Orcs
A growl, raw and primal, echoed through the orc village. Grog, the larger of the twin orc warlords, slammed a meaty fist onto the rickety wooden table, scattering a pile of gnawed bones. "Again?" he bellowed, his voice a gravelly rasp.
Across from him, his brother, Drok, mirrored the action, scattering his own collection of chewed-on trinkets. Their frustration was palpable. For the past few nights, an unseen tormentor had been plaguing their village. It began subtly – misplaced tools, overturned cooking pots, seemingly random fires. But the annoyance had escalated. Last night, a strategically placed rockfall had nearly crushed their prized hunting boar, leaving them with a meager breakfast of stale bread and dubious stew.