Ashfang Hollow was secure—for now. But Gorak knew well: a lone stronghold meant nothing in the wilds without muscle to hold the borders and eyes beyond the trees. If his kingdom was to rise, it needed subordinates—tribes to rule, warriors to command.
And he had one target in mind.
The Beastborn Outpost—a barbarian camp nestled in the Veiled Ravines to the east. Rumors spoke of warriors who walked like men but bore the blood of beasts—hybrid spawn of old druidic magic and wild creatures. Feral in battle. Fiercely territorial. Perfect for what Gorak had in mind.
He would not merely ally with them.
He would subjugate or consume them.
Two days east of Ashfang Hollow…
The trees twisted here. No longer sparse and ash-covered, but thick and gnarled, choked by moss and veined with red sap. The canopy darkened the path, and strange calls echoed from unseen heights. Gorak walked ahead, obsidian axe on his back, every footstep deliberate. Drask followed behind, staff gripped tight, his gaze wary.
"You're sure they'll listen to reason?" Drask muttered.
"No," Gorak replied. "But they'll listen to power."
As they descended into the ravine, the air grew heavy with the scent of blood and old magic. The howling wind turned into whispers—voices that weren't voices, warnings that weren't words.
Suddenly, Gorak halted. His hand shot up.
A shadow darted between trees.
Then another.
Low growls echoed through the underbrush.
"We're being watched," Drask hissed, raising his staff.
"I know," Gorak said calmly. "Let them come."
They came.
Four shapes lunged from the foliage—bare-chested warriors with fur-covered limbs and clawed fingers. Their eyes were wolf-like, their jaws broad and bristling with tusk-like fangs. One carried a crude spear. Another had a jawbone club. The largest among them—a tiger-striped brute nearly seven feet tall—wore a necklace of ears.
"Outsiders," the brute snarled. "Trespassing on Beastborn soil. Speak fast before your tongues feed the ravens."
Gorak stepped forward, fearless.
"I am Gorak of the Hollow, founder of the Ashfang Clan. I come with an offer. Join us—and become more than roving scavengers."
The brute laughed. "You speak like a king, but smell like prey."
Behind him, another warrior growled, "Orc meat tastes gamey, but it feeds."
Gorak tilted his head slightly.
Then moved.
Fast.
His obsidian axe hissed through the air and cleaved the jawbone club in two—then he reversed the swing and cracked the ground between them with explosive force.
"You speak of taste," Gorak said coldly, "yet bare your throats before the first blow."
His aura surged—dark, focused, and primal. The warriors stepped back instinctively. Even the brute's grin faltered.
Drask smirked. "Still think he smells like prey?"
Moments later…
They were blindfolded—by request—and led deeper into the ravine.
Through hanging vines and bone totems, past pits lined with wooden spikes and cages holding mutated beasts, the heart of the Beastborn Outpost revealed itself.
It wasn't a village. It was a wound in the earth. Dozens of tents and wooden huts surrounded a central bonfire the size of a house, flames tinged with green. Feral warriors—men, women, and children alike—watched from behind painted masks. Many bore animal traits: tails, furred arms, feline eyes, elongated fangs.
At the summit of the outpost sat a throne of tusks and skulls.
Upon it lounged Chief Raga Thorneye, a lion-headed man with golden fur and glowing amber eyes. His left eye was milky white—blinded, as the name suggested—but his right eye burned with strength.
He did not rise when they approached.
"You carry fire in your voice, orc. But fire is easy. The question is: do you carry weight in your step?"
Gorak met his gaze. "Try me."
Raga chuckled. "Then a duel. My champion versus you. Win, and we talk. Lose, and your skull joins the throne."
Drask leaned in. "You're not seriously going to—"
"I accept," Gorak said.
The Arena of Bones
The dueling ground was little more than a ring of spears and cheering barbarians.
Gorak stood alone, axe in hand. Across from him, Raga's champion—a woman.
Tall. Fanged. Her skin was marbled with black and gray fur, and her hands ended in claws like panther talons. She wore no armor, only warpaint and wrappings. A whip coiled at her hip and a jagged bone knife gleamed in her hand.
"She's quick," Drask muttered from outside the ring. "Watch her feet."
Gorak didn't need the warning.
The moment the horn blew, she moved—vanishing from view with terrifying speed. A blur. A whisper.
But Gorak didn't turn. He listened.
And when the whip cracked from behind—
He turned and caught it mid-strike, wrapping it around his forearm and yanking her forward with a roar. She twisted in mid-air, slashing with her blade—
Only to meet the shaft of Gorak's axe, blocking the blow.
They separated. Circled.
Again, she came—this time a flurry of feints and wild strikes. Gorak gave ground, letting her expend energy, baiting her into overextending.
Then he struck.
A shoulder feint, then a low sweep, knocking her off balance. As she stumbled, Gorak shouldered into her, lifting and slamming her to the earth.
His axe rose.
Paused.
Rested against her neck—not cutting, but reminding.
"I could kill you," he said quietly.
She panted, eyes wide—but nodded.
"I believe you."
Silence fell.
Raga rose from his throne.
"Well then. Seems the fire does carry weight after all."
[System Alert: Beastborn Trial Complete – Victory]
Beastborn Reputation: +30 (Neutral → Respected)Champion Harka respects your strengthOutpost Integration Available: Vassalization OR Alliance Pact
That night, the outpost feasted. Meat roasted on open flame, songs roared into the sky. The Beastborn were many things—savage, wild, proud—but they respected strength.
In a private hut, Gorak sat with Raga, Drask nearby, and a crude map spread before them.
"You want vassals," Raga said. "Loyal clans who bleed when you command it."
"I offer protection, war spoils, land to claim, and enemies to crush," Gorak said. "Your warriors will fight beside mine. You answer to me—but I reward loyalty. Generously."
Raga leaned back, one hand on the hilt of a curved blade. "And if I say no?"
Gorak met his gaze, unwavering. "Then next time, I don't stop the axe."
A long pause.
Then Raga laughed—deep and loud.
"I like you, orc. You've got teeth."
He extended a clawed hand.
"We ride under your banner. But know this—if you ever grow weak, the Beastborn eat their wounded."
Gorak clasped his wrist. "Then let's never go hungry."
[System Alert: Outpost Subjugated – Beastborn Ravine]
+ 87 Warriors (Beastblood Infantry)+ New Resource Access: Bone Totems, Druidic Remnants+ New Ally: Champion Harka (Potential Companion)+ Subjugated Vassal: Raga Thorneye (Outpost Commander)
At dawn…
The Beastborn outpost raised new banners—black with a red fang sigil: the mark of Ashfang.
Gorak stood on the high ridge, watching his first army form ranks. The first piece of his war machine had fallen into place.
More would come.
And soon, the world would no longer ignore the name Gorak.
They would kneel.
To be continued...