In the depths of the garden, where run the veins of the world...and the air burns the lungs of the weak; orcs make their domain. One among many, Zudan strode through his village--eyes sweeping every earthen-fleshed soul he passed.

And everywhere he looked...he beheld a soul at labor.

Wicked fibers of dunegrass had to be tamed by careful fingers--their stiff tongues for cutting forth from the seeds to carve their way into the rocky and harsh world above them; each fiber like a razor wire. But loomed carefully, they became a mighty fabric--as good as iron. Under the tutelage of their mothers, girls learned this trade--not few of them suffering the loss of a finger in the process…

Builders congregated ahead of him--clustered around a felled pyreoak. Each strike of their axes against the scaley trunk caused it to spit sparks into the air, their ashen flesh aglow with sweat by the movements of honed muscle and still air of the yawning chasm the village had been built within.

Near enough them, another group labored to shave reddened stone into brick--bone of the land hewn to purpose.

Scarce further, a family together--hoisting a slaughtered dragox by its rear legs: an eyeless and powerful creature of decidedly bovine shape. The father observed, his sons hoisted, and the mother--alongside the daughter--sharpened cleaving knives. Its bone, blood, meat, and hide--all--would soon serve the tribe well. That oblong, broad headplate--near as tall as a man--had to come free first...and would be cultivated into a shield to bear the family’s crest.

As Zudan strode--sooty ground and gravel crunching underfoot--he regarded his sarong. Dragox leather, same as all others wore, wrapped about his waist and held in place by tied belts. Terribly worn, at its hem. And some might say...ill-fitting. Unlike the proud and strong of the tribe, Zudan possessed a more...wiry form.

He needed it replaced, but could do nothing about that right now.

Every orcish soul he passed...they all shared something. Something he lacked and longed for, fierce as starvation. It nagged at him with every passing moment, and standing there--like a lost fool--gazing longingly at his sarong...it hissed into his skull that he’d be trapped and desolate forever.

No, now wasn’t the time to think of that.

His eyes shut and his arms tensed.

He snapped his attention forward again, and resumed his stride--now with more purpose thrown into every step--if he held none for himself yet so far...then one must be forced with his determination. Onward...to the very end of the village--where stood tall and strong, the largest structure. A veritable palace in comparison to all else he passed--built of the same blood-hued stone, between ribs of pyreoak and crenellated by dragox bone. Yet unlike the rows of mismatched and mound-like structures along the way--the palace had uniform. Tall, squared, and majestic. Each wall reinforced with buttresses, and their bases angled outward. Great flames roared atop each tower, casting illumination as far as possible--enough even to illuminate the peaks of the cavern.

Red glows shone in its narrow windows, stark contrast to the rounded “holes” in the walls of homes along the road. And unlike them, dragox bone barbed the rims--top and below.

His approach didn’t go unnoticed at all. A pair of guards leered at him by the entrance. Compared to him...they weren’t unlike giants. Beasts of muscle who earned their place above all others through a supremacy of power--proven earned by innumerable scars. To mark their station, they adorned great plates of dragox bone on their limbs and torsos--each holding a shield marked by their family crests...and a weapon that bore all the pride of their bloodlines.

“Runt’s here for his last day in Agaath, eh?” one of them mocked--a grin carving across his brown-hued features.

The other, darker skinned like charred dirt, cocked his head. “A finger like you has no place aspiring to be a warrior, let alone challenging the baal.”

Zudan bore their mockery in silence. He stepped right past. All the baal’s warriors lounged in the courtyard and warhall--having their fill of drink, meat, and playthings. His brows furrowed and he threw aside the cords of bead hanging from the hall's entrance--each one dangling from a carved point in a set of massive tusks.

No eyes bothered turning toward him. Why cast attention upon the unworthy and the weak?

Such disrespect was getting to be...infuriatingly normal to the youth. His eyes bore straight ahead--to the hide and bone throne of the baal. Eight wives lounged about the tribe's lord, each one more beautiful than the last--heads bowed in submission.

One drew Zudan’s stare greater than the others. His jaw tightened. He threw himself forward again. “Baal Jaalag,” he hissed, “I--”

“WHO gave you leave to speak, before me, and before I have spoken to you?” Jaalag bellowed in answer--cutting him short. He all but threw one of his tending wives off his lap, standing. Even amongst their kind, he looked like a monster. Rippling muscle, hundreds of scars and marks, and a beard laden with so many claimed warrior-rings--ornaments of slain challengers’ weapons melted down to wear as trophies, the utterest and most ultimate of shames--that it no longer even moved when he did.

His fiery eyes grew wide, and his nostrils pulled tight as he drew an enraged breath.

Silence seized supreme over the hall. And all eyes were on their lord and leader.

“I DID NOT!” the baal spat, beating his chest with a palm. Before another pause, he lifted his chin then went on--his words thundering through every heart. “DO YOU THINK, THAT BEING BORN WITH MY BLOOD MAKES YOU WORTHY? SEEDS YOU WITH VALUE? THAT YOU CAN COME HERE AND SPEAK AS YOU PLEASE?”

“I have come--”

“STILL YOU SPEAK!” Jaalag roared, “HAVE I GIVEN YOU BREATH YET TO USE?”

Lips curling back to a snarl, Zudan challenged further. Daring--in his ever more frustrated fury--to utter something that sickened him to his core to use. “Father--”

“YOU ARE NOT MY SON!” Jaalag bellowed louder than any words before, beating his chest again. “MY SON IS NOT A FINGER! MY SON DOES NOT AROUSE TO MEATLESS BONE! MY SON IS NOT STANDING HERE!” A step forward, and he thrust two fingers at his refused blood, “YOU ARE NOT WORTHY OF THE CRIMSON IN YOUR VEINS! AND YOU WILL NOT LEAVE MY HALL WITH YOUR LIFE!”

He threw arn arm to his side--hand open.

His wives rushed to bring him his weapon--a swordstaff with a curved blade and twin spikes pointed the same direction, just beneath the blade.

Zudan reached behind himself, lowering his stance. His fingers curled around the handles of two curved knives. He growled under his breath, “You are right…” His eyes bore harshly into the form of his father--who now gripped swordstaff in one hand and shield in other. A shield lined with even more warrior-rings, and crowned with a trio of skulls. The sight of those skulls made Zudan’s jaw tighten again. Watch me, ancestors...he besought, I’ll change our people and write our story in a brighter place.

The warriors in the hall began to chant. “Baal! BAAL! BAAL!” They drummed their feet and beat their tables.

Jaalag wore no armor. He bore every wound and every scar with unshakeable pride. His flesh screamed to all who beheld it: I...am...UNKILLABLE!

Presuming the first strike to mean everything, Zudan darted. He dashed up the steps and sprang into the air--drawing the twin daggers at his back. His quickness surprised many of the warriors.

But not Jaalag.

“HHGK!” Zudan grunted. The calloused sole of his father smashed into his torso, buckling his ribs before launching him backwards--behind a trail of blood from his mouth. He crashed down onto the table and slid to its far end.

Raucous laughter filled the hall.

“Pa...THETIC!” Jaalag bellowed--silencing the hall again. He set his treetrunk-like leg down anew and began to walk. “You’re not even worthy of being killed!”

Still holding onto his daggers, Zudan rolled--groaning. Pain shot through his form, a serpent of blades coiling swift from chest to throat. A pitiable noise escaped his lips, and blood oozed to the floor.

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Geeeet uuuup! He snarled at himself. He’s coming. And he’s going to kill you. Like vermin!

The steps sounded ever closer. And soon, he could feel the thurm of every impact--through the ground. Zudan twisted, fighting against the pain and throwing a dagger at the baal’s face.

A scowl and widened eyes, the most reaction to get from him, Jaalag slapped aside the knife with a backhand. Using that same hand, he speared his swordstaff’s shaft into Zudan’s gut.

“UAAAHT!”

Jaalag hefted him up, raising his arm and curling it back. He raised his chin. “This...parasite...is what spilled out of your mother’s womb? To give me so piteous an offspring...must be punished.”

“NNoo--” Zudan tried to yell in protest, but instead found himself flying. Flung through the hall and into a pillar. His back rammed a torch and knocked it free, along with the brace holding it there. Warriors stood aside to let their baal approach once more.

“You are BEYOND WEEEAAK!” Jaalag declared. His strides stilled by Zudan’s side, and he glowered at the lean-bodied orc curled up and coughing at his feet. His tongue curled between his tusks, and he dipped his head sharp. Spitting.

The fat wad of saliva struck the side of Zudan’s face.

“To challenge me and fall without so much as a SCRATCH, and you are meant to be of MY FLESH?!” He growled. “Baaah.”

Turning away, he started back toward his throne. “Dump this gangrene in the dune. My line will be cleaner for it!”

A few of his warriors started forward for the task--but stopped.

Several more than that expressed, in guttural breath, a sound of disbelief. It garnered back the baal’s attention, who turned to behold Zudan standing. Hand against his chest, and the other still clutching a dagger. “Aah, so you can stand?” Jaalag fully turned about. “But can you move?”

Some of the warriors chuckled.

His breath came and went with such weight, and so ragged, that the first words he uttered...emerged little different from rasps.

“Yees…” Zudan growled. “I will not be leaving...your hall...with my life…” He inhaled, and the agonies within his body amplified. They spread to every inch of his flesh. It wailed within his mind. Screamed for release. And to cease...altogether. “But it will be...WITH YOURRRS!” he roared, flinging himself again.

“MAGGOT!” Jaalag answered, spearing his foot forward again. And for the second time, it found Zudan’s torso. The already broken ribs were crushed. With them, the lungs behind. Zudan’s eyes had gone white even before his body was launched from the end of his father’s leg. Cannoned, straight into a wall.

This time…

When Zudan’s body thudded flat, his dagger joined him with a clatter.

“Egh,” the baal scowled. “Bury him. A life so unworthy is a death of even less worth. Let his flesh feed no beast.” While followers moved to obey him, he turned toward his throne. Scowling at one of his wives.

Her blank expression and empty eyes declared to all the world how little life lingered within her. He lowered his swordstaff. And with a single thrust, spilled the remnants of that life on the steps to his throne.

Like a banner, he carried her on his weapon--through the village and followed by his “arms,” the capable and the worthy--strong enough to wield weapons for his name and bask in his pride. Those in the village observed, ceasing their work and standing. Heads held high. Respect shown for one who owned them by right of his strength.

And to whom they all owed what his son lacked in their eyes. And in his own eyes.

Out of the chasm, into the yawning dunes of the ashen cavern. He picked a spot within eyesight of the tribal canyon, and pointed his chin at it.

Without a wasted instant, his warriors began digging. They tossed Zudan in--casting his daggers in with him. Weapons owned by a warrior so weak didn’t deserve to be passed onward. And so...would be lost forever. Not even acknowledged in their strength by being melted down to become new rings.

I looked on as they filled the hole.

I grinned as Jaalag cast the corpse of Zudan’s mother upon his grave, to mark it with the so-perceived...source of worthlessness.

On that eve under skyless heights, he thought Zudan’s story...had ended.

What he didn’t know...would soon enough come back to hurt him.

The baal stiffened. Twisted about. Eyes cast everywhere. This ice in my breath… he pondered, a rare and lonely shiver slithered through his bones.

His men watched him, and seeing his wary expression--themselves turned away and searched their horizon.

No, only the failed father felt my gaze. His spine cowered. His mind reeled, laid out to me as ink upon pages. Exposed beyond all effort and measure of strength he’d have even the capacity to imagine possessing.

“Return,” he commanded, “I must go and see the wise one.”

Jaalag’s warriors obeyed.

He spat on the grave and left it behind.

In the aftermath of his departure, the meager light of Eden’s depths peeled back. Coiling away from a taloned hand. Tendrils of a darkness older and deeper--than the very dawn of light itself--spilled out around it, gripping the rim of reality to fold aside. Forth emerged a lithe and towering being, with a form toned immaculate--yet in defiant paradox equally lanky.

Vantablack limbs rolled at the being’s sides--flexing, and vulture-like feet grasped into the ash dune.

So near to this presence, the darkness within the stilled veins of Zudan’s mother began to boil and writhe. Her corpse seized, eyes thrown open and the grasp of death itself beginning to trickle free--straight upward--from her flesh. Ribbons of qhai--the life-force energy of which all things formed, woven out of that divine kindness that began them.

No sound came of the being’s mouth, but uttered words carved meaning into the mind it was meant for--all the same.

A bloodied hand pierced from the ashes, grasping at naught and soon frantically clawing around itself.

The being plunged its hand in beside the arm, clutched tight, and fished Zudan from below with but a lone yank. He wheezed. And the being caught him by his jaw, holding him at its waist--on his knees.

In his state, swallowed by agony and the denial of death, he could but look--yet not see. His mind reeled, but his thoughts and the feelings of all else reverently bowed away to acquiesce for new meanings. Etch, by etch, his mind filled.

I told him only what I needed for him to know. Desired...for him to know.

And when I released my grip of his limb and jaw, he collapsed by his dead mother. Soul and mind exhausted, body starved and broken. To lie and heal, under care and cruel caress of time.

His mother’s corpse peeled itself from the ground, face eaten away by writhing tendrils--each oozing a divine hue; argued by mortals to be as either an ocean of blue, tinged violet...or an abyss of violet, tinged blue. It ate the light around itself to be fueled and strengthened. I set a praising hand atop the unliving orc’s head.

And as I smiled wide, my playground smiled with me.

To you, my dear...curious onlooker...it is no less than a second--but to me, littler than an iota of the time wasted in blinking...to return my attention to the baal and cast myself back to the Void.

Jaalag’s steps ceased a moment. The warlord twisted about, tensing his grip on shield and swordstaff. Again, my spine reels. His eyes thinned, and he hastened along the winding path. Deeper into the chasm than the village sat. Deeper, even, than the spearhead made by his palace hall.

Where even ash didn’t build up, and the distant...evanescent glows of Eden’s fiery veins cast no light. The would-be wise fool might ask why he brought no light of his own there, but it wouldn’t have helped. In this thin crevice, a darker element reigned.

All the while, it threatened to burrow into his skull--antagonizing everything he feared and everything he loathed. A place where dreams withered and twisted to something else. But ahead, his destination awaited--like a candle in a moonless night, showing him the way.

He knelt outside it.

Then called: “Elder Shaman!” Jaalag waited. “I require your...insight.” Tension prompted his gaze to wander, and he peered over his shoulder at the nightmare rift behind. Imagination, or perhaps something more primal, teased him with formless shapes and ill-intent with no origin.

Surprise, first, greeted him as he looked back at the shaman’s cottage. And it turned to anger. “Shaman! Emerge and speak to me!”

Fool.

His impatience and fear boiled greater, in every passing second. He clenched his jaw, tusks shining against the low light of the shaman’s domicile. “Shaman!” Knowing it unwise, at least, not to antagonize a maji--when he himself could only wield weapons of hand...he took a breath. And then calmed himself, best his boorish skull allowed. “Why do you not come out to answer me?”

The shaman’s cracked and ancient voice returned. “I know why you have come Jaalag...Baal of Agaath--chieftain of the tribe of the Stoneskulls…”

Within, the withered and old orc stiffened--seated on his chair and surrounded by hanging sconces of bone and incense. In front of him, a great hearthfire which dared not burn brightly--so close to my gaze--furtively warmed him. He shut his eyes, silvered mane and great beard a wild sea upon his bony form.

He drew a labored breath. “And...I cannot help you. In this hour, you have the gaze of something greater...than anything you could imagine. And immeasurably more powerful, yet. Your...story...is in the hands of Fate and Destiny, now...and I will dare not tread brazen before the power of those things which lie far and beyond our reckoning...or our knowing.”

Then you are useless to me! Baal Jaalag scarcely stopped himself from saying aloud. He stood up. Tempted, now, more than ever to spill that old...bastard’s blood. And why not? If some sort of curse has come upon him for purifying his bloodline and his tribe of crippling weakness...what is the killing of a shaman to compare?

No. Calm yourself, Jaalag.

He exhaled through his nostrils. Reopened eyes regarded the trio of skulls on his shield. Ancestors...I will show you that even curses are of no challenge against the Stoneskulls. Or… he twisted around, boldly facing the nightmare rift. And starting onward again. Me.