Forget it, Lishau's here to give her report.

"Speaking of Orcs," Your half-sister says as she wriggles her way out of her bindings. "I finished the mission you assigned me."

You watch Lishau as she contorts her body in interesting ways as she escapes her bonds, giving you a wonderful view of her tits and ass as she bends backwards to bring her arms around to the front from behind her. In mere moments, the goblin girl stands before you, within arms reach. Lishau came unarmed and without malice, but you're still worried about how quickly she got out of being tied up. You leave yourself a mental note to sternly advise your guards on properly checking their prisoners before leaving them alone with you.

Putting on a facade of aloof disinterest, you make your way back to your stool in the middle of the tent and seat yourself, reaching for a cup of wine nearby. Never show weakness, not even to family, as one of your mentors in the Order taught you. You look up at Lishau and say, "About the orcs, yes? Proceed."

Lishau stands at attention and produces a small map, hastily drawn with charcoal on a strip of old leather. Unfurling the map, she begins her report.

"I tracked the Gumukh orcs north to the Green Cliffs and, as you surmised, they have their main camp set up atop one of the cliffs, overlooking the Steppe. The camp can only be approached from the south through two narrow paths, both on rugged terrain. Easily defended."

"Under the cover of darkness, I snuck into their camp. By my estimate there are approximately four hundred of them in total, including the roaving bands that scour the Steppe. They are modestly armed though, good iron weapons but lacking in armor and other kinds of personal defences like shields. They also seem to be suffering from a food shortage. And yes, before you ask, they are indeed slavers."

Your half-sister hesitates briefly before saying, "They have Thrash and his tribe."

Growling angrily, your grip on your winecup tightens until you are nearly crushing it. Lishau flinches as you violently throw the goblet to the ground, spilling the rest of the wine on the ground.

Thrash is your sworn blood-brother. A pact was made when you were young, that you would come to each other's defence in times of need. He was a true friend and stood by your side for all of your life. When you both rose to chief in each of your respective tribes, you were overjoyed. But when his tribe vanished only a few days ago, you sent out your half-sister to look for them, fearing the worst. Now he needs you, more than ever.