Grak grumbled to himself, displeased with his drawing of the short cactus needle for the third time in a row. Stuck with sentry duty after another glorious day of raiding was not something any orc wished for himself, especially with the feasting going on in the distant firelight behind him. Nonetheless he took his work seriously. Camped a hundred yards out amongst the small ravines the scarred this land, he could still easily hear the distinct shouts of fights over the guttural cries of ecstasy. Hearing the victory roars after each vicious duel stirred his heart. Many would fall tonight and the Clan would be strengthened, the weak tossed aside like so much chaff in the wind.
It’s a good thing we reproduce quickly smirked Grak, otherwise there’d be no one left to test ourselves against. The weak are like a whetstone, to be used to sharpen the blade, cast aside when faded.
Grak stirred himself back to the present. Lost in thought as he rubbed his axes hilt, feeling every distinct notch. Marking his victories. He’d made them narrow and deep, already looking forward to the many that will come to one of his birthright. It didn’t matter that his few victories had come late into the feasting when grog and smoke had intoxicated his opponents. The weak. The whetstone. Grak was going to change things when he was Clan Leader!
A victorious roar filled the air and Grak jumped to his feet to join in, the bloodlust now upon him. He two would share this moment. But not with the triumphant as he expected because every battle needed to have a loser.
The heavy dagger met the back of his neck, severing his spine as he jumped to his feet. His battle cry already bleeding out on his lips, a dark red.
The figured loomed down at the corpse before his feet. Taking a moment to assess whether the orc at his feet had heard him, but already war cries were going off around him alerting the dark figure to the sentries positions.
Taking the tattered cloak from the orc, he rolled the body into the nearest ravine and say down to wait, idly fingering the great axes hilt.
‘Why are orcs so obsessed with axes’ muttered Asbjorn, ‘a good knife is all you’ll ever need’.