them outside the walls themselves.

This place, whatever its original purpose, had been a very well planned fortress. How they had found it he would never guess. And they had been here for quite some time by the looks of the walls and gates, and the refuse dumped outside the back wall.

He gritted his teeth. He had to get inside. Get a better count on their number, a better look at their weaponry. The western side was the least trimmed, so he jogged around the place, more than a mile out, and when he was near the edge of the forest on his chosen side he grasped his cloak and felt the warm tingle of magic rush over his nerves. He knew better than to rely on it, but this was the only way he could get close enough to sneak in.

So with footsteps that made no noise, he crept toward the wall right under the noses of the guards in the watchtower. His mind spun with what he would do should they see him. Out here he could simply run like hell and hope he found the trees for cover, before an arrow found his throat. Inside however, he would need to rely on the walls to hide him. He might be able to hold his own just fine in a fight. But more than five at a time was just too many for comfort.

He climbed and ran the wall between two posted sets of guards, without anyone the wiser. He dropped to its other side, disturbing nothing and once again appreciating what his younger self had learned.

He resisted the urge to swallow back the bile in his throat. There was far more than five to one odds, here.

A number of buildings made of pale stone and circular in shape dotted the space inside the walls. Broken and haphazard pieces of the pale material lined the grass covered ground, as if it had been a grand roadway.

He circled the place fastidiously counting the time left with the spell he used to stay unseen. He passed hot forges with giants and orcs alike pounding away at them. He observed the machinery they built, committing its design to memory. He counted groups of orcs and giants as he passed them, only daring to breathe around corners when none were in his sight.

The largest of these buildings was perfectly centered amid the circling pathways, and stood a story taller than every over building. Eight orcs guarded the heavy metal studded doors, and he paused to breath behind a shed as he watched them.

Before any nerves could make him twitchy, or restless, he moved again, up to the side of the building, and he stepped into the stone. It was a risk. If the building was warded in any way, the spell would fail, and he would be standing in the middle of this place looking like a loon. But he was a loon, apparently a lucky one. He stepped into the oppressive weight of the stone, and let out a ragged breath. His thoughts latched on to one objective at a time. One thing to keep his focus. If ever he stayed still for too long, his thoughts would turn and his muscles would stiffen--a deadly self imposed status of fear.

Inside was quiet, at least, and the bottom floor of the place had a simple layout. Its lower floor held a kitchen, and bathrooms, and a number of rooms dedicated to medical beds . Well stocked with food and medicine, to his dismay. The second floor was mostly sleeping quarters, dozens of lumpy mattresses and stained blankets. The third floor was much quieter. Much more grandiose. It had a number of unused rooms, that collected dust thick enough to choke him. There was a long room down the middle. The guards were only posted outside the room itself. Walking through the wall had been easy.

So now he stood as still as the stone around him, and listened to two sets of footsteps. He had no need of his eyes, when he could listen. The steps were heavy, one clanking around in steel sabatons, the other set was muffled, like soft leather boots.

"Horde master Tarak," the one with the leather boots said. "Two more nights, and our weaponry will be ready."

They spoke in their native, growling tongue, and this was not the first time Lugaria was glad to have known more than the common tongue. He would have been dead a dozen times over if he could not understand what his enemies had said.

"We are ready to face the Mountain Grave," the other said.

This voice was closer to him, though still warbled through the stone.

The mountain grave. A fitting name for a dwarven stronghold, Lugaria thought with a sense of wry humor.

"Keep the forges lit, and producing. And make sure our food is well rationed," a voice answered them. This one was more commanding. Deeper.

"Yes, Tarak." they said, and a few moments later Lugaria heard the steps receding from the room once again.

Lugaria stayed in the wall for hours, barely breathing, not moving. Listening to every bit of conversation he could. During a spell of silence, a soft female voice rang out in his head. The loudest thing he had heard in ages.

Is everything okay? I heard there was more trouble with the orcs and I--Lugaria?

The first response she was given was a long winded stream of curses, before Lugaria could calm his heart and focus his thoughts. I'm a little busy here, Katerin.

I'm sorry, she told him. I was getting worried. I thought I shouldn't bother Graiden.

So you bother me?

Can you please just tell me what is going on? Her tone sounded strained.

It's war.

Oh... Do I need to come ho-- ...back?

He almost laughed aloud, but he remembered his surroundings and gritted his teeth, instead. How bad do you think it is when I say war? Do you think I'm joking? No. You don't need to come back. We can handle ourselves. His tone was harsher than he meant, but he did not have the patience or the focus for a pleasant conversation right now.

Well... I... just be careful. Her voice sounded wary in his mind, before the connection faded.

He stayed for hours with some small part of his mind tracking the time, as he listened. Finally, when he decided nothing he would hear would be worth staying stuck inside the stone of the wall any longer, he crept back though it and exited somewhere on the back side of the pale fort. His muscles ached, his throat was parched, and his vision was blurred from sheer lack of use. The spell might let him travel through stone and survive within it, but it was never comfortable. He would rather hide in the closet of some city manor, any day.

The camp was quieter, now. And he had no need of magic to escape back into the safety of the forest. He stopped, some miles away from the place, and jotted down a series of quick notes. Things to later jog his memory. He drank sparingly from the water skin he carried, but he did not sleep. It was a luxury, and one he was not secure enough to indulge in. His muscles quit complaining eventually, or rather he was able to block it out. He spent his time traveling, thinking furiously about the fortress. Its food, water, defenses. Its fighters, commander, and the hierarchy within the fortress.

The miles melted under his feet, anxious thoughts of a careful escape never quieting in the back of his mind. He did could not move fast enough to stave off the exhaustion that worked to overcome him.

He was efficient, and undeniably careful, but no one person could go forever.

Not even him, despite the fact he let everyone believe that. So when he had forgotten how long he had been traveling and the moon was preparing to give way to the sun, he climbed up a thick tree. He found a tee in its branches, and let sleep take the fog from his mind. It was not a decent rest, but enough sleep to get him back to where he was needed.

He was moving again before the sunrise had ended.