Rain of Arrows
When the drums of Karath thunder across the horizon, they do not herald a march—they summon a storm. Thousands of arrows pierce the blackened sky, dragging with them the desert’s dust and the roar of the orcs. Each shaft is a prayer, a curse, a vow of fire hurled by hands hardened by war. Their foes do not die from precision, but from the weight of dread, knowing that when the sky turns dark, even heaven itself wants them dead.
When the rain falls, the desert sings in screams.
