The Liche Decides

 The vampires make their decision:

The purple flag on the black tent snapped in the wind that howled up the pass. Many such tents were clustered around the base of the cliffs, while outside in the gale the ghouls howled and mewled as they vented their frustration at the delay. In one such tent the liche sat, considering.

Morbius had ordered the army to camp the day before while the tried to scry the nature of the power he felt in the valley. Thus far, all his attempts to glean any knowledge of what lay ahead had failed. In frustration he sent more scouts forward, but none had yet returned. All very vexing. Morbius sat in his favourite chair, sipping his 'tea' when his reveries were interrupted. A bestial warrior stepped into the tent, the hackles in his back rising as he squatted down near the entrance. The vampire Andre spoke with effort, the language seemingly unfamiliar to the creature, but it soon mastered the words as memory of speech returned.

"We cannod sday here. De packs ar growing more difficuld to gondrol as each hour passes. We have to go back before they turn on us entirely."

Morbius sighed, and set his tea on a spindly table. Rising, he made his decision. "Andre, so nice to see you in a form fit to converse with. As much as I appreciate your prowess as a raging horror, there are few to discuss the finer points of strategy with since we left the coast. You must be concerned indeed to come here in your old shape. But, not to worry, I have made a decision. We are moving on. Whatever this power is, there is no retreating now. It's far too late."

A tremor of rage shook Andre as he fought to control himself. With a grunt, he stood and spoke once more. "As you wish, but we are marching to our deaths." With that he loped from the tent, his roar lost in the whipping winds. "Too late for that too, I fear." the liche whispered.

A wight leant over from his post and closed the tent flap. A small wight, perhaps one of The Dawi that had fallen near the coast, Morbius mused. He shook the meandering thought from his head. The decision was made. They would strike camp and move on into the valley, to whatever end.