Far in the hills away from the hustle and bustle of the main roads of the war torn nation of Crimson Rock, there resided a clan of orcs. They lived an idyllic life. Crushing trees, crushing stones, and crushing the bones of any hunters who wandered too close to the village. It was a time of peace.

Which is exactly why Tork hated it. He was young, and impatient. He was due for his skin to molt from the sickly green of orc children to the smoky black of the adults of the clan. He knew it was close, and had been picking at the skin of his shoulders while he daydreamed.

Tork dreamt of the days of his heroes. There was Thog the Crafty, who was the first to create a split club capable of knocking out three enemies at once. Kluhg the Fierce, who once demolished an entire castle down to dust and then made a killing in the castle cocaine business. Most of all, Tork wanted to be like Jim the Orc. Jim was actually just a frail human child who wanted to be an orc. He was allowed in the front lines at the Battle of the Clams because both sides agreed it would be funny. Of course, he was trampled to death within the first few seconds of the fight, but his death inspired his compatriots. The victory clambake was the stuff of legends. All thanks to Jim.

It was on a warm evening while Tork worked on his runecycle when fate deigned to give him his wish.

“Tork honey, it’s time to come in and have some mashed beetle stew with cilantro and whatever other gross shit I could mix into a bowl,” called his mother.

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Tork replied in a whiney voice while continuing with his work.

Tork never did make it inside that night. In fact, many of the orcs in his clan never made it home that night. The night air carried with it a heavy, musty smell. Had it been any other race, they would have been able to notice the intruders. The orc clan however, and its rather lax attitude towards hygiene, was less than fortunate in this regard. Wolves had come upon them.

Tork had just noticed that his mom never yelled the plethora of vitriol she usually reserved for his tardiness when he heard the bellow of war horns. Rising to his feet, he grabbed a nearby branch before he heard his mom’s voice cry out.

“Oh god, Tork! There’s giant wolves in the hut and they’re baring their fangs at me. One of them is already covered in blood! Augh! They’re biting into my flesh! I’m being torn apart! It’s like they’re letting me tell you all of this and saving my vocal cords for last for dramatic effect! I just need you to know I always hated-,” but she was suddenly cut off with a sickening squelch. Tork stood dumbfounded, unsure what to do. Despite his desire for a good fight, he had never actually been in one.

The two giant wolves rushed out of his home, and paid him little mind as they trekked past his frozen stance. However, one of the wolves paused and turned its head to look back at Tork. It bared its fangs into a sneer and kicked at the runecycle, knocking it over onto its side and smashing one of the sideview mirrors. The wolf then alternated kicking both legs back like it had just relieved itself and wanted to bury the offending mess before trotting off into the darkness.

“Jessica! No!” Tork cried out as he sank to his knees, one arm outstretched towards the runecycle.

As he sobbed like a sad thirty-something that just realized they’ll never own a home, the fires of the village huts raged. By the time they finished, his entire village was little more than ashes. There were no signs of any of the clan’s fighters. Instead, Tork could only find the strewn limbs of his friends as well as some rather risque stone tablets someone had attempted to flee with before having their shoulder torn off.

Packing the tablets into the saddlebag of his runecycle, Tork revved the engine and peeled out towards the forest’s edge. The blackened limbs of the trees had been brushed aside from the exit of his enemy. They lay twisted and gnarled, forming shapes which looked like the harsh Orcish language. Each stuck in his mind as he passed them.

FAILURE.

WEAKLING.

CRUSTY DICK.

It was the last one which hurt the most. Both emotionally and physically. Tork tried to ignore the water gathering in his eyes when his bike hit a bump that caused him to get thrown over the handlebars. He slammed upside down into the remains of a burnt tree. He blinked a few times before sliding down onto his head.

“What the fuck…,” he muttered to no one. Looking over he saw another pile of burnt branches in more Orcish lettering.

FUCK YOU, it read.

Tork sighed and walked back towards the road. Before he got to the runecycle, he saw the offending bump. One of the wolves had apparently horked up something hard. He picked it up and wiped away some of the bile with his bare hands because, well, he’s an orc. Despite the scratches, he could tell what it was right away.

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His mother’s head. She was covered in stomach bile, saliva, dirt, and leaves, but she still had that hateful look Tork knew from childhood. He shoved her head into the other side of his saddlebag as he carefully unlatched it from Jessica. Jessica, his first and only runecycle, had not fared nearly as well from the crash. Her frame had been crumpled into the remains of a large burnt oak and she was leaking goblin oil everywhere. Shoved through her front wheel was a long branch. It was smooth to the touch from the fires and felt strong in Tork’s hand. He wrenched it and swung it around, as good of a club as any he had ever seen.

“I’ll avenge you” he said while kneeling over Jessica’s corpse. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll beat every wolf responsible with this very club.” He held the club aloft. “I name you Jessica’s Revenge.” Orcs were not well known for their subtlety.

Back home, a vulture was tying a bib around its neck as it somehow held a fork and knife in each wing over an empty plate while another vulture in a suit delicately cut a slice of meat off of Tork’s mother’s leg. In the clearing, Tork finished his goodbyes in the honored tradition of all Orcs by pissing on Jessica. Then he slung the saddlebag over his shoulder and headed towards the mountains north of Crimson Rock.

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He traveled through the night and the entire next day. By the time he reached the slopes of the mountains, his stomach had collapsed into a tiny almond sliver. The thought of it only made him hungrier. His Orc belly concurred as it growled and rippled across his stomach. He could smell smoke from a hut in the distance. Something savory was being cooked. His feet barely touched the ground as he floated towards its source.

The hut itself was a mishmash of wood taken from various supply carts who had traveled too close. Tork knew its occupant, but only by reputation. This was the home of Og-Wen, the Orc shaman. Of course, Orc shamans are little more than hermits who have willingly exposed themselves to copious amounts of lead. But it is known throughout the lands that if you have nothing left to lose, they’ll do in a pinch.

The acrid air inside stung Tork’s tiny nostrils as he entered the hut. Og-Wen was draped over a cauldron with a soaked rag over his head, forming an enclosed canopy of sorts. His breathing was ragged.

“Shaman of the North, I request your aid,” Tork said after finding his voice.

Og-Wen did not stir. Instead, he pointed to a large basket by the door. After a moment of silence passed, he finally spoke. His voice was gravel on sandpaper.

“Payment. Up front,” he said.

Tork sighed and lowered the saddlebag from his shoulder. He took out the tablets and dropped one in the basket. When Og-Wen still did not stir, he dropped another inside. When he got down to the last one in his hand, he felt a temper begin to rise.

“C’mon, man!” He exclaimed. Then with great reservation, he dropped the last tablet into the basket. “I need you to help me take revenge on the wolves.”

“I heard. They were efficient.”

“You heard?”

“Yes,” the shaman said. “Here in the stew. The boiling bubbles tell me of the world outside these walls.”

“Look, I just need you to tell me where the wolves are and… and to resurrect someone for me. I need her back.”

Og-Wen considered him for a long moment. Wordlessly, he pulled out a simple wooden bowl and ladled some of the stew into it. Getting up, he let out a symphony of cracks as his joints came to life. He offered the bowl to Tork, who took it and gulped it down in one swallow. As he felt the warm stew fill his stomach, he looked down to the shaman. Og-Wen’s face was one of terror.

“What?” Tork asked.

“You… you were only supposed to sip that. No one has ever had a full bowl before!”

“What! Why did you give me a whole bowl?”

“It’s part of the ritual! You have no idea what you’ve just done. You have to-”

The rest of the shaman’s words stretched into an infinity Tork had no chance of hearing. The hum rose in intensity and enveloped him. Before he could react, the weight of the noise was crushing him. He screamed and from deep within a warmth began to spread outwards. In the space between life and death he saw countless civilizations rise and fall. He also got to see Jim the Orc get crushed again, but when he tried to laugh, the hum drowned out all noise. He punched and kicked at the hum. In turn, it left deep gashes across his torso and back.

When reality came back to Tork, he was deep within a dank cave. Torches lit the smooth walls which totally did not look like the interior of a colon. In one hand, he held Jessica’s Revenge. The other was wrapped around the neck of a giant wolf. In his rage, he could only think of one thing to say.

“Why did you knock over Jessica?” He growled.

The wolf growled in response.

“Oh right, wolves don’t talk. I’ll make this quick.” As he brought the club overhead he heard a shrill voice from behind.

“Stop right there, Tork!”

Tork spun around, but could not find the source of the voice. A voice he knew all too well.

“M-Mother?” He sputtered.

“Down here, you idiot,” said his mother.

Tork looked down, and saw that around his waist was the severed head of his mother. He dropped the wolf and pulled the head up to his eye level.

“How are you alive?” He asked.

“That Shaman. You had to go see him. I swear, you try to raise a kid right and-”

“Mom!”

“What? He revived me. Said you asked for it before you ran off here on all fours like you’re grown.”

Tork looked around the cave and at himself. The floors and walls were covered in matted fur. He had a trail of blood behind him, and was covered in fur and blood himself. The wolf he held before had escaped though.

“Why did you stop me?”

“Because you’ve done enough. You did a good job, son. You’ve avenged me.” As she finished, Tork could not believe his eyes. She was crying.

“Uhh yes. For you. Totally not for my beloved runecycle Jessica.”

“You’ve made me so proud, son. Let’s go home. I bet the stew is even better now.”

Tork considered her words for a moment. He looked to the dark path of the cave and considered a life of revenge. A life devoid of warmth and comfort. Always traveling, always hungry, and always looking for a new place to sleep. He would be a mercenary, gain some scars, and become a terror. The lands would quiver at the mere sight of his shadow.

Honestly, it sounded pretty awesome. Tork turned his mother’s face away and set it on the cave floor. Taking Jessica’s Revenge in both hands, he ran towards the darkness.

“Wait! Where are you going? Tork! Get back here right now!”

But he never came back. Some travelers claim they can still hear the shrill wails coming from the wolf caves, but no one has dared ventured within.

THE END