Deep in the snows between the setting sun and the rising moon, the ork-kin of Ogrymym'non ran the adventurer's to the ground. The fifth day out from Courolempierre, a mere three day's from the solstice, they found themselves surrounded, low on provisions, and foot-sore with a fight before them. Fortune, it is said, favors the bold. They took a few huddled moments to sharpen their blades, and throw off their pack's. Tonight they would escape the foul ork kin, or they would sup together in the halls of the gods.