A warm breeze flowed gently through the golden grass that grew as tall as an ogre beneath the pure blue sky. It shifted and shimmered like ocean waves all around a solitary hill, which rose like a tiny island from the lapping waves of divine grass. Upon that humble hill, a weathered pole of ancient ironwood jutted at an ever so slight angle, overtaken by green vines adorned with budding white flowers.
A close observer would note that the weathered pole adorned in flowering vines was no mere pole at all. It was in fact a terrible weapon, a legendary thing suitable for cleaving objects not normally susceptible to being cleaved. It could be defined as neither great-axe nor halberd, but some unwieldy combination of the two which would be utterly useless in the hands of any but the unreasonably powerful. Leaning against that terrible sleeping weapon adorned in white flowered vines upon the humble hill surrounded by an ocean of golden grass, was a most peculiar orc.
He did not appear old, nor did he appear very young. He had entered this ageless realm in the prime of his life, and thus his body persisted as it had been on that day. He was short for a high orc, just under eight feet in height. The tusks that jutted from his severely featured face were still white and sharp. His thick, dark red hair was waist length and worn in a braided topknot. His skin was olive green, or had been at his birth. Now that natural skin tone had been mostly overtaken by the chalky pinkish color of the innumerable scars running over his body as though painted on by an artist caught in the throes of possession.
His body, wickedly scarred yet never knowing defeat in battle had once been a source of pride. Now, it meant nothing. Like the priceless gauntlets, girdle, and pauldrons that had once been the great treasures of his nation meant nothing. They now lay scattered and half buried in the fertile soil around him. Like the mound upon which he sat, filled with the bones of countless great foes and fertilized by their divine flesh meant nothing. Like the once desolate plain, now vibrant after centuries of irrigation by immortal blood meant nothing. The impossible size of the conquest all around him mirrored the size of the chasm in his soul.
He had been a good orc, perhaps the best there ever was or would ever be. He fought. He won. But in the end, he could not save his friend. Worse, he was now an unwilling servant of his comrade’s murderer. The vile worm could not spare the energy it took to issue commands properly to him, and the orc was quick to twist the meaning of any given orders to thwart and spite the wretched Kutris at every turn. This caused him great agony, but the orc relished the pain, knowing it signaled his personal victory, no matter how minor. He had simply found a hollow solace in childish defiance.
Even now, the pain twisted and raged throughout his being as he resisted yet another call delivered by the incorporeal butler. The Revenant swirled around him like acrid smoke, repeating the same orders over and over. Each time the orc ignored them, the pain grew more fierce and the orc’s face only grew more serene.
Soon wetness poured from the orc’s ears and eyes as blood vessels burst one by one. Kutris must be desperate to risk the orc’s body to this degree. Perhaps he was desperate enough to overstep the punishment and kill the orc. The thought was not displeasing. He was prepared to finally shed his immortal coil once and for all when the words that he had been ignoring out of spite finally registered.
“An enemy has penetrated Blödgard, you are to rally the Guardians of the Third and Fourth Rings and hunt them down.” The ghostly voice was barely concealing its anxiety now.
“Where?” The orc grunted sleepily, finally opening one blood red eye.
“Beyond the Fourth Ring. Likely the Primordial Hunting Grounds. They must NOT be allowed to encounter the heretic goblin under any circumstances, and you must NOT kill them. They are to be subdued and brought to Lord Kutris immediately.” The tinder-dry voice grated.
“An enemy broke in from the outer rings…?” The orc was incredulous. “Sounds interesting.”
The orc stood, and put a hand on his buried weapon.
“Wake up, sleepy head.” He spoke to the weapon gently, as if it was his own child. “It’s time to go.”
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He hefted the oversized thing effortlessly, even though it weighed more than a small castle. The orc then tilted his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the scents and distant auras on the air to tell him their story. He took a step, and miles flashed by in an indecipherable blur.
The edge of his domain, where the second ring of Blödgard met the third soon appeared before him. This was the domain of Orithrim, the Mountain Swallowing the Sky. He was the father of Behemet, the hero ancestor of all giantkin, and the one to lead his people to freedom from the titan Zurg.
The deity of giants was trapped in the same situation as the orc with one major difference. Orithrim had thrown his loyalty behind Kutris to save his own skin, where the orc had resisted down to the last. He could never forgive the giant, and spat upon the dirt of Orithrim’s domain the moment he stepped over the border where stone met grass.
The orc felt dozens of hateful gazes upon him as he traversed the dark crags and leaped across bottomless canyons. A crag wyrm snaked its head out reflexively as he passed a narrow canyon. It was a fearless beast, unable to comprehend that anything might be able to resist its ambush. It died in ignorance, sent back to the wheel of reincarnation before it could register that its skull had been cleanly split by a lazy afterthought of a slash from the monstrous polearm.
Orithrim and his kin allowed such vermin to populate their ring, even breeding stronger varieties to populate the wilds for their hunting pleasure, though they took great care to avoid these areas near to the orc’s ring and they took even greater care in avoiding the Bone Wall, which marked the border of Ug’gut’s territory.
Ug’gut, the high priestess. The orc let his thoughts ponder on the mighty goblin ruler. She was an enemy that no other guardian dared tangle with. She alone had resisted the will of Kutris, and retained her divine power after the fall of Polemios, the orc’s only true friend. She guarded the coveted great tree in the Primordial Hunting Grounds, and had never known defeat. The orc respected her, but also seethed in envy at her success where he had ultimately failed.
No other beasts rose up to threaten the orc as he made his way toward the massive volcano in the center of Orithrim’s ring. He passed by villages of ogres and hill giants, the peasantry of the giantkin hierarchy. They toiled in flooded fields, sowing and harvesting Soul Energy laden grains that would eventually become the liquor that fueled the endless feast in Orithrim’s red castle. The giantkin gave him a wide berth, even the heavily armored mountain giant platoons left their patrol routes to suddenly ‘investigate’ something far off the road as he passed. The orc rolled his red eyes derisively, and soon the waist high steps at the foot of the great volcano appeared before him.
Eight thousand such steps wrapped around and zig-zagged up the treacherous faces of the majestic dark volcano, and at their end a mighty courtyard was carved within the slumbering caldera. Upon that courtyard lay Orithrim’s castle. It was a testament to the grandiose ambitions of the giant deity. The dark red walls glowed with raw power, each block packed with Soul Energy and humming like a tuning fork. There were hundreds of rooms, each large enough to contain a mansion from the mortal world. It all reeked of weakness to the orc, pointless gaudy decoration to gird Orithrim against the indelible shame of his past.
He met no resistance, and the giants standing guard before the great hall’s doors merely uncrossed their tree trunk spears and stood at rigid attention.
“Your hands are shaking, ‘honor’ guards.” The orc spat verbal venom, unable to hold his tongue at the sight of such cowards.
“Welcome, Orfan!” A landslide voice boomed from the distant end of the hall. A mortal orc would need to travel several minutes to reach the enormous throne where that voice originated. “It has been too long since your last visit!”
“You know why I have come, bloated king of cowards.” The orc retorted, disgusted by hearing his own name spoken by the mound of jiggling flesh seated upon the throne. “You have half a day to muster what forces you will and meet me beyond the Bone Wall. I go now to gather the dragon.”
“You presume that I would bear such insults in silence!?” Orithrim bellowed, undulating to his feet with astonishing speed.
The stones of the castle shook, and Orfan smiled in grim disgust as the giant traitorous king appeared fully under the magical light of the great chandelier. He was thrice the height of a normal mountain giant and at least seven times the weight. His pale flesh was marred by stretch marks as thick as Orfan’s arm and his breath came in blasts of hot, ale-soaked wind strong enough to knock down a cottage with their force. Three great, stone cracking bounds brought him right before Orfan, and he towered over the orc with his fat hands balled into fists that could easily split this volcano with a single blow.
“I don’t believe that you could do anything at all in silence, bloated coward.” Orfan was undaunted. “The days when you might have been a threat to me are ancient history.” Orfan held out his hand slowly, revealing a handful of what looked like several coarse black wires. “You dropped these.”
Orithrim’s greyish green eyes widened beneath their heavy lids. He slowly brought a hand up to his right eye, and felt the missing lashes there. He hadn’t seen a thing at all. His overtaxed heart suddenly shifted gears, from hammering in fury to pounding in fear.
Orfan’s aura receded along with the sound of his mocking laughter. Orithrim clenched his teeth so hard that they began to crack, wanting nothing more than to see the arrogant orc’s innards hanging from his fingers like the thick grain flour noodles he so loved to slurp.
Orfan took a bit of pleasure in the enraged growls of the gluttonous king as he left the castle. He didn’t bother with the carved steps on the way down, opting to simply leap off of the volcano in the direction of the great primeval mountain range belonging to his final subordinate in this mission, the oldest red dragon and Kutris’ favorite pet. Füren the Cataclysm was the apex and personification of all red dragon traits, from his power to his vanity. Unlike Orithrim, the dragon would absolutely fight to the death over even the slightest insult.
That was fine. Unlike the traitorous Orithrim, Füren was not a coward or a betrayer. He had always been fearless and valiant, but loyal to Kutris. That certainly made him an enemy, and Orfan could at least respect an honest enemy.