With a masterful command, Logan directed his Manticore to ascend, rising to a lofty ten meters above the verdant earth before he decisively leaped off its back.
Now a formidable seventh-level warrior, Logan knew well that such a fall was trivial. Heights of ten, even twenty meters, posed no threat to his seasoned frame.
Meanwhile, Jean and her beast companion, worn and famished from their aerial escapades, were sent back to their tribe to recuperate. Although Logan felt the gnaw of hunger himself, the sight of a thousand acres of ripe rye swaying below was too inviting to ignore.
With a thunderous crash that echoed across the field, Logan landed, his impact forging a massive crater in the soft earth beneath him. The sudden appearance of such a force startled the orcs laboring in the wheat fields nearby.
Surveying the scene, Logan took in the fruits of his recent campaigns: three to four thousand captives gathered over the last fortnight. Predominantly wolf beastmen, their numbers also included a scattering of other beastmen tribes.
Among these were the Tauren and Antelopes, noticeable even from a distance. The Tauren, towering and robust, typically stood between three and three and a half meters, their formidable presence a testament to their strength.
Despite their imposing figures, the Tauren were known for their peaceful nature, a trait that marked their small but significant presence of two hundred in the Silvermane tribe, migrants from the distant northern to the southern wastelands.
The Antelope people varied more dramatically in height, from 2.4 meters down to two meters, largely due to the diminutive stature of the females of their kind.
Also among the ranks were Kobolds and Gnolls, each distinct yet similar; the Kobolds, however, boasted a sharper intellect than their Gnoll counterparts.
Logan recalled his grandfather's tales of the diverse branches within their own races, like the steppenwolves and the snowwolves, the latter smaller and less robust but uniquely adapted to the icy weather of their snowy dwellings.
And just as there were varied tribes of wolvemen, so were there different clans of Tauren: the Tauren who had joined him, the long-haired Tauren, the pale White Tauren, and the River Tauren, each group distinct, with its own customs and strengths. Logan, amidst the harvest below, felt a profound connection to this patchwork of tribes, united under his leadership.
The skin of the Tauren is a rich tapestry of dark yellow and bronze hues, contrasting starkly with the deeper, almost ebony shade of the long-haired Tauren, whose thick, dense fur has earned them the moniker "ox-consuming people" due to their formidable presence.
In the frigid climes near the Arctic ice sheets, the White Tauren make their home, their pale skin mirroring the icy landscape that surrounds them.
Closer to the temperate zones, the River Tauren boast a warm, brown skin tone. They thrive near the life-giving waters of seas and rivers, drawing sustenance and culture from these lush, fluid environments.
The influx was unexpected, but Cobos understood the tribe's leaders were meticulous in their decisions. The integration of these many new souls meant a significant boost to their agricultural endeavors, aligning perfectly with Chief Logan's grand vision, to reclaim and cultivate land, potentially up to a million acres.
The thought alone set Cobos's heart racing with ambition.
Logan nodded, his mind already turning towards the broader implications of their growing numbers. "And how are these newcomers adapting? I trust they are being integrated into our efforts smoothly?" he asked, keenly aware of the importance of weaving these displaced individuals into the fabric of the Silvermane tribe through shared work.
"Yes, Chief. Everyone capable contributes to building and farming, which hastens their acceptance and belonging," Cobos explained, satisfaction evident in his voice at the seamless integration of the newcomers.
Logan then shifted the topic towards the practical outcome of their labor. "And what yield do we expect from these vast fields, especially given this season's challenges?"
"The drought has taken its toll, unfortunately. The rye is less robust, and some of it underdeveloped. We estimate the yield might only be about a thousand pounds per acre," Cobos answered, his tone sober as he detailed the impact of the harsh weather on their crops.
Logan listened intently, his mind already calculating the necessary adjustments to ensure the sustenance and stability of his tribe amidst these adversities.
Logan listened intently as Cobos detailed the yield estimates. "It's actually less than half of what we might expect under normal conditions," Cobos clarified. "I had initially projected the yield per acre to be around 300 Kg, but it looks like we'll be closer to 400 Kg."
"So, we're looking at less than 400,000 kilograms in total?" Logan asked, seeking confirmation on the numbers.
Cobos nodded, "Exactly, Lord Chief. Under usual circumstances, our lands spanning over a thousand acres would yield about one million kg. Considering our tribe has grown to more than 2,100 souls, this drop is significant."
Logan processed the gravity of the situation. A normal harvest would sustain them for over four months, but now, with the production cut by more than half, their reserves might last barely under two months. The rye's three-month growth cycle added to the urgency, as many tribes in the wilderness were already facing dire shortages.
"The food crisis is more severe than many might realize," Logan mused aloud. He then made a decisive command, "As soon as we complete the rye harvest, begin planting sweet potatoes and potatoes. They're faster growing, and we need to boost our food reserves urgently."
The future plans were clear in his mind: "Once the Silvermane tribe strengthens, we'll need to consider diverting water sources closer to our lands. The nearest branch river is over fifty miles away, but for now, our wells will have to suffice."
Cobos acknowledged the orders with a firm nod. His role had never been more critical, especially since the influx of new tribespeople. He had orchestrated the rye harvest to conclude in a single day, allowing no delays before transitioning to planting the new crops.
"Yes, Lord Chief. We'll start plowing tomorrow for the new planting. Every moment counts," Cobos affirmed, fully aware of the increased weight of his responsibilities in these challenging times.