The Coming of Harold Stonewatch

The young Arathi guard spotted five figures in the mist, approaching from the North-West border of the tribe's land. He gripped his spear and shield tightly, ready to fight. As they got closer, he realized he wouldn't be much of a challenge to them, as their leader wore chain mail, an obvious mark of nobility and martial prowess. The men reached the little watchtower, and the guard called down to them. "Halt! Who goes there?" Their leader replied. "I am Harold of the Andorhans, and these are my men. We are travellers, and have no place in our ancestral homeland." "Very well. You swear you are not spies of the men of Hillsbrad?" The leader laughed, shaking his head, and then brushed his long blonde hair out of his face before replying. "Of course not! If we were, we would tell you.  We have honest intentions, and we are not mere spies or assassins!" "Very well," said the guard apprehensively. "If you're not enemies, follow the road south east, you'll reach the village at Strom. It's not big, we're not a powerful tribe, but it's the capital." "Thank you, Arathi." The men walked on down the road, and the guard sighed with relief: the guard at the village'd overwhelm them if they were enemies, and he'd definitely saved his own skin from the northerners. Harold smiled as he walked down the road in the drizzle with his four followers. "So, Osstan, what say you on these Arathi?" he asked his right-hand man, a tall, blonde warrior with a huge double-headed axe. "We've nothing to fear, Harold. The southerners are not like us, you can see it easily.  They are timid, and do not relish battle.  If they are enemies, we'll be able to fight them off without too much trouble." Harold laughed at this last comment. "Perhaps, perhaps, Osstan. But we should always try to befriend before making war.  After all, when you have allies, you have enemies too.  When all you have is enemies, allies are much harder to come by." They continued walking, with Osstan and the other men keeping up an impression of bravado and confidence, but occasionally sneaking an uncertain glance at their leader's empty scabbard, where the great sword of his ancestors should have been.

Unfinished, please don't edit yet.