The sun was low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the orc village as Remoran stood with furrowed brow, awaiting news from his scouts. The day had been tense, the air thick with anticipation as the tribe prepared for the confrontation with Grimgor. Of the scouting parties that had been sent out, all but one had returned, and Remoran's concern only grew as the minutes ticked by.

As he paced back and forth, Remoran couldn't help but overhear the hushed conversations of his warriors. They spoke of their fears and doubts, but also of their faith in their chief to lead them to victory. One warrior, a grizzled veteran named Grotar, approached Remoran and spoke earnestly.

"Chief Remoran, we have faith in your leadership," Grotar said, his eyes filled with determination. "We have seen the changes you've brought to our tribe and the strength you've given us. Whatever lies ahead, we will face it together."

Remoran nodded, touched by Grotar's words. "Thank you, Grotar. Together, we will overcome any challenge that comes our way."

When the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, it became clear that the scout party from the southwest had not returned. Remoran's heart clenched with fear, not only for the lost scouts but for the safety of his stepfather, Demoris, who still resided in Sharil to the southwest. He quickly pushed aside his fears, however, focusing on the task at hand – the protection of his new family and the orc tribe.

Gathering the tribe's warriors, Remoran made his decision. "We cannot wait any longer," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of command. "We must gather our able-bodied warriors and march to confront Grimgor before he can organize an attack. Those who cannot fight will remain here, ensuring the safety of our home."

As the tribe prepared for battle, warriors sharpened their weapons, while others painted their faces with the blood of their mighty, a symbol of their resolve. The village was a hive of activity, the sounds of leather being strapped and armor being adjusted filling the air.

In the midst of the preparations, Remoran shared a heartfelt moment with Grima and their son, Torag. He held them close, his love for them shining brightly in his eyes. "I promise you, I will return," he whispered, his voice filled with determination. "Orkinder will keep me safe."

Grima looked into her husband's eyes, sensing the sword's hidden desires but knowing that its power was essential for the challenges that lay ahead. She nodded, her eyes filled with both pride and concern. "I believe in you, Remoran. Return to us victorious."

Torag, his unique half-orc features a blend of his parents' heritage, clung to his father, his young eyes filled with a mix of fear and pride. "Father, I will train hard while you are away so that I can fight alongside you one day," he declared, his voice strong and steady.

Remoran smiled, ruffling his son's hair. "I know you will, Torag. And I look forward to the day when we can stand side by side in battle."

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With their goodbyes said, Remoran turned his attention to his gathered warriors, standing before them as their chief and leader. He could see the fire in their eyes, the determination to protect their tribe and their families. He drew Orkinder from its sheath, the sword's dark energy humming with anticipation.

"My brothers and sisters," Remoran began, his voice steady and commanding, "the enemy lies in wait to the southwest, plotting our demise. But we will not cower in fear. We will not wait for them to strike. As true orcs, we will take the fight to them! We will march into their territory, show them the might of the Ghorak tribe, and crush them before they can even think of harming our people!"

The gathered warriors roared their approval, their resolve strengthened by Remoran's words. Orkinder seemed to vibrate with anticipation, the sword eager for the bloodshed that lay ahead. Remoran glanced at the weapon, aware of its desires but focused on the task at hand.

"Prepare yourselves, my warriors," he commanded, his gaze sweeping across the assembled crowd. "We leave at first light. Tonight, we rest and gather our strength. Tomorrow, we march to war!"

As the tribe dispersed to make their final preparations, Remoran caught sight of Grotar, who stood nearby, a grin of excitement on his face. "At last, my chief," he said, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. "It has been far too long since we've had the chance to truly test our mettle."

Remoran nodded, his expression solemn. "Yes, Grotar. But remember, our goal is not to revel in battle, but to protect our people and ensure their safety."

Grotar’s grin faded slightly, replaced by a look of understanding. "As you wish, my chief."

The next morning, the village was alive with activity as the warriors of the tribe assembled for their march to the southwest. Their faces painted with determination, their weapons sharpened and ready, they looked to Remoran for guidance as he led them from the village.

With Grima and Torag watching from a distance, their hearts heavy with concern and hope, Remoran and his warriors began their journey towards the southwest, the direction of the land where his life had changed so dramatically all those years ago. As they marched, the sun rose in the sky, casting long shadows on the ground beneath them – a fitting symbol for the challenges and the darkness that lay ahead.

As the sun began to set on their first day of marching, Remoran called for the tribe to make camp. As the warriors set about preparing their sleeping quarters and tending to their weapons, Remoran's attention turned to a tradition that had long been practiced by the orcs of the clan.

Gathered around a large cauldron, the warriors watched as Remoran unsheathed his dagger and sliced open his palm, allowing his blood to flow freely into the bubbling stew. The chief's blood, a symbol of his strength and the bond between him and his warriors, was an essential ingredient in the meal that would be shared among them. The orcs believed that by consuming their leader's blood, they would inherit some of his strength and resolve, fortifying them for the battles to come.

As the blood mixed with the other ingredients, Remoran addressed his warriors, his voice strong and commanding. "Tonight, we share not only this meal but also the bond that binds us together as a clan. Through my blood, you will find the strength of our ancestors and the courage to face whatever challenges lie ahead. We are one, united in our purpose and our determination to protect our people."

The warriors nodded in agreement, their eyes filled with respect and admiration for their chief. As the meal was distributed among them, they each took a spoonful of the thick, steaming stew and savored its taste. The ritual complete, they felt a renewed sense of unity and purpose, ready to face the dangers that awaited them on their march to confront Grimgor.