The wind howled like a banshee through the charred skeletal remains of what was once a vibrant orcish encampment. Smoke still snaked from the smoldering embers of tents and huts, a grim testament to the Threian army's recent victory. The air was thick with the acrid scent of blood and burning wood, a stench that clung to the edges of consciousness, a grim reminder of the brutality that had unfolded.
The commander of the Threian vanguard, his face etched with the fatigue of relentless campaigns, surveyed the scene with a heavy heart. Even the Threian soldiers, hardened by years of war, seemed subdued, their faces grim masks of unspoken weariness. The Threian war machine, fuelled by a righteous fury, had been inexorable. It had swept through the orcish clans, crushing their resistance with overwhelming force, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.