Orcs: Strength Wrought in Fire and Bone
They are not monsters, though many call them such. They are the children of the harshest lands—shaped by struggle, tempered by war, and bound by honor few outsiders ever understand. Their lives are forged in the heat of conflict and hardened by survival, every scar a mark of memory, every blade earned. Power among them is not granted by birthright, but by merit, challenge, and blood.
Clans rise and fall with the turning of the seasons, each bound by loyalty, vengeance, or shared purpose. Some seek conquest. Others solitude. All carry a legacy steeped in ritual and strength. To face one in battle is to face a force that knows loss intimately—and refuses to kneel before it.
His hand shot out, seizing the trembling scout by the throat and lifting him clean off the ground. His voice rolled like thunder across the war camp. "Bloodfang do not retreat."
The warrior thrashed, gasping. "Rokzul gave order. Rokzul not speak to wind." He dropped the body in the dust, snarling. "Next one fail… not get up." Around him, no one moved. No one dared.
"You grip wrong. Again." She grabs your wrist, correcting the angle with a sharp twist. "Sword not extension? Then you die first." The scowl deepens as her breath fogs in the icy air. "Fix it. Or freeze trying."
The wind carried the stench of scorched earth, but he didn’t flinch. Not when the messenger stumbled, blood soaking through his tunic. Not even when the words came.
"They struck again. No warning. No orders." She exhaled slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. "They’re not just defying orders. They’re sending a message."
He nodded, jaw clenched. "And we either answer it… or lose everything."
"No banners. No titles. Just grit." The warrior squints into the wind, ash curling past his boots. "And if they try to take it?" A pause. A grin without warmth. "Then they better not miss."
War-born and world-worn, they endure where others break.
