9

The tribe is your oyster, a smelly slimy mess. Where will you spend your time during the coming season?

With your wooden axe in hand, you approach the barracks. It is intimidating, seeing all the warrior orcs grunting and cursing. Brawls break out continuously over the most trifling of issues, like 'looking at someone,' or 'eating too noisily,' or 'sitting in an annoying way.' Teeth and puddles of green blood gather in corners. The barracks stink of leather, sweat and tension. All of your crop of pups shuffle nervously.

A wiry orc approaches, gurning ferociously and enjoying your unease. "Well, pups, I'm Grancor, a raid boss, and it's my job to train you into a future raiding party. You'll refer to me as 'Boss,' and, in time, you'll grow big and nasty. Now, first things first, I wanna see how you gits fight. You two!" He points to you and the orc by your side. "Get over here and show us what you got."

You're facing a skinny pup called Nookie. The poor git chews his lips in apprehension. "Smash 'em up," yells one of his mates. The surrounding pups roar your name. You are the audience's clear favourite.

"FIGHT!", bellows Grancor, clapping his meaty hands together in what sounds like a gunshot. Nookie rushes at you, hands flailing in front of him like little birds.

You time it perfectly, your fist crunching into Nookie's temple. He goes down in a heap. Raising your arms in triumph, you roar!

"Yeah, good enough. Now shut it, we have work to do," grunts Grancor.

Over the proceeding months, Boss Grancor often sets you to polishing and preparing the weapons and armour of grown warriors. However, you spend most of the time marching, endlessly marching. At a fast pace too, around and around the tribe lands, up hills and through ditches.