Avatar: Amthos Hordemaker

Prologue

*******

Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #1

The orcs of Tirinead generally stand between 9 to 11 feet and can weigh anywhere from 600 to 900 lbs post-Trinity War. Before that in the Age of the Three between the end of the War of Apotheosis and the start of the Trinity War, orcs generally stood between 7 to 8 feet tall at their tallest. They are generally muscular in stature with skin that is as tough as hardened leather. All have pronounced lower jaws and large tusks. Though they may appear brutish and savage, the orcs are in truth a very intelligence race capable of feats of engineering, architecture, science and magic that remains true to their once nomadic and tribal nature.

After the Mass Sterilisation Spell executed by the Dark Triad after the War of Apotheosis, orcs are only male and their primary method of reproduction is the volunteers and converts of their patron god, Garodrash, from the human, dwarf and elven populace.

*******

The tavern is warm and welcoming. A fire crackles by the hearth and the many patrons are chatting amongst themselves. The majority of them are the thick-hided orcs of Amthosruud but there are also humans, dwarves, a few elves and members of other races milling about.

The bartender, a hefty orc with a bald head and yellowish-green skin gives you a toothy grin and beckons you over.

“Welcome stranger,” he greets. “Come. Have a drink.” He slides a tankard of mead over to you. “You’re just in time. Our resident storyteller is about to recite the age old tale of the founding of Amthosruud!” He reaches over the bar and pushes out a barstool for you to take up. “Sit. Listen.”

By the hearth, a strong, proud Orc steps forward. He holds a staff but didn’t use it for walking. His skin is a strange greenish-blue colour and decorated by tattoos or various animals alongside with arcane runes. Though he possesses thick, grey hairs he nonetheless has the strength and bearing of any of the younger orcs around him.

Whispers of ‘Neruv the Chronicler’ cuts through the other patrons and all fell silent.

“Our great nation of Amthosruud was born from tragedy and bloodshed,” says the orc in a loud, booming voice. All fall silent as he begins to weave his tale. “But to understand its birth, we must first go to when orcs were nearly driven to extinction.” He waves his hands through the air and the smoke from the hearth seeped out and hissed around him, forming images.

“It was the dawn of the 10th Age. King Malstraad the 37th, King of the human kingdom of Vastiraad, forges as monumental alliance with Emperor Vron-Kordain of the dwarven empire of Pal-Tormand and Illirodur of the Elven Nation of Newfern. This is the first time man, dwarf and elf have come together as one since the 6th Age, the Age of the Dark Lord. Due to this momentous occasion the mystics declared a new Age in commemoration of the event. Seers and prophets called it the Age of the Alliance due to this event. The three kings were called the Triumvirate and they ruled their Alliance from the city of Trispire.

“Not all were not happy with this union however, and for years splinter factions of human and elven nations became hostile to the Triumvirate. Still, one by one the Alliance crushed all opposition without ever striking the first blow. They were content to maintain their borders and their peace but struck brutally against those that would harm their land, people or name.”

The smoke takes the shape of three immense towers, made completely by man. A comet soars high above the three.

“Then, on the 7th year of the 10th Age, the Tail of the Gods, a golden comet, soared across our world of Tirinead. It settled over Trispire and descended violently. As the stories go it landed within the courtyard of the great Alliance capital where it imbued the three kings with divine power and made them immune to the ravages of time. The three kings were blessed by the Gods themselves and they took on the name Holy Alliance and they crowned themselves the Holy Triumvirate.”

The orc waves his hands through the air and the smoke shifts to the image of men fighting against men, a war. “This did not sit well with countless nations, particularly the elves. The War of the Bloody Leaves ensued with one of the last bastions of elves who had not claimed fealty to the Alliance rejected their divinity and came to destroy those who they thought stood as an affront to their gods. In the end however the Holy Alliance triumphed. The remaining elven nations swore fealty to the Alliance with human and dwarven nations quickly following suit. A new age of prosperity grew from this union. But as with all forms of power, they must expand.”

The smoke changes once more and settled to appear like a battalion of men in gleaming armour approaching an village inhabited by orcs that was littered with mining equipment.

“In the 29th Year of the Age of the Alliance, the Holy Alliance’s expansion encroached upon orc territory. They were particularly interested in the mines of Dorth-Moran which were mineral rich. But the orcs were unwilling to surrender one of their richer mines. So the Alliance struck.”

The smoke soldiers suddenly strike their spears into the miners. The echoes of screams can be heard in the distance. A few of the patrons even turn, looking for the source of the cries.

“This angered the once splintered orcish tribes. They quickly convened and after a bloody contest, named Urdresh Talonback as the warchief and undisputed leader of the newly formed orcish horde. United, the sheer numbers and strength of the tribes took back Dorth-Moran and invaded Alliance lands.”

The sound of weapons clashing emanates from the smoke, rattling off the stone walls of the tavern and ringing through your ears. Trumpeting roars and the cries of war trumpets bellow as the smoky figures take on various shapes of orcs slaughtering men and of men slaying orcs.

“The Alliance suddenly found themselves with a very worthy opponent but also showed a brief moment of weakness that the other races decided to capitalize on. The industrious and scattered Goblins fettered out their own small nation within Alliance borders by taking over a town and selling their services to Alliance troops. Cogswood became known as a neutral city and a sanctuary for Goblins. Trolls from the Hinderview Mountains descended in raiding bands and attacked Alliance merchants and towns in an attempt to expand their own borders. With the other races rising up and hearing of the potential for conquest, the rhino-men of the Neverborn Dessert raided Alliance lands in hopes for better living outside of their sun-scorched lands. The horse-men of the Hardhoof Wilds attacked from the south of Alliance lands, trying to push north for more fertile land. The bear-men of the swamps, often dismissed as myth, rose up and attempted to gain more land in their hopes for new land.”

One by one the smoke changed into the emblems of the various nations and factions named. A snarling orc skull gives way to six interlocking cogs and then again into crossed spears over a bloodied three-fingered hand. It continues to change, becoming a single horn against a blazing sun and then again to a bear paw with a tree silhouette pressed against its palm.

“But other species were more than willing to join the Alliance, seeing an opportunity to win them over. The lion-men of Pridemont joined with the Alliance, bringing with them the tamed griffins that would become the Alliance’s steady mounts. The tiger-men of Skywatch Citadel, seeing Pridemont join the Alliance, lent their aid in the form of their powerful celestial magic to the Holy Alliance. The sheer brutality and strength of the Minotaurs from their underground world of Hornhaven helped stem the tide of the orcish advance.”

The emblem of three interlocking triangle rises above the smoke. Below them is the herald of a winged lion. Beside that the image of a crescent moon and three stars. This is followed by the silhouette of a bull’s skull with a cross across its forehead.

“Other races still remained impassive. The wolf-men of the Packborne Woods remained hidden in their forests, unwilling to get involved in a conflict that would see their numbers diminished. The dragons of Worldeye Mount refused go get involved and guard their borders jealously. The rabbit-men of the Insetand Wastes swiftly retreated to their borders and the sea-faring ‘pirate nation’ of the Ten Captains wisely avoided the conflict knowing that they could easily be the next target of the winner’s ire.”

Again, the smoke shifts. Now, it appears as a single full moon with a wolf’s paw pressed over it. This quickly vanishes into the greater swirls of writhing smoke to become the emblem of the dragons, just one of their own with wings spread wide and fire spewing from its great paws. Again the emblem vanished into the mass to show image of a three rabbits, one crouched and facing right, the other facing left and the last standing upright and looking straight up. This herald vanishes to be replaced by ten outward facing swords. The heraldry only stays for a brief moments before it too vanished into the smoke.

“The Alliance knew it could not oppose so many factions and even if they had the Holy Triumvirate. They may have had powers divine, but these were only three men. They could not be everywhere at once. But the gods still had faith in their divine confederacy and opted to give the alliance one more boon. On what is now as ’The Night of Divine Spark’ all across the alliance lands virgin women became pregnant. To those who knew the touch of the man became ripe with twins or even triplets in some cases. Alliance lands prospered even if all the men were out fighting the war. Cattle grew ripe with meat and milk. Pigs became fat, ready for the slaughter, multiplying wildly despite all logic. Within a few months, there were children that could fill the ranks of the dead once they reached maturity. Some of these were blessed with divine powers just a step below the Holy Triumvirate. The message was clear. The Alliance merely had to hold fast until the blessed generation was old enough to take to the front lines. So instead of fighting, the Alliance merely dug its heels in and settled to endure the storm.”

The old orc sighs heavily. “Sadly, our brothers and warchief saw this as a sign of weakness and their impending victory. They continued their assault, wasting manpower and resources trying to tear down Alliance walls. The war continued on for twenty-four bloody years. Until at long last, the Alliance’s secret weapons were unleashed.”

The smoke takes on the shape of divine blessed soldiers, halos of light springing from their heads against the hordes of non-Alliance troops.

“Their armies spilled forth, crushing all that would stand against them. One by one, each of the other races were crushed until only the orc horde remained. Then Urdresh was assassinated and our brothers broke down in a desperate attempt to elect another warchief. The Alliance pressed their advantage, pushing the orcs back to the old contested lands. Though a new warchief was elected, he was young and brash. He evacuated all the women and children of the tribes to Paristead. The Alliance knew of this and sent a small band to effectively cut off the hordes very balls. It was on that day the last orc woman perished and any hopes of the tribes rebuilding died. The horde broke and we were pushed off to outer rims of the continent, forced to live in the frozen wastes near the Fangs of the World for years.

“The Holy Triumvirate drew inspiration from this act of genocide. They plotted to cast an insidious spell that would effectively neuter every race apart from man, elf or dwarf. Only males of every other race would remain. They knew the Gods would not stand for this so they sapped the divinity from the heroes who had been blessed by the divine and achieved apotheosis.”

Again, the smoke shifts to reflect the cursed image of the Triad; the three interlocked triangles.

“King Malstraad the 37th , King of the human kingdom of Vastiraad becomes Malstraad the Aggressor, God of War. Emperor Pal-Kordain of the dwarven empire of Vron-Tormand rises to become Kordain the Steadfast, the Guardian God. Illirodur of the Elven Nation of Newfern evolved to become Illirodur the Intelligent, the God of Shadows and Subterfuge.

“Together, the newly formed Holy Triad evicted the Gods from the heavens and ruled with an iron fist. A new Age was declared, the Age of the Divine Trinity. Decades passed.”

The orc then smiles at the crowd.

“But the Gods are not so easy to be rid of. And they still had a trick up their sleeves.”

The smoke reshapes itself, taking on the form of a mighty orc wielding an incredibly mace and bearing a cloak.

“They searched and finally found their Avatars.”

Chapter 1: Resurgence and Hope

*******

Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #2

Some of the best dentists in Tirinead are of orcish descent.

Someone has to take care of those big tusks, after all.

*******

Fallowday.

It was the one day of the year that celebrated the first day when winter truly ended and spring begun. Raonoak was already alive and filled with the celebratory spirit. The harsh winter was finally over and the snows were melting to reveal plains long buried by frost. It was finally at this time of the year that the bitterly cold winds from the northern mountain range known as the Fangs of the World had finally turned away. The people in the farmlands were getting ready to sow their seeds in their lands. Those in the city were already putting up traditional decorations of bluebells and magnolias. Nobles were sporting orchids that they had groomed and somehow managed to maintain throughout the winter with tender love and magic.

Thomas Reinhardt strolled through the streets of Raonoak dressed in his finest tunic bearing the golden perched atop an oak tree on his breast and back, the emblem of Raonoak. As a squire of the court, he was considered a minor noble by some especially as he was squire to none other than Lord-Knight Eranius von Karksteid, the ruler of Raonoak by decree of the Holy Triad.

“Fair morning, squire!” greeted one of the townspeople. She was dusting a rug on the porch of her quaint stone and wood townhouse.

“Good morning, milady,” he answered, bowing to her.

He was in no rush this day. After having just left his father’s estate on the eastern side of town, he was not expected at court until the Lord-Knight woke and descended for his morning meal. Then it would be the typical day for him. He would attend to his lord’s needs, practice his swordsmanship in the yard with the other nobles, be lectured on magic and history by the War Wizard, Quorron, and have his meals beside his lord.

Yes, life was good for Thomas.

He took a deep breath, smelling the crisp, clean air of spring. It filled him with energy and he bounded happily up the sloping paths of Raonoak towards the castle itself. Originally, the castle has been built as a bastion against the savage orc invaders during the War of Apotheosis but as the Holy Alliance’s borders grew, it became more a centre of commerce and the capital of the northern state of Raonoak. All the trade routes and roads built during the War had helped forge the castle as its current position of power and over the years since the war’s end, the town of Raonoak had been built around the castle. Eventually, the shining bastion of the Alliance’s strength had spread to consume the entire mountainside. Where once a single castle stood lonely atop a precarious ledge overlooking the rest of mountain, now a bustling town had been built down the gently sloping sides.

It was a short trek from the noble quarter to Castle Raonoak. The guards at the enormous gates did not stop him as passed the first gatehouse to the Castle itself. Known affectionately as the Bridge of Trials, the long strip of land connecting the mountain to the Castle acted as much as the drawbridge to the castle. Stone bridges with built in mechanical marvels replaced mountain stone. At a moment’s notice, the bridges could be retracted into the mountain itself isolating the Castle and allowing defenders perched in the ramparts to pepper any would be invaders. Thomas always liked to run across the bridge as fast as he could, pretending that he was trying to outrun the bridge’s rapidly retracting frame.

With a smile, the dark-haired young man recalled the tales of when the brutal orc horde tried to take Raonoak during the War. But it was the great and noble Lord-Knight Eranius and the hero Orradin Greenslayer that had driven them back and held out doggedly despite overwhelming numbers. He remembered tales of how Orradin was born from a virgin mother and was raised and trained within the castle in preparation for his role in beating back the orcs. He had killed his first Greenskin at the tender age of ten.

Thomas pulled himself from his revere and hurried through the Castle’s vast hallways. Portraits of Lord Eranius and Orradin hung on the walls alongside other heroes. Vast golden tapestries depicting the great battles of the past hung on the walls. Noble knights and soldiers of the Holy Alliance marched through the hallways, greeting him.

He approached Lord Eranius’ tower and knocked on the vast wooden doors.

“Milord,” he greeted. “Are you awake?”

He pushed open the door and was surprised to see the strong, proud Eranius already awake and dressed but in the company of Qurron, the Lord-Knight’s good friend and loyal War Wizard. Eranius was a proud warrior and wielder of both sword and spell. Though the years of war had ravaged his features, leaving him almost completely grey-haired save for a long, black strip down the middle of his head. A strong square jaw with craggy features made him look like he was permanently frowning. There had been times that Thomas had seen Eranius’ smile but that had revealed the missing tooth the in the lord’s smile, replaced by a golden one. A man of powerful bearing and stature, Eranius commanded loyalty with a simple stare of his piercing, green eyes.

In contrast, Qurron was a lanky, man who was actually the same age as Eranius. Apparently they had been childhood friends but if they were the same age, Qurron had aged poorly. His hair was long and wispy and in the right light, it was possibly to see the shape of his skull against the halo of white hair. His features were wrinkled and he walked with a slouch. The long, golden staff he possessed was used more for walking that as an instrument to focus his powerful magical powers.

“I apologise, milord,” Thomas said, bowing respectfully. “I did not mean to intrude.”

Eranius waved him over. “No need to apologise, Thomas. You are doing your duty. Come.” As Thomas approached, the Lord wrapped a hand around his shoulder. “My good friend here says that ill winds and dark omens approach. Something comes.”

Qurron frowned and glanced out of the balcony window into Eranius’ vast quarters. “I know you put little faith in my skills in divination, Eranius. It has never been my strong suit. However, I felt… something last night that woke me.”

“He had a vision,” Eranius told Thomas. “Tell him of your vision, Qurron. Tell me of this faceless woman and the mechanical horse.”

The Wizard was clearly not amused at the Lord-Knight’s use of the young squire to mock him but he nevertheless explained his vision. “I saw the great emblem of our Holy Triad darkened and made black, devoid of all holy light save for a vague ring that encircled it. It seemed more a prison than a ray of home. Then, I saw vast swathes of land covered in blood and the bodies of the dead. A faceless woman with flesh as white as a ghost and in a billowing dress that seemed to fuse with her very skin glided across the battlefield. Where she passed, the dead stirred and rose, bloodied and undead. This army of the undead charged forward upon the great capital of Trispire from all angles. Leading them was this horse but it was mechanical and had wings of pure fire. As they descended upon the city, walls crumbled and the faithful cried for the Holy Triad. But as I looked up back to the heavens, I saw the jaws of an enormous wolf swallow the emblem of the Triad in his mighty jaws. I saw the beast’s eyes. They were dark blue, almost black but its pupils cut into his irises at eight points.”

Thomas was chilled by the vision. He used very little magic himself. Being the son of the chief engineer of the city meant that he relied more on mechanics and hard work that spells and sorcery. But even he could feel the chilling effect the vision spoke of.”

“You left out the best part, Qurron,” laughed Eranius. “It all began with…”

The War Wizard rolled his eyes. “It started with a starless night where the moon turned a blood red.”

“And we know that is a blood moon,” said the Lord-Knight tiredly. “The astronomers know it occurs when Tirinead’s shadow crosses over the moon. And yes, there is one due tonight. It is nothing to be worried about.” He patted Thomas’ shoulder with a laugh. “What is your take, young Reinhardt?”

Not wanting to offender either of these two, Thomas spoke diplomatically. “My brother is a Paladin of the Holy Alliance and he knows well to heed the visions and prophecies of those touched by the Gods.”

Qurron gave Eranius a smug look.

“However, history teaches us that what we often see and what the Gods say is seldom what they mean. The Gods speak and know beyond much beyond our understanding. They are unknowable, after all. So perhaps this vision may not mean the doom and destruction that you believe it, milord.”

Eranius returned Qurron’s stare with a pleased look of his own.

The War Wizard sighed softly. “You have trained him well, Eranius.” He nodded towards Thomas. “You will make a fine noble one day, young Reinhardt. Your father would be proud.”

Eranius laughed brightly and clapped his squire on the shoulder proudly. “Well now that that is settled, let us move onto the events of Fallowday! Come, Thomas! We must eat and then to the business of the day!”

Thomas smiled unware that destiny had already begun moving.

*******

As squire to the Lord-Knight, Thomas didn’t get to join in the merriment the rest of Raonoak was enjoying. Eranius was showered with gifts as he held court. Farmers graced him with whatever they had busied themselves with during the winter, lords and nobles gave him whatever treasures they had gathered during the past few months. Commoners would lay down traditional wreathes made of old, aged and dead wood, a traditional gift to those of House Karksteid. Apparently it represented the original ‘Oak Lord’, the first Karksteid to bend a knee to Malstraad during the Unification Wars.

The Karksteids weren’t rich in gold or coin but they had a lot of timber which they sold to others. Living a little further north in the town of Veradantis, the Karksteids forged a crown of oak to symbolise their authority over those that they ruled. However, when the orcs invaded during the War of Apotheosis, the Karksteids were pushed back to Raonoak which would eventually become their new capital once the war ended.

Giving wreathes of wood on Fallowday to the ruling Karksteid was tradition though richer nobles would boast forging the wreath from expensive wood or even weaving them out of gold to look like wood.

None of it mattered in the end.

Thomas attended to his lord, giving him wine and water when he requested it and taking the gifts away to be set aside for the traditional bonfire. When at last the sun had set and all business had been done, each of these gifts were stacked at the centre of the keep’s rear courtyard. It was unique in that the rear of the keep’s walls had a massive, opened protected by iron gates. This allowed all of those down in the town to see the interior of the Castle, particularly the massive pyre where all their gifts were stacked.

It was tradition of Fallowday that everyone burn something to symbolise that they had tossed aside the hardships of winter and were starting their ‘last fire of the winter’. In Raonoak, the tradition was that the townspeople would send all of their items to the castle where the lord would then burn it in a gargantuan fire that all could see from where the castle was perched. It was far safer than having tiny bonfires all over the city that could potentially go wild.

When the last of the gifts were set, Eranius took a torch while the pyre was doused in oil to help it ignite. He turned to all those gathered, nobles and honoured guests sitting out in the open on a wide arrangement of tables with food and wine served.

“Today we mark the end of winter,” Eranius bellowed. “Today, spring begins and new life blooms.”

He went through his traditional speech while Thomas remained quietly beside his lord’s seat, standing and waiting patiently for the ruler of Raonoak to finish. A soft nudge to his right brought his attention to the towering figure of the muscled young man in the blue, gold and red of a Holy Alliance Paladin.

“Luxaeus!” he greeted in a soft whisper so as not to interrupt the other lords.

Like him, Luxaeus had dark hair but where Thomas had allowed his to grow out a little, Luxaeus kept his short and close to his scalp as was tradition of those who entered the service of the Gods directly. His brother’s strong, square jaw was in contrast to Thomas’ pointed, angled one. Everyone always mentioned that Thomas got the handsome, charming looks while Luxaeus got all the strength and magic. Not that his older brother was ugly. Far from it. Service to the Holy Trinity had given him a glowing complexion and a radiance that truly shone when he smiled.

“I could not be away from a Fallowday, now could I?” said his brother, clapping his shoulder with a heavily armoured gauntlet. “I always make it back. It’s tradition.”

“That it is,” said Thomas, beaming. “Father would be pleased you’ve returned. Have you told him?”

“I honestly just arrived with our honoured guest.” He pointed to one of the tables far from the seat of Eranius.

Thomas’ eyes widened at the sight of the huge mountain of a man with thick, golden hair and an equally thick, blonde beard. The man dwarfed everyone else around him and was noisily eating while everyone else was trying to listen to Eranius’ speech.

“Is that…?”

“Orradin Greenslayer,” sighed Luxaeus with a frown. “Honestly, a boar of a man. Was rude the entire way we escorted him here.”

“Why were you escorting him? And why here of all placed?”

His brother’s features twisted in disgust. “Raonoak is the farthest place he can be sent for killing a whore ‘accidentally’ without it looking like he’s being banished.”

“I’m sure it was an accident…”

“So the court and the Inquisition says.” Luxaeus shook his head. “As a boy, I dreamed of fighting alongside Orradin and his ilk but from what I see, he is an ignoble, spoiled brat built with brute strength and little else. Given that he ages slower than most, I suspect he still has the mind of a child than a man of his age.”

Thomas gave his brother a light nudge. “Come now, brother. Don’t talk ill of the man who routed the black orcs at the Battle of the Thundercrest River. He is still a hero.”

“A hero with no wars to fight is just a man,” Luxaeus murmured softly.

Eranius finished his speech and with the fanfare of trumpets, he threw the torch into the pyre. Great flames burst out from the enormous piles of tributes and within moments, the bonfire was raging. A mechanism pushed the raging flames out through the open gates, allowing all of Raonoak to see the magnificent spectacle. From where he stood, Thomas could hear the shouts and revelry of the townspeople below.

Fallowday was in full swing.

Eranius returned to his table and began eating and conversing with the other nobles. Thomas stood a few steps behind. It wouldn’t be his turn to eat until much later. Luxaeus likely had to eat in the mess hall with the other soldiers.

Then a gasp cut through the air. All eyes turned to the starless night. The moon, big, bright and silver, suddenly had a big, red mark creeping across its surface. A blood moon, just as Qurron had predicted but Eranius had dismissed as a usual astronomical event. They all watched in awed silence as the world grew a little bit darker as Tirinead’s shadow crossed over their big, bright sister in the cosmos.

But that was when things turned sour.

“Gods above!” Qurron shouted.

Storm clouds seemed to spring out of nowhere and began to curl around the bloody moon. All watched in awe as the clouds themselves seemed to take on a peculiar shape. Thomas was the first to recognise what it was.

“A wolf! It’s a wolf!”

Under some dark magic, the clouds themselves began to take on the shape of a dark wolf whose jaws teetered around the edges of the moon. A dark wind abruptly blew; cold and powerful. It sapped the strength and warmth from Thomas’ bones. The great bonfire roared in defiance but the gale only whipped out louder, rising into a crescendo like a wolf’s howl. The flames were drowned out by the raging tempest. They were snuffed out within moments and not even embers remained, plunging them into complete darkness.

The wolf’s jaws suddenly closed around the bloody moon.

No one spoke.

Every just felt the dark chill that had gone through them all.

Then, the clouds began to part but in a very peculiar fashion. As they did so, the moon was revealed but instead of the bloody red as one would expect, it was a deep, dark blue, almost fading into the night sky. A set of clouds remained, obscuring the cursed surface.

“No…” Qurron gasped, leaping out of his chair. “It… it can’t be.”

Thomas swallowed hard.

An eight pointed star made completely out of clouds hovered over the moon.

He remembered that Qurron’s vision stated that the wolf’s eyes had been dark blue and its pupils cut into the irises at eight points.

Was this the wolf that swallowed the moon watching them?

What did it mean?

He could hear panic on the streets. Luxaeus quickly grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back into the castle while Eranius got up and began to apologise to his guests.

Something big was happening and Thomas was not sure it was a good thing.

*******

Eranius called a meeting of his closest advisors. Thomas was naturally allowed inside given he was the Lord-Knight’s squire but Luxaeus was sadly exempted from the meeting. Orridan was there as well. All of them were seated around a large, round table save for the squires and servants who remained hovering over their lords’ shoulders.

“What does this mean, Qurron?” Eranius asked.

“If we were to take my vision literally?” asked the War Wizard. “An army of the dead is rising somewhere. They will be led by a great mechanical horse and they will march on Trispire.” Qurron shook his head furiously. “But this does not make sense. In my vision, the faceless woman raised the dead first and then attacked Trispire. The wolf swallowed the emblem of the Gods after that all…”

“Send missives. Contact the other wizards through the mana-network,” Eranius ordered. “See if Trispire is safe.”

A loud, derisive snort came from the largest man around the table. All eyes went to Orridan.

“Something you want to say, Greenslayer?” Eranius demanded with barely contained venom.

The massive, blonde warrior opened his deep, dark eyes towards them. “You are all fools for falling for such paltry trickery.”

“Trickery?” Qurron spat. “This was a message from the Gods themselves!”

“It was a paltry trick used by the orcs to strike fear in your hearts.”

Eranius rolled his eyes and waved away Orridan’s words. “Orcs. You suspect orcs did this. Those foul creatures are many miles to the north and barely have enough numbers let along magical talent to enact such a horrendous act.”

“You fought them alongside me, Eranius,” sneered the hero. “You know full well what they care capable of. This is within their capabilities.”

“Don’t be stupid, Orridan. Everything is always orcs to you. They are dead or frozen. They will never recover after Paristead.”

Paristead. During the War of Apotheosis, the orcs had foolishly sent all of their women to the town of Paristead. Alliance troops led by Orridan himself had snuck behind enemy lines and slaughtered everyone in the town. The orcs were effectively castrated. They had no way of repopulating their race and with so many losses on the front, they would never be able to recover. Their horde broke and within months, they had been pushed all the way into the frigid Fangs of the World, away from Alliance lands.

“The only good orc is a dead orc,” snarled Orridan. “And if you are so foolish as to believe that just because the orcs can pop out greenskin babies that they’re dead, then you are not fit to rule.”

Thomas was instantly on guard and slowly reached for the dagger he had hanging by his waist.

Eranius got out of his seat, keeping his head high and eyes levelled dangerously at Orridan. “Watch your words carefully, Greenslayer. What is said can never be taken back.”

Whether or not he was drunk, Orridan had a lot of balls as he swung back on his chair and settled his big, filthy boots on the table. The other lords and nobles shied away from him in disgust.

“Words are cheap, Eranius. Action is expensive. Go ahead and comfort your people by telling them this was all a freak accident, a trick of the light or a spell gone wrong. Unless they see you actually doing something, you will lose favour. Blame this on the orcs, send a couple dozen men, me included, to the north to bring you a few greenskin scalps and your people will be appeased. Anything less and you might as well throw down your crown and fuck off.”

That was the last straw.

Thomas stormed forward, drawing his dagger and immediately pointing at the massive man. “You will respect the Lord of Raonoak you hot-winded, foul-mouthed cur!”

Orridan gave him a smirk, lifting an eyebrow. “Do you always let your squires speak out of turn, Eranius?”

Eranius returned the smirk. “My squire only says what we are all thinking. Although I would have added ‘whore-loving’ to his list of colourful descriptions for your person.”

There, the great hero straightened and slammed a fist into the table. “When will you fools realise that the orcs are still a threat! We must kill them now before they regroup!”

“It has been years since the atrocity that was Paristead,” Thomas said, emboldened by his Lord’s words. “You killed women and children and laughed in glee at the massacre. You no longer have a purpose and now you’re just looking for a fight to validate your miserable, long-lived existence. Leave the orcs the die slowly in the snow. It is a far worse fate than any you could possibly deal them.”

The entire congregation had fallen silence.

The smile that Orridan gave him was incredibly unnerving.

“Why Eranius, I didn’t think you had a Greenskin Sympathiser as your squire.”

Thomas snarled at the one-time-hero. “I am not –”

“Now I understand your reluctance to send men against the orcs,” continued Orridan smugly. “You secretly sympathise with them, don’t you? Your squire speaks only what you are all thinking? Well, I think it is fairly clear now that you all think that the act that broke the orcs’ back and saved the north lands was an ‘atrocity’ and that you describe the orc females as ‘women’ and their mewling whelps as ‘children’.”

Thomas’ eyes widened. All too late he realised what he had said and what positioned he had put Eranius and himself in. As the Lord-Knight had said, what is said could not be taken back.

He spun to face Eranius who looked utterly heartbroken as he met the squire’s gaze.

“Guards!” bellowed the Lord-Knight.

“No!” Thomas pleaded. “Milord! I only meant –”

“We know what you meant,” Eranius said, silencing him with a slicing gesture through the air. “It is what was said that you will be condemned for.”

Several guards came charging in through the doors.

Eranius pointed an accusing finger at Thomas.

“Thomas Reinhardt. You are hereby placed under arrest and are branded a Greenskin Sympathiser. You deserve no trial for blasphemy against the Holy Triad and will be branded with the mark of the orclover. You will be stripped of title and land and cast out from Raonoak.”

“Milord!” Thomas pleaded, tears welling up in his eyes. “No! Please forgive me!”

Eranius shut his eyes and turned his back to his one-time squire. “Take him away.”

*******

Thomas Reinhardt, squire to the great and renowned Lord-Knight Eranius von Karksteid, second son to Arben Reinhardt and brother to Paladin Luxaeus Reinhardt.

His was a name that once carried a lot of honour, pride and an immense family legacy. A name that stood for honour, valour and justice. For years, he had been proud to be a Reinhardt. He had served the Lord-Knight, carried his banner, served him wine and saw to his needs. He had dreamed of meeting the great Orradin Greenslayer, adored him for saving his homeland and birthplace. He could have been great one day, owning land and title.

But that all ended when he was branded called a ‘Greenskin Sympathiser’.

In a hot-headed attempt to preserve his lord’s honour, he had said the wrong thing and suddenly, he was stripped of his rank, title and any material possessions.

Then he was branded and cast out as a traitor to the Holy Triad.

Now, months later, Thomas Reinhardt wandered the streets of Werrshreidt, a border town far to the east of his ancestral home of Raonoak. The dingy swamp-side town was smelly, disease ridden and every few corners, he could see teeth hanging from gateways and arches; the universal ‘Holy’ Alliance symbol for being anti-Greenskin sympathisers. Orcs put great value into their tusks. Apparently, certain members of the army took great strides to make entire necklaces from Orc tusks. It was only fitting that anyone who was branded an Orc sympathiser have their teeth forcibly yanked out.

As Thomas trudged through the muddy, heavily used roads, he saw a few of the sympathisers begging on the streets. They were all gaping up at passer-by’s with open, bloodied mouths devoid of any teeth. He reached into the little pouch hanging by his waist, wincing at the burning sensation just above his left nipple. Each of sympathisers had a similar brand somewhere on their body. He winced at the sight of one poor wretch who had a large brand burned onto his face.

“Just a little longer,” Thomas told himself. “Just need to make it to the border, across the Neverborn Desert and then on to the Freelands…”

The Freelands. A small nation of humans, elves, dwarves and all other matter of species that made a sort of conglomerate of cities built around commerce and trade. They were completely and utterly neutral and lived past the impassable Neverborn Desert so named because any who attempted to cross the desert would wish they were ‘never born’. In the Freelands, any man could be whatever they wanted provided they had the wits. It didn’t matter where you came from or who you were before. There, you could be anyone.

And it was his only hope.

“Hey! You!”

Thomas went rigid and hunched himself over, pulling the ragged, brown, muddy cloak over his shoulders in an attempt to remain small and unimposing. He had lost so much weight since his sentence that he wouldn’t be surprised at all if he had shrunk. Try as he might, however, the dirty, black-toothed villager of Werrshreidt grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

“I don’t know you,” growth the thick, necked, round-faced man. “Where you from, stranger?”

Keeping his head cast down, Thomas recited the same thing he said to anyone who ever asked him that question. “From Yanvale, milord. Merely passing through.”

The man scowled and other villagers came striding towards him, other burly looking men who made a living gathering peat and clay from the swamps to be shipped to the bigger cities. “Milord, eh? Yer too fine-speakin’ fer a traveller.” The man hoisted him up off his feet, Thomas’ 5’7’’ seeming so small now compared to the man. “Where ya’ really from, eh?”

“Dun waste yer time with a beggar, Mrakon,” grunted another villager. “He’s prolly covered in fleas.”

“I dun trust strangers,” snarled Mrakon, his foul breath wafting into Thomas’ nostrils. “Be dun with yer business in this town an’ then get out.” He tossed Thomas to the ground. Then his eyes widened. Those black little orbs focused directly on Thomas’ dirty tunic, particularly the patch that had been burned open to reveal the bran of two tusks crossed and contained within a triangle; the Greenskin Sympathiser brand.

“Oh,” snarled the villager with a terrifying grin. “Yer a Greenie, ain’t ya? Ya like fuckin’ ‘em Greenskins, eh?”

The other villager, the one that had convinced Mrakon to actually let Thomas go, seized the young former-squire’s shirt and tugged him back. “Must’ve been caught out in one of ‘em high-born cities, Mrakon! This ‘ere brand’s enchanted!” To prove his point, the man pushed the edge of the squire’s cloak against the brand. Almost instantly, the fabric began to sizzle and burn, blackening away to reveal the brand.

One of the reasons Thomas constantly wore a cloak. The Inquisition had bene cruel when they branded him. They would not let him hide his brand. It would forever burn away and fabric or obstruction so that all would see his shame.

“High-born, eh?” Mrakon laughed. “Good work, Ruven. Now let’s have a look at his pretty little teeth.”

Thomas held ups his hands. “No! Please! I beg of you!”

Ruven slammed Thomas into the mud, grinning broadly Mrakon advanced, wiggling his pudgy fingers. Ruven pried open Thomas’ mouth, holding it open forcefully as Mrakon advanced. The bigger of the two seized one of Thomas’ lower teeth, his fist filling Thomas’ entire mouth and–

“You two should stop immediately.”

Mrakon scowled and turned his head. “An’ who the fuck are ya ta tell me what ta do in mah town?”

Ruven nudged him. “Mrakon. Mind yer manners.” The smarter of the two rose, releasing Thomas. Taking the opportunity, Thomas bit down on Mrakon’s fist, causing the pudgy man to yelp. Thomas immediately pulled away and scrambled to his feet. He stopped when he noticed that his saviour was a knight.

But not just any knight.

He was a strange knight.

The man rose astride a midnight black horse with a silvery mane. The beast’s eyes were a bright, electric blue and she strode in the mud with golden horseshoes. Her reins and even her saddle were adorned with jewels and gold. The knight himself wore an elaborate suit of armour of white and gold with a cloak of the night billowing from his shoulders. He wore a helm that consumed his features. Nothing could be seen through the T-shaped visor save for his deep, blue eyes. The helm had a curious design of having three spikes, almost like a three-pointed crown, at the front.

“Apologies milord,” Ruven said, bowing to the knight and Thomas saviour. “But this man is a Greenskin Sympathiser. He ought to be treated as one.”

“And where in the Holy Alliance’s practices does it say that you must wrench the teeth out of every Sympathiser that you see? Who appointed this duty upon you?” The knight spoke eloquently, calmly and with a commanding presence despite the baleful stares of countless villagers upon him.

“That’s how it’s always been done!” snarled Mrakon. “If ya dun like it, take it ta our mayor.” He turned back towards Thomas, rubbing his injured hand. “Now Imma gonna fetch me some pearly whites…”

The air sizzled. Lightning suddenly descended from the skies and blasted the ground right in front of Mrakon. The brute yelped in shock and fell on his ass. His eyes were firmly on the smouldering scorch mark on the ground in front of him.

“I don’t think you will,” said the knight, his horse carrying him forward past the two shocked villagers. The man came to flank Thomas and he held out a hand to the former squire. “Come Thomas Reinhardt. I have some people who would like to meet you.”

Seeing little by way of escape, Thomas willingly took the gauntleted hand and the man hoisted him into the back of the saddle. It had been so long since he had been on horseback that he never realised how much his bare feet ached. The steed led them to the outskirts of the town but even the few people there quickly dove for cover, fearful of the bright knight.

The knight reached for the bag beside him and fished out a piece of cheese-encrusted bread. “Here. You must be hungry. There’s wine in the wineskin to your left.”

Too hungry to question the act of kindness, Thomas took the loaf and eagerly bit into the bread. Whether it was because he hadn’t eaten something so fresh for so long or he was just that hungry, the bread tasted absolutely heavenly. He took the wine as offered and practically downed half of it. It was so good to taste something apart from stagnant water again.

“Thank you…” he coughed.

“No need. I do not personally agree with the rampant acts or discrimination and abuse that runs among the Alliance lands but I can understand their need for such action.”

“You agree with them?” Thomas scowled. He coughed. “I apologise, kind sir. I did not mean to offend.”

The knight laughed softly. “No need to apologise. I believe you were chosen because of your strong convictions. I now see that was true. So soon after you were saved, you would spit in the face of your saviour if it opposes your values.”

“Again, I meant no offense…”

The knight waved a hand absently over his shoulder as they left the smelly, dank town in favour of the smelly, dank, dark swamp. “Again, I took no offense. It was merely… a test. But let me make my point clear. People will be people. They require a purpose. They are like a spear hurled through the air. They must find something to strike or else they will find themselves aimless and without the strength to go on. The Alliance’s leaders know that while soldiers and the army wage war on the multiple fronts in an attempt to curb any aggression, there is still much dissent within its nation’s borders. So they turn the fiery gaze of hatred to those whom they deem unsavoury. It does not matter what crime they are accused of. They will be branded as either a Greenskin Sympathiser, a Wolf-Hugger or a Horse-Fucker. It is a convenient way for them to get rid of their enemies and have people talking for a while yet.”

Thomas lowered his gaze. “But I am a Greenskin Sympathiser.”

“Oh yes. And Raonoak is still afire with the scandal that Arben Reinhardt’s second son sleeps with orcs. Your brother is under scrutiny from other Paladins as well. The courts are simply blustering with gossip and whispers while Eranius is being praised for setting aside his personal affection for you, his ‘son-in-all-but-blood’ to do the right thing.”

Thomas suddenly felt fear run through his entire body. Was this someone from Raonoak come to bring him back to his father? Was he could to be public executed in front of the entire court to save the face of the Reinhardt name?

“Relax, young one,” said the knight with a gentle chuckle. “I’m not here to bring you back to your ancestral lands. Though I suspect I shall lead you there one day.” The man shook his head. “No. I am here to bring you to the doorstep of destiny.”

“The…?” began Thomas.

“The Gods… that is, the Old Gods, are rather peeved that the Triad kicked them out of the heavens. They want to set things right again. They petitioned their Creator and the Creator called me. The Old Gods have come up with a solution. A sort of… ironic punishment for the Holy Triad and a way to restore the balance on Tirinead.”

“Really? You mean they’ll save the orcs?”

“You will save the orcs.”

“Me?”

“I’ll explain along the way. In the meantime, you best hold on. Veronica here needs a bit of a running start.”

Thomas held onto the man’s armoured waist. “A running start for what…?”

His eyes suddenly widened as big, blue, ethereal wings burst from the black horse’s back, just between them. His legs actually passed through their enormous expanse. The mare, reared back, let out a loud whinny and then charged forward. She spread her wings wide and suddenly, they were airborne.

Thomas screamed both in terror and sheer amazement as they soared.

******

After six days of travel through the air with the occasional stop to land and eat, Thomas learned much from his mysterious saviour named Samuel. Not only about the goings on outside of the Holy Alliance but also within.

“The Holy Triad executed the Mass Sterilisation Spell,” Samuel explained grimly as they ate deep within the forest one day. “They were inspired by the actions of their troops in effectively cutting off the genitals of the Orcs and preventing them from breeding. Any species that is not human, elf or dwarf is now stuck with only males.”

“That’s terrible!” Thomas exclaimed. He was getting stronger with every meal. Somehow, Samuel managed to produce meals from his bag and his wineskin never ran out of wine. As tempted as he was to gorge himself on food, he had to pace himself. Having lost so much weight, he threw up all that he had eaten the first night he had a decent meal since his body just wasn’t used to eating so much.

“More so for the women. They either mysteriously died or merely disappeared. Any cause would do. Women were attacked by wild animals randomly in their own beds. Little girls were struck by illness and died. Lightning descended from the heavens on a clear day and struck anyone without a penis randomly out of the blue.”

“Even the Alliance species?”

“Even them,” answered Samuel. “The Triad instructed their mages in means to prolong the life of their allies as a means of shackling them into pseudo-servitude. They age much more slowly than humans, elves or dwarves but this only allows the three primary Alliance species to increase in population while those shackled by the Triad’s spell are forced to remain stagnant and develop far more slowly. A newborn human baby would reach maturity faster than another species born at the same time.”

“Why would they do such a thing?”

“The Triad knows that one day, they will run out of enemies to point their swords at. Eventually, they will need to turn it on their one-time allies and they do not want them to be too strong but to pose enough of a challenge to give them time to prepare to invade other worlds, other realms.”

“There are other worlds?”

“Countless. The Creator made more than just to Gods of this world after all but contact.” The knight pointed to the sky. “See the sky up there? All those stars? Each one could possibly have a world like Tirinead orbiting it. Though low a chance, each marble of rock and air could have life in it and its own Gods. The Triad can see those that do. They have been spying them enviously. They seek to reach them one day. Little surprise coming from a God of War, Defence and Subterfuge.”

Thomas shook his head grimly. “What becomes of our land…?”

“Something I have seen happen many times before. More than I care to count.” Samuel patted Thomas’ shoulder. “But we can still change the course of fate, however, young Thomas. Once we reach Loringram, you will see.”

Loringram, as Samuel described, was once a Temple to the God Garodrash. Thomas didn’t understand why a Temple of Garodrash, the God of Fertility would exist in orcish lands given that Garodrash was a human god. Or had been at least. But apparently, they were flying to what had once been the heart of the orcish homeland. Now, it was occupied by Alliance teams, most of them mining the mineral-rich rocky lands for resources. It was also painfully close to Raonoak. Thomas had hoped to go southeast away from Raonoak but now he was being drawn back…

He wondered what his brother was doing… or his father for that matter.

******

After another day, Thomas found the strength to finally sate his own curiosity. The sat crouched within some deep forests just before the thick, dusty lands to the north where the great orc horde once warred against the Holy Alliance. His home of Raonoak was to the east and he could actually see the small mountain where the town had grown to occupy the entire northern face.

“From where do you hail, sir knight?”

“I am no knight,” said the man, shaking his head. “And I come from somewhere very far away from here.”

“What brings you here?”

“Why, you Thomas Reinhardt. You.”

That surprised the young man. “Me?” He dropped his gaze, grimacing at the tattoo that still burned against his chest even months after the branding. “Am I so special?”

Samuel placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The metal of his gauntlet was oddly warm to the touch. “Everyone has a story to tell, my friend. Do not dismiss your tale because it has humble beginnings.”

Thomas hugged himself from the cold. The cloak and rags he wore were bitterly thin and as the travelled further north, things only grew colder and colder. “Of that you are wrong. I had grand beginnings. I was the second son of the chief engineer of Raonoak. I served as the squire of the lord of my state, Lord-Knight Eranius von Karksteid. My older brother, Luxaeus is a Paladin of the Holy Triad. We had an estate with many servants. I spent my summers lounging in the sun and winters running in the snow. Now… I am reduced to this for a few simple misplaced words.”

He looked bitterly at the mark over his chest, regretting ever uttering those words.

“I was not even inebriated…” he cursed softly, squeezing his eyes shut with tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Seldom do we get a chance to undo the mistakes we have made. However, we always have the capability to become stronger for them.”

Thomas turned his gaze away from the colourful knight. “Your platitudes and words of wisdom fall on deaf ears, kind sir. I do not know how I can grow stronger after being branded as a sympathiser and outcast.”

“Why not change the meaning of the brand?”

He frowned and glanced back towards the man’s deep, blue eyes. “You speak in riddles.”

“Not really. I am merely suggesting that instead of wearing the brand like a mark of shame, wear it as a badge of honour. The world sees you as a Greenskin Sympathiser, a man who sleeps with orcs. So be it. There is nothing wrong with having a heart that bleeds for justice and eyes that weep in pity for those that are wrongs. Mountains have moved for men who are not afraid to show that they are mortal.”

He huffed softly. “Easy words to say from a man who is dressed in gold.”

Samuel chuckled softly. “I wear this armour not because I want to but because I must.” He placed a hand against his chest. “The world is not ready for what lies beneath this armour.”

“You preach of bearing my mark with pride and yet you cannot even remove your own armour.” Thomas scrutinised the man. “I have seen you at night. You sleep in your armour. You do not even remove your helmet. That must be uncomfortable.” He tilted his head to the side. “Is your shame so great that you cannot even let the night see your face?”

He got the odd sensation that Samuel was smiling at him.

“Night or day. The world will always remain curious. But I wear this armour not to protect myself from the world. It is to protect the world from me.”

Those words only made Thomas more curious… and afraid.

“I do not understand…”

“Suffice to say, Thomas, that I do not belong in this world.” He reached over to Veronica who was sitting behind him. He retrieved his everlasting wineskin. “Imagine a wineskin filled to the bursting. Now imagine what I am now is the last drop that made it so full. Now imagine if I were to remove my armour and suddenly, that last drop would multiply a thousand fold. The wineskin will burst.”

Thomas frowned. “That is you… and the wineskin is the world.”

Samuel nodded.

“So you cannot enjoy the pleasures of this world. You cannot eat. You cannot touch. You do not breathe or smell. You must contain yourself in that armour lest you endanger the entire world.” He tilted his head to the side. “That must be a lonely existence.”

“It is the role I play. But I am never quite alone. I have others. I speak to the Gods. I converse with the Creators. I am an ally, a confidant, a consultant. I am and can be anyone. I am a No One.”

He mulled over the words, not quite understanding but at the same time somehow feeling a little better about his own predicament. “And you chose this?”

“I had the choice at true happiness. But I gave it all up to assist others in finding theirs. Nothing makes me happier than ensuring everyone are comfortable with their choices and the consequences they bring.”

“Are you a God?”

“No. There are no Gods, Thomas. Remember that. Just mortals.”

“But the Triad…”

“We are all mortals, Thomas. Each and every one of us. We all make choices. Those choices have consequences. If you can feel, if you can choose, if you can change, then you are mortal.”

******

It only took another day before they were flying through the skies over what had been Loringram. Samuel mentioned that once the massive structure sitting atop the plateau had been a marvellous structure of orcish architecture but once it was ransacked by the Holy Alliance, all its riches had been stripped off it. Once golden pillars marked with arcane jewels and tribal talismans of cultural significance had been stripped down of everything that was valuable. The halls of the God of Fertility had been bathed in blood. And the Gods wept.

“If the Gods hated what happened, what didn’t they do anything to save the orcs?” asked Thomas bitterly as they strode through the dark, crumbling hallways of the temple. Bones had been picked clean by rats and other carrion. His heart bled with pity at the multiple orc skeletons that had their proud tusks torn from their jaws.

“Do you know what the hardest thing about being a god is?” Samuel asked, striding calmly through the wreckage.

“What?”

“Admitting that you were wrong.”

Thomas paused a moment and inclined his head slightly. He had to scratch the thick, black beard that had grown over the months since had been kicked out of his house and home. “And what are you exactly? Are you a god? A messenger for the gods?”

“I am a No One.”

“Surely you are someone.”

Samuel chuckled softly and waved him forward. “Come, they wish to speak with you.”

“They?” Thomas strode forward. “They who –”

CRASH!

A sound like peeling thunder knocked Thomas onto his rear. A powerful gale blew dust and bones away from the central altar. Old candles lamps that had not been used for years suddenly caught alight with ghostly, blue flames. Lightning crackled within the temple’s halls. A booming voice erupted that nearly caused Thomas’ ears to bleed.

“About bloody time!”

Thomas’ eyes widened in shock and terror. An enormous figure appeared, hovering above the altar. The creature stood proudly with his head reaching the ceiling of the temple. His massive, burly figure was covered in thick, greenish skin and every part of him was heavily muscled and vascular including the three, very erect members springing from his crotch. His hair was a bright red, sun bleached like I was made of pure fire and a thick mat of the same hair covered his chest, arms, legs and naturally his crotch. Around the figure hovered ten, glowing orbs of differing colours. His face was undeniably that of an orc’s. A very handsome one at that with highly defined features, high cheekbones and a strong, masculine jaw with tremendous tusks.

“I thought the Creator sent you because you could fix our problem!” boomed the enormous orc. “I thought you were something special. Had I known you would have taken so long, I would’ve plucked his small cock from the muck and mire myself!”

Thomas’ cheeks burned. Was the creature talking about him?

“And had you done so, Garodrash, the Triad would have taken notice,” Samuel answered calmly.

“Garodrash?” stammered Thomas. “That’s Garodrash? But… but… he’s an Orc!”

The tremendous God leaned down, his bright, red eyes levelling with Thomas, each pupil as big as Thomas was tall. “Oh? And I suppose you believe everything your chaste priests say about the God of Masculinity?”

“Masculinity? But you’re the God of Fertility!”

“WHAT!?”

Samuel held up his hand, somehow causing the God to calm. “Religion is a construct of mortals,” said the knight calmly. “It is like a game of whispers. The priest may preach one thing but eventually, it become corrupt as it spread from mouth to mouth. The tale becomes embellished, twisted. When it eventually reaches the priest’s ears, he can either admit that what everyone believes is wrong or go with it. Most of the time, they go with it.”

Thomas crawled to his hands and knees, bowing towards the Gods. “Oh mighty God, I am not worthy. I apologise wholeheartedly for any displeasure I may have caused against you or your name.”

Garodrash growled. “Stop your grovelling, child. We need a warrior not a priest!”

“Your… uh… Holiness?”

Samuel explained. “The Old Gods are severely weakened. There are so few of their followers left that their power wanes. What you see before you is the combined strength of all the original gods of this world. Garodrash was chosen to speak for them for now and has taken the most corporeal form. The remaining ten are the orbs you see before you, siphoning their power into Garodrash so he may make this appearance before you.”

“Yes and we have little time as and little power to spare,” boomed the God. “So let us get this task underway.”

Thomas looked up at the god with wide eyes. “What do you need of my, Your Holiness?”

“Do not call me ‘holy’ boy! Those usurpers call themselves ‘holy’ but they are little more than warmongering usurpers! We made them what they were in the hopes that they would bring lasting peace to this world but instead, they wrenched our power and throne from us and even sacrificed their own people for them! No!” Garodrash straightened, looming over Thomas. “What we seek of you will not be holy. We wish you to go to war.”

Thomas quivered. “War?”

“Yes. You will go to war. Unite the remaining orc tribes. You will unite them as a horde once more. Then you will cut a swathe through the Alliance lands and restore the orc race to what it once was!” Garodrash glanced off to the side and grunted. “Yes! Even better! You will raise it to surpass what it once was!”

It was a great task but Thomas had his doubts. “But… what can I do, Your… Maleness? I am human.”

Garodrash grinned broadly. “Not for long, child.”

Suddenly, an immense power lifted Thomas into the air. It felt like a dozen invisible hands sprang up from the ground and lifted him higher and higher into the air until he was at eye-level with the titanic Garodrash. Thomas squirmed as his arms were spread out to his sides and he hovered there, spreadeagled in front of the collective gods.

“You will need much to be one of our many Avatars.” Suddenly Garodrash was speaking with a multitude of voices not just how own, booming bass. “Many races must be saved and redeemed. So remember this as we grant you these gifts. We made all equal. None are superior to others. We blessed the Alliance at its formation for their ability to break down the barriers between human, elf and dwarf and hoped they would do the same with other races. Instead, they waged war and hunted the others to extinction. Take heed, that even though we grant you these gifts, there will always be others that can topple you should you become a tyrant.

“Do you, Thomas Reinhardt accept the responsibility of saving the orc race and upholding the ideals that we, the rightful Gods of Tirinead, value?”

Thomas looked straight into the eyes of the collective Gods.

This was it.

The doorstep to destiny just as Samuel had promised.

And he knew what he had to do.

“I do.”

Garodrash seemed almost relieved. One of the orbs began glowing and the voice that came out of the God’s was different now. Powerful, commanding, authoritative.

“So be it. I Omtariel, the God King, hear by grant you my boon.”

The massive orc held up his hands, flanking Thomas. Wisps of energy burst from the fingertips of the Orc God and flooded into Thomas. Thomas’s eyes bulged. It felt like someone was pumping his body full of boiling hot liquid and he was going to burst. He could feel his stomach, arms, legs and every fibre of his body bubble beneath his flesh. He screamed, arching his back in agony.

“It was from my hands that I moulded the first creations of this world,” boomed by Omtariel through Garodrash’s mouth. “Human was the temple. We experimented. The taller, fairer race became the elves. The shorter, stouter species became the dwarves. Then we took the template and made the other species. So it by my hand once more that I take the template of your body and grant it a fitting one for the Avatar of the Gods, a being entrusted by our will and a representative of the orcish race.”

Thomas managed to squeeze his eyes open. All the pain seemed to focus and throb towards his fingertips. Through the searing light, could see his fingers tensing, curling into claws. His heart was racing and right before his eyes, he began to change. The pain suddenly became pleasurable, like all the pent up energy pumping into him was finally being released. He gasped, mouth falling agape as a rush of release akin to orgasm filled his mind and body.

Eyes fixed on his fingertips, he gagged as his nails hardened. The dirty, blackened tips flicked off all the dust and grime that had gathered there. The soft, shiny, pinkish surfaces suddenly became most lustrous. Their colour changed, becoming more golden in colour, hardening into steel. Burst of pleasure like he was ejaculating rocketed through his fingertips. His fingers swelled in size, becoming bigger, thicker and stronger. Veins crawling up the back of his hands as his palms grew and thick callouses appeared across his palms. His flesh crackled like gravel. A deep, emerald green splotch appeared against his skin. That spot quickly grew, spreading rapidly across his hand like a wave of fire. It left his palms a lighter shade but it spread all over his hand, creeping towards his forearm.

Thomas found new strength in his hand and he quickly turned to his other hand, watching it twist and spasm as it too became five times bigger than it original had been. The changes seeped into his forearms. Thick veins popped up all over his muscles, pumping them full of godly strength and mass. He clenched his new fists and let out a primal cry, thrust his chest out, as the divine might flooded his body, surging through his forearms until they were as long as his thighs and just as thick.

Suddenly, another voice came from Garodrash’s lips. This one gruff and gravelly.

“I Dauldrin the God of Smiths grant you my boon, child.”

Wisps of light coalesced directly in front of Thomas. Heat emanated from it, pulsing outwards with power that flooded the young man’s body in waves. A faint sizzling could be heard like the light itself was made of some sort of hissing steel. More wisps came shooting out of the giant Orc God’s hand and the truck the pillar of like. Where they strick, a sound like steel on steel met Thomas’ ears. It reminded him of when his older brother was banging out the dents in his armour. He realised it was Dauldrin forging him a weapon.

Clang-clang-clang.

Over and over again, the wisps beat the light of divine power into submission, reshaping it into a long, black metal haft decorated with the emblem of two tusks crossed against one another set at the pommel. The long haft was as tall as Thomas was but that was when the head of the massive weapon began. The enormous, black metal led to the long, spiked head of a tremendous mace. Each spike came right from one of the proud tusks of a generic Orc’s head. There were dozens of such heads littering the massive weapon, riddling the tremendous weapon’s head.

“I grant you the Grimight,” Daulrin boomed. “May you grow stronger with more that join your cause. Its strength and yours is tied to the Horde you raise. An eternal reminder that a warchief is only as strong as the people he leads. Grasp it, our Avatar, and let its power course through your veins.”

Thomas gnashed his teeth together. He reached for the mace. A tremendous wind blew from the weapon like it was trying to oppose him, trying to keep him from grabbing it. But he was determined. He need to right the wrong of the Alliance and save the orc race. With a roar, he lashed out and seized the mace’s haft.

Immense strength shot right through his body, lengthening his roar. He flung his head back as the power surged from his thick, green forearms through his body. His biceps erupted in a shower of sweat and power. Thick veins pushed up against his newly green-coloured skin with a sound like crackling wood. His triceps surged outwards, hardening to be permanently tensed and never relaxed. Every crevasse across his arms was perfectly hardened and defined, the lines sculpted from emerald marble and forever strong.

His shoulders bubbled and burst, widening rapidly. His dank and dusty coat was thrown off his shoulder and fluttered uselessly to the ground. The sleeves of his tunic was shredded to bits and the seams disappearing into the folds of his tremendous traps. He thrashed his head back and forth, gnashing his teeth together as the raw strength pumped more and more through his body.

A third voice echoed through the temple. It sent a chill down his spine as it hissed into his ear, mind and soul.

“I Malgrin the God of Death here by grant you my boon, mortal.”

Despite the voice he heard Samuel scoff disdainfully.

“Let no mere mortal weapon pierce your flesh. Death shall forever hold its doors closed to until I personally come for you.”

Thomas grunted, his voice deepening rapidly. His arms and legs bent, knees rising up to meet his chest like he was gathering strength towards his chest. Through squinting eyes, he could see the thick, green skin creeping down his flat chest. It slipped beneath his tunic but he could still feel its warm touch crawling down to his abdomen and sweeping up his legs until it reached down to the tip of his toes. He squeezed his eyes shut as that same sensation swept up his neck, and overed his entire face.

A faint tingling touched his chest and when he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find his thick human beard falling away from his cheeks and chin. The dark hairs fell to the earth with his discarded cloak and shreds of clothing.

Another god spoke, this one proud, loud and possessing the inspiring quality that Thomas had heard from his own brother and father.

“I Caellenius the God of Valour grant you my boon, child.”

That surge of power suddenly erupted, causing Thomas’ eyes to bulge. He threw back his head and flung his limbs out wide. A loud cry ripped from his throat. The human undertones faded from his throat as his neck thickened to match his massive, broad shoulders. Sinews held up the thick pillar of strength to his head and led down into veins that fed into his pectorals. His chest burst out of his tunic, ripping the fabric right down the middle in a single burst. In a second blast, his back tore all shreds of the clothing from his chest, revealing a perfectly symmetrical painting of emerald-green muscle from a back capable of blocking out the sun. His pecs became to enormous mountain ranges with dark green nipples at their peaks. Two solid rows of four muscular blocks led away from the mountain, forming a valley that call but consumed his navel. His huge V-shaped torso led perfectly into the row of unrelentingly tight abdominals capable of deflecting steel.

The power of the gods flooded his legs; pumping through them and causing to swell and swell and swell. The sound of fabric tearing filled his ears and he grit his teeth, flexing his thighs so that he could be rid of the incredible discomfort of the fabric constricting him. He let out another roar and the cry was accompanied by the last cries of his cheap, cloth pants tearing apart, leaving him free of all clothing. Enormous green quadriceps, every muscle group perfectly chiselled into his flesh and fed by thick veins, led down into thick, muscular calves and monumental feet that would have men from all over the land worshiping them.

“Free of your mortal clothing, I grant you armour of the divine. Let this cloak shield you from the elements and whatever harshness this world may throw upon you. Wear it and the Triad will never be able to cast their gaze upon you. No Seer may scry you, no oracle may predict your thoughts and no wizard may invade your mind.”

From above, a thick bright red coat descended. Its furry surface wrapped around his shoulders, brilliant red chains wrapping around his chest to fasten it in place. It hung over his shoulders perfectly like it was made just for him.

The next god to speak was one that spoke with a great boom but each word was followed by a hissing echo like the ebb and flow of the waves.

“I Incarius, God of the Seas, grant you my boon, young orc.”

Thomas panted heavily, the flow of strength was starting to ebb but he could still feel it coursing through his veins. He squeezed his eyes shut as it pulsed through his entire body. His bare, emerald chest began sprouting long strands of red hairs. A light dusting of manly chest hair crested the mountains of his pectorals, all strands pointing towards the valley his torso made before leading to the manly treasure trail that seeped down his abdominals and towards his crotch. The moment the red hairs touched his pubic hair, it spread like fire. His long, wisps hair, made ragged by months of travelling alone and with little nourishment became long, rich and full of body. His hair shrank, transforming into a short, forward facing spikey disarray like fire. The roots turned a bleached blond and two long strands sprang from his temples, winding together in a braid to hang by his cheeks. Similarly, thick red hairs sprang up over his arms and legs, giving him a matching pelt to his cloak.

“Now you shall speak with authority. Let every orc heed your words. Whether they agree or not will be based on your words but they will listen. Yours is the power to sway the hearts of orc and man alike but how you use it and to what extent will be yours alone. Bellow and strike fear. Stutter and incite mockery. This is my gift to you.”

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and let out another bellowing roar. The entire temple shook from the sheer volume of his divine voice.

When he finished, a sizzling, rumbling voice echoed through the hall.

“I am Lovantier the God of Fire. I grant you my boon, child.”

Thomas quivered as he felt the changes creep towards his face. His lower jaw inched ever so slowly forward and he could feel two of his lower teeth jabbing upwards at his lips. His jerked his head onward, encouraging the change. His brow thickened, eyebrows growing thicker but grooming themselves perfectly to accentuate his handsome features. Cheekbones became pronounced and strong, unable to hide even as two, powerful tusks jut out from his lower jaw. His nose flattened, growing broader to fit his now squarer, thicker jaw.

“Magic is the blood of the world, child. It is by magic that life is given. Birth is truly magical. Take the magic from a man and they will be empty, a husk, little better than dead. It can be used against you. So my boon to you is a guard against all forms of magic. Let no spell touch you. Let no hex harm you. Let no curse hinder you. But similarly, let no healer grace you with their gentle kindness. You are immune to all magic, benign and malevolent alike.”

Thomas’ eyes sprang open, he was breathing hard. His transformation, at least physically, felt complete.

But there were still a few gods left.

He felt the surge of divine energy suddenly flood inward, towards his heart. He gasped as he felt his very essence, his very soul change. The veins coursing through his body, pushing up against his flesh, all pulsated with a brilliant, divine light.

“I, Wirrium the God of Air, grant you my boon, Avatar.”

It felt like his very blood was boiling. The gods were truly changing him more than just physically!

“Let yourself draw air from anywhere. Be it from the land, sea or air, you shall forever breathe. From the fiery pits of the underworld or the glorious gates of the heavens, you shall breathe and live. My simple gift but take it and know the preciousness of life.”

A thunderous boom echoed the temple as the light sprang from Thomas’ body. He gasped, glancing around with his new eyes. The gods were not done with him just yet. He grunted and he could feel the gods creeping into his mind, pushing information into his mortal psyche. With his new semi-divine frame, he knew he could take it so he absorbed it all.

“I am Rivellin the God of Wisdom, my child boy. I grant you the gift of knowledge. Know all there is to know about orcish culture. Know what you need to know for the upcoming war. Know us. Know the Triad. Know all of Tirinead. Know past. Know present. Know future.”

Thomas threw his head back for the last time, eyes wide open. His dull, brown eyes burned with the ferocity of the Gods’ will. The brown sizzled away, replaced with stunning yellow, almost gold.

“I am Ystagur the God of Earth, my boy. Your body may still be mortal but your heart is not. I grant you divine stamina. No matter the distance, you will cross it tirelessly. Only rest when you so decide it. You will be the indomitable instrument of our will.”

Suddenly, Thomas felt a new sensation. He glanced down, down to his crotch. His eyes widened as his surprisingly small member – at least in comparison to the rest of his body – began filling with blood. He grunted, flushed as his cock came to full mast. His balls churned loudly and he felt the flood of divine power flooding towards his genitals. Panting left his new orcish lips as thick veins pumped new strength and mass into his big, green dick. The flesh stretched and thickened, rising gloriously in front of his eyes until it practically kissed the base of his pectorals, spilling clear liquid all over his red treasure trail. His balls, in turn, grew heavy with his seed.

He was bursting with power and he knew the one last part of him that needed to be changed, the last part of him that still remained Thomas Reinhardt.

“I, Garodrash, God of Masculinity, grant you the means to undo to horror that the Triad has bestowed upon the races. I grant you the Curse of Conversion. Whomsoever comes in contact with your seed will become an orc. In line with the Triad’s dark Mass Sterilisation Spell, they will only be male. Let them choke on the irony of their own defeat!”

Thomas roared, shaking the very foundations of the temple as the power of the gods flooded through him. He could feel their strength pumping through his veins, flooding up his massive arms and legs, coursing through his thick chest and straight down to his jostling orange-sized balls. It surged through his testicles, pushing the last parts of Thomas the human up through the length of his dick, surging through inch by inch until it all came shooting out in a tremendous blast of hot, white seed.

The stick, human gunk rained upwards and descended to the ground along with his shed beard hair and torn clothes. The human part of him was gone and within moments, the goo that spilled from his huge, uncut dick glowing with a soft, divine light.

Suddenly, the hold of the gods faded and the newly made Avatar was dropped from the great height. Instincts immediately took over and he caught himself immediately. His huge feet slammed into the ground and he immediately fell to his knees to absorb the shock. The ground shattered around him, a small crater appearing from the impact with a lattice of cracks spreading all over the ground.

He panted, cum dripping off his thick, muscled chest and throbbing dick.

A whispering voice from the one remaining god filled his ears.

“I am Ferashim the God of Speed. My gift, my boon, waits for you outside, our Avatar. Treat him well. He will carry you to the ends of the earth and back and will forever remain loyal to you.”

Then, as one, the gods spoke.

“Now go. Unite the orc tribes. Take back what the orcs have lost. Restore them to their former glory and surpass their past civilisation to make it something truly spectacular. Something we would be proud to call our creation.”

He nodded and slowly rose to his feet. He slammed a might fist against his chest.

“I will,” he rumbled.

Then he felt a faint abrasion against his chest and peered down. Even through the transformation, the Inquisition’s brand remained. He sensed the magic of the Triad still remained and he grimaced softly as the brand already began burning away the hairs that covered his chest. The Old Gods may have granted him a great gift but the Holy Triad was still very strong.

“Here, let me take care of that.”

He had completely forgotten Samuel as the otherworldly knight stepped out from behind him and placed a gauntlet against his chest, right over the mark. A faint sizzling noise filled the empty temple halls and when Samuel pulled his hand away, the triangle encasing the crossed orc tusks slowly burned away. The hairs around the brand also grew back and no longer burned when obscuring the mark.

He smiled a toothy, orcish smile at the knight… but then immediately frowned.

“I thought no magic could touch me?”

Samuel shrugged and turned towards the door. “The Old Gods speak in hyperbole. The Triad is still stronger than them so their divine magic may still do harm. Intense amounts of magic may also hurt you based on the circumstances. I mean if someone summons a mountain to crush you that’s not the magic. That’s the mountain.”

He grimaced. “I see… I should still be careful then.”

“A wise choice, Thomas.”

He frowned at the name. “No… I don’t think I am Thomas anymore.” He rubbed his chin absently. “I need a new name. Know any good orc names?”

“Not one that would be fitting. But how about Amthos?”

The Orc Avatar pondered the name a moment. “Amthos… I like it. Amthos Hordemaker.” He glanced towards Samuel. “Will you be accompanying me?”

Amthos wasn’t sure but he had the inkling that Samuel was smiling at him. “Why yes. Consider me your advisor.”

“Thank you. I could not imagine doing this alone.”

“You aren’t alone. You have Winterpaw.”

“Winterpaw…?”

On cue, the doors to the temple sprang open. There was Samuel’s silver-haired, black mare but beside her was a titanic, pure-white Warg. The creature was massive, bestial and just stirred something in Amthos that made him realise that he had met a friend for life.

“Winterpaw,” he recited.

He moved towards the Warg and held out his hand towards it without fear. The wolf-like creature didn’t hesitate and bent its head in respect. With a smile, Amthos slipped to the side and sat astride the massive wild wolf as one would a horse. Without a sound, Samuel did the same with Veronica.

“Where to?” asked the Orc Avatar.

Samuel pointed in some direction. “Northwest. To the Frostskull Wastes. We’ll find the biggest orc tribe still existing there; the Hard Spear Tribe. We get them on your side and you’ll be on your way to winning your campaign.”

Amthos smiled, his blood pumping. He flung his mace through the air, urging Winterpaw around.

“Onward! For the Horde!”

******

Lord-Knight Eranius von Karksteid stood quietly on the balcony to his personal quarters. He peered out into the distance, far to the north. The snow-capped mountains of the Fangs of the World were just a distant white blur on the horizon but he could feel an unnaturally chill wind coming in from that direction. It was a foul wind, one that brought a scent that he had not smelled since his years leading the charge against the shattered orc tribes as proof of his manhood.

Something felt… wrong and a sense of impending doom crept through his veins. It was a sensation he received ever since he had personally branded Thomas Reinhardt of being a Greenskin Sympathiser. He thought it was the least he could do for the boy. Thomas had bravely stood up for his Lord-Knight against a renowned hero. But that same foul-mouthed demigod had twisted his words against him forcing Eranius to do something he regretted to this day even months after the event.

He felt like he had committed a cardinal sin and now the Gods were sending doom his way.

A knock came to the door and he turned partially towards it.

“Enter,” he beckoned in a booming, commanding voice.

His War Wizard stepped into his quarters. “Your Lordship,” Qurron greeted with a bow. “I know you put little faith in my visions but…”

“Ill winds blow this night,” agreed Eranius. “Something has changed.”

His best friend and closest advisor sighed both in relief and frustration. “The same winds blow from all directions of the Alliance’s reach, milord. While all under the Holy Triad continue to grow strong and Trispire shines as the beacon of civility in these dark times but the forces of chaos and the uncivilised muster their strength. I sense dissent and heresy amongst the people. Dark portents are on the horizon and these foul changes will seep into the minds of the people.”

“What did you see?” he asked without hesitation.

Qurron was silent for a moment as he crossed the room to stand beside his lord. “I saw… A great storm blowing in from the north. Frost began creeping across the ground and people were dying of the cold the moment it touched their flesh. A great orc horde came behind the wave of frost, bigger than anything we had seen before. Even greater than the horde of the War of Apotheosis. They crushed the frozen and dead citizens beneath their might feet. Leading them was an enormous orc, the biggest I had ever seen. He had hair like fire and eyes of gold. Then I saw that wolf again. The one that darkened and swallowed the Triad. His jaws closed around Raonoak. Our soldiers dropped their weapons and willingly went to the horde, spreading their arms wide. When the horde passed over them, they turned and became orcs themselves, joining the encroaching wave.”

His jaws closed around Raonoak.”

Eranius’ hands closed tightly into fists and he shook slightly. He would not take the visions and advise of his War Wizard for granted again. “What do we do?”

“Purge ourselves, milord,” answered the white-haired wizard without hesitation. “There are those with black blood living within our dungeons to this day that must be purged. Their mere presence offends the Gods and befouls our walls. We cannot let corruption come from both outside and within our walls.”

Eranius’ lips twisted in disgust, his strong, angular nose wrinkling in disgust. “I do not like playing the executioner, Qurron. Accuse them. Banish them. Send them away from my walls.”

“That would not be wise,” Qurron said. “Sending them away will only send them into the arms of those that would welcome them. Besides, Orradin grows restless. He yearns for blood as well. It would be wise to do as the Child of the Gods desires. Invoking his ire will sway the eyes of the Gods away from Raonoak.”

The Lord-Knight sighed. “The spoiled brat…” He waved a hand absently over his shoulder. “Very well. Execute all that are within our dungeons. I care not for what crime. The Gods must be appeased.”

“Milord, no need to be so brash.”

His eyes flashed as he turned towards the mage. “A moment ago you advised me to spill blood now you advise me otherwise? Has communion with the Gods addled your brain, mage? Speak!”

Qurron held up his bony hands. “I simply meant that this must be a celebration of freedom and a purged, cleansed Raonoak. We should not need to spill all blood so soon and it need not be a grim act.” He spread his arms wide. “Let the people rejoice in the beheading of a foul heretic. Let them cheer and celebrate with sweets as we hang the traitors. Dance, revel and praise the Gods as we cleanse their city. Make it a long celebration so that the Gods never again doubt our faith and may turn these ill winds away from us.”

Eranius sighed. “I suppose this will also appease that squatter of a divine hero. Very well. Make it so. We shall execute the twenty foulest criminals in our dungeons. One a day. The revelry shall escalate per day. Free wine for the citizens. My kitchens are open to the people of my city. Jousting competitions. Merriment. But…” He held up a finger. “We execute the foul beasts at dawn. Let that signify the end of darkness and the dawn of a new, cleaner Raonoak.”

Qurron smiled wanly and bowed to the Lord-Knight. “This is the right thing to do, Eranius. You will see.”