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Midnight’s essence compressed, the flickering edges of her darkness coiling in on themselves as the bending light twisted and writhed around her, burning away what belonged to her, consuming her presence. The raw energy of the storm and snow surged around and swept through her, creating their very own cocoon of chaos around the ravenous orb of gold that engulfed her. Yet, Midnight lingered, suspended between the onslaught of the elements, the devouring light, and the violence unravelling below.
This moment of stillness was not hers alone — it extended to the monstrous voltera and his companions. The wizard atop the beast strained his gaze upward. Though sunken and glazed with sickness, his eyes still held a last fragment of sharpness, revealing the remnants of a once-mighty force. Frail and ravaged by disease, his body trembled, yet a sensibility lingered in his expression, as if he could see beyond the growing orb of radiance. He had not grasped all that she was, but something within Midnight, something of her drew his attention. His gaze followed her, even as she shifted between nearby ledges, momentarily evading the revealing fragments of light —
The artefact.
It was the voice that spoke for her which suddenly revealed the source of her exposure; the sigil ring gave her away. Though a relic that transcended both the Material and the Alladharian dimensions, it had magical ties to both. In that regard, it was the only tangible part of the nothing that was her, latched onto her net of darkness. Ethereal yet potent, its presence both elusive and undeniable, the ring anchored Midnight’s existence in this world of matter and Rothar.
Yet, before the wizard or the voltera could react, the sudden, savage roars of the orks shattered the second of stillness between them. Their guttural cries erupted like thunder, their infuriated faces twisting into grotesque forms, reminiscent of the totemic masks they so often wore in battle — faces molded by the harshness of this frozen wasteland, scarred by years of war, and etched with burning rage. Greenish flesh, marred by frostbite, split in jagged cracks across their bodies, streaked with freezing blood that crystallised into sharp crimson lines. Their breath escaped in sharp, angry bursts, misting in the frigid air as they rallied, reformed, and readied for battle once more. Where they had been desperate and decimated, they suddenly revolted in death-defying determination, driven by a primal wrath that was raised by the appearance of a towering male.
He came from above, a hulking figure recklessly descending from the cliffs. His body was draped in furs thick with grime and stiffened by ice that had formed jagged spikes. They clung to his body like armour, adding to his already imposing presence, as though the mountain itself had forged him from its brutal elements. His broad, bare shoulders were a mass of sinew and scar tissue, each line carved deep into his flesh. His tusks, one chipped and worn, and the other gleaming with silver, jutted out from a jaw that had been broken and healed too many times to count. He was older than the others, his face lined with prominent wrinkles of age and hardship, yet his eyes burned with a flicker of cunning that belied his savage appearance.
His name, whispered with reverence and fear among his kin, was Gorak the Frostblade. His reputation stretched far across the Albweiss Mountains, a legacy of bloodshed and brutality that had marked his decades of survival in the frozen north. His savagery was tempered only by a sharp, calculating mind, a trait that had kept him alive and dominant where countless others had fallen.
As Gorak charged down the trail from the rear, the orks parted for him like ice splitting before a raging avalanche. His mere presence rekindled their bloodlust, igniting the smoldering hunger for battle that had dimmed with the decrease of their numbers. Reaching the front of the decimated horde, Gorak hefted his grand axe; a brutal weapon with a blade chipped and blackened from countless wars. He stormed ahead, his voice bellowing commands, guttural and fierce. They translated into a ripple of motion, erratic yet disciplined. Switching from their various blades and axes to long, jagged metal spears, the decimated horde snapped into formation and surged forward, hammering their shields or chests with swinging fists in a rhythmic chant that echoed their rising fury.
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Trailing in the shadow of Gorak’s massive bulk was a younger, wiry ork. He struggled to keep pace with the krag’s relentless momentum, his steps awkward and laboured, a stark contrast to the fluid brutality of the warriors around him. While the rest of the orks were hulking masses of scarred muscle, their bodies hardened by war and the brutal cold, the youngling’s disproportionate figure was painfully thin. Thick black hair, streaked with frost, curled around his head, making it appear much too large for his frail body. His limbs were gangly and awkward and his skin had taken on the sickly, pale hue of malnourishment. He looked like a starved scavenger. His name was Nagrak. He was the runt of the Frostblade’s horde, a misfit among warriors.
Yet, for all his physical shortcomings, Nagrak’s meagre frame housed a mind sharper than any blade wielded by his kin, and a fire that outshone the blind rage that fuelled the others. Where the rest were driven by innate bloodlust directed by the unwavering commands of their krag, Nagrak was driven by something higher, something far greater — a vision of purpose and potential, merged into boundless ambition.
At least, this is what Nagrak believed.
Because at one point of his misbirth existence, he had been told that the blood of an orich coursed through his veins. From that day on, Gorak had kept him close, offering protection Nagrak had never known. Where once he had been shoved aside, beaten for his frailty and mocked for his runtish size, now he stood in the shadow of the krag’s brutal authority, and that shift in fortune granted Nagrak a new sense of importance that had gone straight over his oversized head. Nagrak’s mind inflated with delusions of destiny, convinced that his future mirrored the likes of Bayazak and Tergak, the horde’s revered orichs, whose mystical insight into the forces of nature guided the warriors with a blend of wisdom and raw, elemental power.
His mind was a steel trap, yes, but the only prey ever caught in that trap was Nagrak himself. Because in the end, not only the truly cunning, but also the utterly daft see themselves as superior to their peers. The difference lies not in their conviction, but in reality. The truly cunning recognise the world for what it is and adapt, while the daft twist reality through their own, distorted perspective. They believe their own fantasies into existence.
Nagrak stood so far on the wrong side of that spectrum, that his subjective self-perception had long turned into self-deception. He believed his rise was inevitable. In truth, he was more likely to be trampled underfoot than to guide anyone to glory, but he was simply too stupid to understand just how stupid he was. In his simplisic leader-and-follower mindset, he was convinced that where the other orks were all brute force, he was strategy. One day, Nagrak was sure the horde would see it too. For now, though, he remained in the background, content to follow Gorak into the fray, biding his time for the perfect moment to prove his worth. Even if that moment existed only in the confines of his distorted trap of a mind.
Nagrak’s frustration twisted his gaunt face as he struggled to elbow his way past the larger warriors who closed in right behind Gorak. Their broad, scarred backs had formed an impenetrable wall that he could not breach. They did not spare him a glance. They knew him for what he was — a harmless nuisance, an insect buzzing in their midst. Nagrak’s antics were infamous, but they went largely ignored, for Gorak had made it clear that no harm should come to the runt. As long as krag’s decree of protection shielded him, the horde let him run free and endured his presence with silent contempt. And so, like a shadow clinging to the base of a mountain, Nagrak trailed after Gorak, blissfully ignorant of just how far out of reach his ambitions truly were.
In contrast, Gorak, looking down from the metaphorical mountain peak, was acutely aware of Nagrak’s delusions. He had made the disturbing experience that the runt did not grasp hierarchies, a dangerous flaw in an ork. Unlike the others, Nagrak never knew when to be afraid, when to show submission, or when to stand down. His irritating persistence had only worsened since the orichs had taken an interest in him, and Gorak found it increasingly difficult to tolerate the runt’s presence.
It had been over seven moon cycles ago when Gorak had first resolved to kill Nagrak, determined to offer him as a sacrifice to the Wronging Rock. But when he had voiced his intention to the orichs, they had stayed his hand, sensing some potential in the scrawny youngling. They had requested nine full cycles to straighten him out, promising to put the runt in his place and perhaps uncover the potential they believed was hidden within him.
Gorak had agreed to leave him unharmed for the duration of the orichs' efforts. But as the cycles passed, he saw no sign of the presumed potential the orichs claimed to see. His patience, once as solid as the frozen peaks of the Albweiss Mountains, was beginning to thaw like the wandering ice sheets of Taltarag Spring, steadily giving way to the rising tide of his frustration.
Now, as the horde hurled themselves at the massive voltera with renewed recklessness, Gorak led the charge, his grand axe raised high. Behind him, the warriors surged forward in a frenzy of violent motion, their eyes burning with battle-lust, while Nagrak was pushed to the rear, barely able to keep pace. In his deluded mind, the warriors’ indifference was not disdain but respect, a silent acknowledgment of his importance. He believed they were shielding him, protecting him until the moment when his hidden powers would finally awaken and reveal his true worth.
Nagrak knew that he could not fight until those powers manifested. He was convinced that the krag expected greatness from him, just as he did from the other orichs. Nagrak’s black eyes, wide and gleaming with nervous energy, darted frantically between Gorak and the voltera. His heart pounded in his chest, every beat amplifying his certainty.
Yes, Gorak needed him. The horde needed him. This was his moment. It needed to happen now. Today was the day his magic would manifest.
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