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There would be questions. There would be questions befitting the situation, and there would be curiosity, too, but first and foremost, there would be restraint. No one needed to be told not to pick up random artefacts, especially not a wizard’s staff. It was a primal warning etched into the instincts of even the most reckless. Unless you were a wizard yourself or one of the few daring artefact hunters who sought out such relics with obsessive preparation, you simply left these things untouched. It was an unspoken rule, as self-explanatory as avoiding the bite of fire. Everyone with a basic survival instinct understood this. Everyone except Nagrak.
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Since the grand avian beast had appeared, Nagrak had been hiding in a narrow crevice, one so tight that only his wiry body could have squeezed into it. The crevice had been a suffocating tunnel of raw brown rock, so constricting that once inside, he had been unable to turn around. The only way forward was through. He had pocketed Balthagar’s gem, scrambled upward, and clawed his way over jagged edges until he emerged onto a higher ledge overlooking the battle.
From his perch, he had watched the incredible display of magic unfold in the far distance. Bayazak and Tergak’s mastery of ice and stone had been nothing short of awe-inspiring, their combined efforts defeating the wizard turned avian beast and back, and sealing the golem in a towering boulder prison. It was a moment of sheer triumph, a testament to the power Nagrak would soon wield as well. He had felt his own untested magic burning like a distant ember in his gut; a gem of two colours — awe and envy.
Then he saw Gorak.
Nagrak was utterly surprised and overjoyed to see his krag emerge, and then he was equally surprised and quite as much terrified to see T̰́̇ͦ̀è̸̷̸̬̤̗̊_̸̵̰̦̗̒͜ȟ̗̍ͤa̶͉͉͍̭̰̅̀̈͜ͅȓ̶̶̛̦͇͙̟̈̿͒ͮ͑̋̚͡u̟͖͔̖̙͙͆̄̿ͩͧ̃̽̓̈̌̀͟͞n rise; the Full Dark racing along and swallowing entire mountain peaks within mere breaths.
Nagrak immediately scrambled down from the ledge, desperate to return to the Snowtrail before the light vanished completely. By the time he gained secure footing, Gorak was already standing with the orichs. Bayazak was preparing the boulder prison for transport. Nagrak had seen him work magic like this before — moving massive stones as though they were no heavier than wapa wool.
Racing the encroaching darkness, Nagrak stumbled forward in frantic haste, his wiry limbs flailing through the deep snow. He had barely managed a few steps before his foot caught on something buried beneath the white expanse. The sudden tug threw him off balance, and he tumbled forward, plunging headfirst into the freezing drift. The world turned muffled and suffocating, the snow pressing in on every side. His claws scrambled against the icy layers, forcing the dense powder away from his face with the precision of someone all too familiar with such indignities. By instinct, he fought off the immediate threat of suffocation, pushing himself up to his knees, gasping for air that stung his lungs with its coldness.
The last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him was a detail so unassuming yet familiar it struck him like a drumbeat: the feet of a fallen warrior, Ulruk. Nagrak recognised them instantly, even half-buried beneath the snow. From his underfoot perspective – so often stomped upon, dodging blows, or bowing his head in submission – he had developed a quite peculiar talent for identifying his fellow orks by their feet and boots. And there lay Ulruk, or what little was visible of him. Nagrak hesitated for a fraction of a moment, but not for grief or indecision —
There it was. Half-buried amid the snow and scattered ork remains lay something long and unnatural, a twisted formation of intertwining roots. It was the last thing he saw before the Full Dark rushed over him and consumed the battlefield from one end of the horizon to the other. Surrounded by black and storm, Nagrak’s pulse thundered in his ears, each beat echoing louder than the howling winds that now grew ever more distant, smothered by the raising surges of his ecstasy.
Though the battle had just ended, his mind still burned with feverish conviction. Today, something monumental was going to happen. He believed it utterly, unshakably. So when he stumbled upon the staff, even though he only saw it for a second, he instantly understood that this was the beginning of the grand unfolding. There could not have been a clearer sign. He could have tripped anywhere, or nowhere at all, but he had fallen right onto the staff. This was anything but an accident. Nagrak’s path had been directed by the Albweiss itself. This was it. THIS WAS. THE. MOMENT.
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So, of course, he did not stop to question how the staff got here between Ulruk’s legs, or whether it belonged to the beast wizard or another figure entirely, such as a hidden adversary. He simply reached for it.
Well, if anyone were to argue against caution, which would be on Nagrak’s behalf, they might note that it was not entirely unheard of for travellers to lose their belongings along the Snowtrail. Wizards, with all their stuff and staffs, sometimes vanished into the unforgiving wilderness, with the wizards eventually claimed by the elements or devoured by beasts, and their possessions left strewn about in the snow. Stories circulated of young patrol guards stumbling upon pieces of treasure — an abandoned artefact here, coin and jewellery there. These tales, of course, often served more as recruitment bait than truth, meant to entice new guards with the promise of fortune. After all, it was quite easy to convince someone to take a job by claiming the previous guard had struck it rich and retired. It was nicer too, to think of them living it up and feasting upon all that their newfound treasures could buy, instead of admitting that they had been long feasted upon by the Haraak.
But Nagrak did not know these stories, nor did he bother with such potential perspectives on recovering relics and riches. Such mundane hopes belonged to scavengers that were shackled by the trivial concerns of wealth. These thoughts were irrelevant for a true Haraak and had no hold on Nagrak. He was consumed with the divine, the inevitable pull of fate that had guided every step of his life.
Yes, he was convinced that the mountain had chosen him. For this moment, the mountain had chosen him — No, in fact, it was the other way around: Nagrak had always been the chosen one, and now, at last, the mountain had chosen THE. MOMENT. to reveal his grand destiny.
When destiny called, you did not question its origin, its danger, or its intent. Nagrak, with the kind of blind certainty that only a true believer could muster, did not hesitate to interpret divine will and answer. With the appearance of the staff, he was utterly certain that the mountain had withheld the awakening of his abilities until now because he was destined for more than just the power of gems. His destiny was not merely to become an orich but to transcend even that — to be one of a kind, something greater, a figure of legend. He would not just wield the power of the mountain’s gems but also the artefacts of wizards. Perhaps it was his destiny to unite these conflicting forces, to bridge the gap between ork and wizard magic, between the Albweiss and the arcane, to deliver his horde and all orks from the shadow of witches and wizards forever.
He would be the first and only to wield all magic.
With trembling hands but unshakeable conviction, his fingers felt for the twisted wood. In the Full Dark, Nagrak the Runt grabbed for his destiny — but then, destiny seized him in return. The instant his palm closed around the staff, the wooden lattice writhed beneath his grasp, the intricate weave of roots coming alive as though the staff had not yet recognised its new master. Before Nagrak could react, the staff coiled upward, slithering over his hand and onto his arm. Its movement was deliberate and serpentine, tightening like a predator. He felt the sharp sting as the roots pierced his skin, burrowing into the flesh of his forearm, their jagged ends rooting themselves deep within him.
Now, where most peoples’ intuitive reaction to grabbing for something that turns out quite alive and stinging would be to let go and pull back, the common ork is inclined to do the exact opposite. Where generations of Haraak had survived in the harshest of environments, every sparce trace of sustenance could mean life or death for the horde. Those who could capture and hold onto their prey survived, be it a planned or unprepared encounter. So if you grabbed for a stick that turned out to be somewhat of a mountain snake, a thing that slithered and stung, you better squeezed and shook until it was still.
That said, with Nagrak, this impulse was somewhat slower than average. These ingrained survival instincts stood quite contrary to his runaway nature. Torn between these two conflicting impulses and the overwhelming demand for destiny, he simply stood and stared as the staff spread further up his arm. Yes, he had expected his destiny to unfold before him, but not literally, not like this thing did now.
The pain was fleeting, a shiver that vanished before it could manifest into anything substantial. It barely registered before it gave way to something far more profound. Warmth. It was not the dull heat of exertion or the searing bite of a wound. This was alien, a warmth foreign to an ork born into the relentless chill of the Albweiss, where even the rare embrace of sunlight was fleeting, stolen almost instantly by cruel, howling winds. This warmth carried a stillness that defied the chaos of his world, a sensation so soft and consuming it felt impossible. It was like the whispered memory of the rarest of sunlit days that the most fortunate of orks may hope to experience once in their lifetime, where no storms tore through the sky and the pale glow of Sey was not scattered by frost and gale.
It started in his arm, where the staff had embedded its roots into his flesh, and spread outward like a flood breaking through a dam. Comfort surged through Nagrak, unnatural and absolute. His muscles stiffened, his vision blurred with tears he did not realise he was shedding, and his breath caught in his throat, replaced by ragged gasps. His chest heaved, his knees threatened to give way, yet he did not collapse. The sensation was too consuming, too much to process, filling every corner of his body, every nerve, every instinct.
The cold that had defined his existence, the aches from his battered form, the stinging humiliation of his countless failures — all of it melted away. He was surrounded by the Full Dark, enveloped in Teharun’s darkness, and within it, the warmth became his world. For this moment, it was all he knew.
This had to be the staff awakening. There was no other explanation. It was alive, and it had recognised him. It was not just a weapon; it was something greater, something that chose. And it had acknowledged his potential, validated his belief, his purpose. The waiting, the ridicule, the years of being overshadowed and overlooked — all of it had been leading to this. This was why the mountain had withheld his awakening. Not because he was unworthy, but because he was meant for more. The staff was his destiny, and it had finally arrived.--
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