"You think they will pass?" Grolfir lifted a dark brow inquisitively.

“Hah! Yes, they'll pass. Anything you can throw at them. I personally trained three of them and the rest are just as bad. The Ice Wolves and the Nightraiths are nearing ready too." ULag took another gulp from his cup.

"Find the Runts?" Grolfir pressed.

“Bottom of the shit pile, as ever. Ulla has fight in her but she does not fight with the others. I once saw her crack Nullik across the face when he tried to help her. Wrut is the most dangerous, but then he's older than you. He's usually the last standing, but the others soon overwhelm him after they take care of the weaker ones in the bunch.”

“And what of ULf?"

Somthing in Ulag's face suggested that he might have sneered in other circumstances, yet the expression was subdued in the presence of Grolfir.

"Your son is weak, old friend." UlLag clearly didn't relish saying this to the warchief. "He keeps his head in the clouds too much. He has fight but does not lead as he should."

It seemed that Grolfir would speak again but he was interrupted by a clash of steel against steel outside. One of the orc guards bashing his own chest plate with his gauntlet to signal the arrival of another to the tent.

Elder Wren Stormbane made himself known. Long white braids of hair fell about his head and over his shoulders to frame the craggy lines of the old orc's face. Age had long since caught up with the elder, bending his spine over and forcing him to walk upon the ancient war wounds beneath his cloak with only his walking stick for aid. A cunning, crow-like face was seen peering out from beneath the white braids with a long nose and equally long tusks that raised from beneath his lower lip and curved up to just beneath his small, yet piercing eyes.

The elder shuffled inside the tent and remained silent as he looked between Ulag and Grolfir. He was a stalwart practitioner of old ways and made even the scarred proving master Look young by comparison.

“Yes?" Wren asked.

Grolfir and Ulag Looked between each other as if wondering if the old orc might finally have seen too many summers.

“I did not summon you." Grolfir peered at the newcomer, wondering if it was perhaps some sort of game. Wren liked games, those he played them with did not.

“Then what is the meaning of this?" Wren reached into his long, red robes and pulled out a scrap of paper.

Ulag stood and walked over to take the paper and read it aloud.

“You are summoned before the warchief to answer for your crimes of..."

Ulag spluttered and stalled as he read the words on the page, “Extreme and repeated flatulence before your peers."

Elder Wren did not seem impressed.

“It bears your seal," he added in a dangerous tone of forced calm. Grolfir frowned and stepped up to examine the paper. Sure enough, he saw his seal staring back up at him from beneath the simple handwriting. He turned and kicked open one of his chests to pull out the stamp on which the seal was engraved and found it still present alongside his other things.

It had taken Talina a couple of days to forge the warchief's personal seal. She decided that the look on Wren's face was definitely worth the trouble.

"Someone must have copied it." Ulag suggested.

“Indeed?" Wren shuffled across the floor with the aid of his walking stick to take Ulag's former seat, "I doubt I need to remind the warchief that it is a crime to forge his seal.”

“It seems to be a prank." Grolfir suggested in a gentle effort to ease Wren's obvious anger. The old orc might have been withered but his influence had Lost none of its reach over the years.

“Lot of those going around, aren't there?" Ulag tilted his head toward Grolfir pointedly.

Before either of the orcs could reply, another clash of fist against chest plate signalled the arrival of someone else into Grolfir's home. The great orc resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the new interruption. He was somewhat surprised when he found himself looking upon ULf entering the tent.