The western forest billowed with a dirty heat.
A black smoke filled the skies from the charcoal pits blazing around the orc encampment. A camp defended by sharp stakes, roughly crafted, forming a protective ring. Skewered boars sizzled with a meaty aroma over the shallow fire pits.
Orcs grunted and salivated for their meal, guttural chants echoing through the destroyed forest land. Their weapons shimmered with a dull iron gleam, chipped and of poor quality but marred with blood and wear.
But none dared speak too loudly.
Not when Krogar Skullbrand sat among them.
The war-chief towered even among orcs, his green skin dark and thick with calloused scars. Black tattoos ran from his throat down his shoulders, twisting symbols of conquest, devotion, and rage. His left tusk was cracked at the root, split years ago in a duel against his sire. He'd won. And now he ruled this scattered clan of outcasts.
