Chapter 7: So it's you,...

In some remote corner of a forest, three imposing orcs on the backs of majestic Warg wolves observe the scene before them. The dimness of the forest, with its towering trees, imparts a dark and humid atmosphere to the place. The colossal treetops blanket the sky, allowing only faint rays of sunlight to filter through.

Although the scene might suggest a peaceful natural refuge, what unfolds before a small mound of earth is far from serenity. There, beneath the shade of ancient trees, an act takes shape that decidedly avoids the label of war. It is, rather, a ruthless hunt. Bloodied orcs, consumed by unbridled fury, pursue and annihilate elves who, at first glance, appear far from being warriors. A diverse group, clad in linen garments, predominantly comprised of women, elders, and children, falls brutally to violence, as if they were weeds being ruthlessly uprooted.

The three orcs mounted on the Wargs observe the macabre scene with evident displeasure. While the one on the right intones prayers in an ancient and gruff language, the one on the left curses, and the one in the middle, with icy eyes, assesses the situation.

These three orcs stand out conspicuously from the rest. Not only due to their imposing stature, reaching three meters, but also because of their gray, rock-textured skin, akin to Greek sculptures coming to life. Furthermore, their faces, while not attaining the refined elegance of the elves, surpass by far the roughness of the average orc.

The orc on the left reached his limit and shouted to the one in the center, "Draknar, this is not a war; it's a massacre! We must do something!" The orc on the right stopped praying in fear, "Chieftain, this will curse us all. We will anger the spirits of War and Earth." The orc in the middle grew angry and yelled at them, "Shut your damn mouths, both of you! Do you think I don't know? This is the only way our clan can survive."

The discussion was interrupted when an elf, disheveled and marked by scratches and dirt, stumbled in front of them about 10 paces away. Four orcs were chasing her closely. As she screamed and kicked, the orcs, as if possessed, began to beat and tear at her clothes. The elf, facing her tragic fate, began to plead as she was held, and one of the orcs gestured to lower her studded skirt.

This image struck the three gray-skinned orcs, especially Draknar, who, by closing his eyes for a moment, saw his wife instead of the elf, surrounded and about to be violated. She looked at him with pleading and teary eyes. This triggered something within him. With a leap from his Warg, he landed next to the group of orcs, shaking the ground.

Enraged, he grabbed the orc who was trying to lower the skirt by the skull, and with his right hand, he squeezed his head with such force that the skull deformed with a series of crunches. The orc fell lifeless, still holding his skirt with the deformed and bloodied head, leaving the other three orcs bewildered by the unexpected counterattack.

Draknar didn't give them time, and in a succession of movements, he drew his black stone sword and swiftly cut the neck of the nearest orc. The orc with his neck severed covered the wound before falling face down, creating a puddle of his own blood. With two of their own dead, the remaining two orcs reacted and lunged at Draknar. Yet, in an instant, both fell lifeless to the ground with arrows piercing their skulls.

Draknar looked to the source of the arrows and saw his two comrades with bows in hand. He averted his gaze and looked at the elf, who, catatonic, had formed a golden puddle around her. "You long-eared, anyone who cannot wield a weapon should not die in a war. It's better for you to flee while you can."

Upon those words, the elf awakened and ran clumsily, stumbling and getting back up. Draknar averted his gaze from the fleeing elf and approached his companions. Just as he was about to speak with them, he heard the sound of a battle horn. He looked at his companions, and they nodded silently. They took a breath and began to shout to the scattered orcs, "Gather! We have a summons from the Martial Envoys."

With that command, the orcs reluctantly abandoned the brutal hunt of elves and began to form ranks, following the three gray-skinned orcs through the forest. Draknar looked to his left, at the gray and slim orc with a cape and two swords, and then to his right, at the gray orc with a large belly and a bushy beard carrying a massive shield. "Azrak, Gulmok, gather them and head toward the horn. I'll go ahead to find out what those damn bastards want."

Without giving them time to respond, the imposing orc disappeared into the forest, riding the swift and agile Warg.

Draknar raced through the forest at high speeds, the Warg navigating through rocks and logs like a fish in water, dodging underbrush and vines.

In his mind, he continued to replay the image of the elf hunt, making him feel as if he had eaten a piece of excrement. "These bastards,I should have known after hearing those priests' dirty and deceitful plan. This victory is the worst defeat I, Draknar, have ever experienced."

His thoughts were interrupted when he reached a clearing in the forest where he had set up a camp with dozens of large tents made of hides. The camp was empty except for one tent. The largest and most ostentatious of all, adorned with ornaments and jewelry, looked like a ruby in a cave.

Draknar stood in front of the entrance of the tent and reluctantly knelt down, shouting his presence. "Draknar Stoneheart, Leader of the support group, presents himself before the Martial Envoys."

After indicating his arrival, Draknar waited in silence for a long time, to the point of infuriating him more than the situation already did. Just as he was about to create a scene and throw everything to the wind, he heard a mystical and resonant voice. "Enter."