A hunting party ventured up the road towards the plains. Men armed with spears stepped through the tall grass, peering this way and that to see if a lion or other predator was not sneaking up on them. The hunt had gone well, one of their traps had yielded a bear and two of them had shot a deer. If they were lucky, they would kill a large beast, like a zebra. Any meat would be welcome during this time and for times to come.
Thwack. Thwack. The sound of the mattock's blade cleaving the soil was the only sound in the potato field south of the village. A farmer worked hard planting next year's crop. The sounds of the village to the north were carried away by the wind, as did the lowing of cows from the west. The people of the village were undisturbed by the events in the world, but a group of soldiers had arrived in town and seemed intent on staying. The field wouldn't plant itself and thus the farmer worked on.
Deep in the Blight, trollocs were on the move to the south, preparing to raid the Kandori and Arafellin border. They trundled south from the Stronghold and into the Blighted Pass. There were fresh tracks of a mounted patrol. The trollocs picked up the track, others picked up the scent and they picked up the pace, trotting off, their armor creaking around their body with every step. The trollocs could keep this pace up for hours, until they ran down their prey, or until the prey retreated into safety.