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Chapter 8: Grauhl's Landing

*******

Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #9

In far north Bhotanmar there rests the Urthak Colossus. This mighty effigy stands out in the middle of the frozen seas just off the harbour of the mighty city. It stands as a memorial to those who gave their lives in defence of Bhotanmar during the invasion of Urthak but also as a dedication to the great Chieftain of the Earth Runners. Those sailing to Bhotanmar will always see the immense black statue first before they see the city. Despite the harsh blizzards that come against the city every year, the Colossus will never be covered in ice. Nothing will shroud its visage or that which it commemorates.

*******

Morale was the foundation of any great army. The two battalions that Orradin led were no different. With their real commander having defected to the side of the orcs and their War Wizard and resident hero humiliated by a small band of orcs, the men were starting to whisper of deserting. It did not help that they had set up camp in the ruins of Hawkshollow, the former seat of power of Mad King Hawk and now a supposed 'cursed land'.

Orradin was unwilling to return to Raonoak until some trace of the orcs were found and they had followed the trail from Vramsteich for a short distance before the very same trail abruptly vanished. Even Qurron, in all his magical expertise, could not find any trace of the orcs though the War Wizard's ethic and loyalty to the Alliance was now in question.

The Greenslayer insisted that the orcs simply could not have vanished into thin air so he marched everyone to the closest, defensible position – Hawkshollow. Dark, imposing and supposedly haunted, Hawkshollow was once a full city that had been burned to the ground by the orcs in the War of Apotheosis. Its walls were built of the same black rock as the golems that made Raonoak famous. With so many mines of the same material close by, it was what had originally made Hawkshollow a fitting capital. King Hawk built a monopoly around the black rock and eventually spread his influence.

But now, even the proud walls were shattered. Great, big gaping holes were left in the castle's walls and the once mighty barricades that had kept invaders out were shattered in places. The town itself was a shell of its former self with entire homes and buildings being reduced to just the wooden skeletal frames. The castle itself had been gutted. No trace of the finery or prestige that once had made the edifice so great. Entire rooms had collapsed and there were still scorch marks from when the great fire had consumed it. From a distance, combined with the Spire of Sorcery that, the entirety of Hawkshollow look liked a bony, charred hand reaching out of its ashen grave, grasping for freedom.

Despite the dilapidation, many lords and ladies had attempted to 'tame' Hawkshollow. They had attempted to make it more liveable but the 'cursed' status of the city continued to return over and over again. Orradin recalled that one Lady Ceranvius once tried to claim Hawkshollow as her own. Apparently, her entire guard turned on her and raped her, passing her around amongst them until she was broken and battered. They then escaped to the wilderness to be bandits. Any who came to the city seemed to be overcome with madness or fell into misfortune. This dissent amongst the ranks was just the beginning and the tales of ghosts and spirits in the wings did not help matters.

Thankfully, some of the magic that maintained the Atlas Chamber still remained. Orradin strode through three-dimensional illusion. His blue eyes scanned every inch of the northlands, desperately searching for some avenue by which the orcs could have escaped.

“Could they have tunnelled out?" he wondered. “Is that how they have been traversing the lands? Underground tunnels?" He shook the thought out of his head. “No. We would have seen signs of that."

The door to the Chamber sprang open and Qurron came striding in with two guards, the butt of his staff clanking softly against the tiled floors with every step. All respect he may have had for the War Wizard faded the moment he realised just how pathetically weak the man was without his precious magic. He realised all too well how much the Alliance relied on their magic as well. Enchanted armour, magically enhanced weapons and spells at their disposal all gave everyone a crutch that they depended on far too much. In that sense, he was somewhat grateful that his powers had been significantly reduced when the Holy Triad had ascended to godhood.

“What is it, Qurron?" he demanded hotly. “I am currently preoccupied."

“Preoccupied with your mad obsession with the orcs," scowled the War Wizard. He lifted several letters from his robes. “We have just received word from Raonoak. Lord Eranius has returned and he bears troubling news."

Orradin's brow furrowed but he did not ask for more.

Irked by his disinterest, Qurron continued with his voice dripping with venom. “Other races are in open rebellion. The Minotaurs have sealed off their underground passages and are raiding dwarven mines. There has been a mass escape of the Rantori and they are amassing their forces. Races that were once our allies are turning on us while the broken and shattered Pirate Lords have amassed under the 'Undersea King' and striking at our oceanic supply lines! The Alliance is being attacked from all fronts just like it was during the War of Apotheosis!"

The hero snorted derisively and turned back to the map. “Maybe then the Holy Triad will endow children with divine powers and history will repeat itself." He gave the War Wizard a wry smile. “Think that the Triad orchestrated these uprisings?"

“Blasphemy!" the Wizard sneered. “The Triad warned us of the coming of the Unholy Trinity!"

“The Triad? Or you and your mage fellows?" Orradin turned fully towards the mage. “I seem to recall that that Samuel fellow is a mage himself. From what I heard, the College should have means to detect mages of significant power. Though some may slip through your bony fingers, they are nevertheless somewhat effective. I find it hard to believe that someone with so much power as Samuel, especially one capable of robbing others of their magical strength, could have avoided the College's eye."

Qurron's grip around his staff grew tighter, his bony knuckles growing white with rage. “Just what are you implying, Orradin?"

The blonde hero strode forward, passing through the illusionary Fangs of the World and stepping off the platform where the map was displayed. “You and your fellows are well aware that the College is quickly becoming obsolete in the eyes of the Holy Triad. All magic is fed down from the gods and now the clergy is capable of greater feats than yourself with the blessings of the divine. You must study and must grow old and grey before you can cast even the simplest of spells. The priests merely need faith and prayer to do exactly the same thing as you and even more.

“I would not be surprised if your College created Samuel and this 'Unholy Trinity' to challenge the gods while keeping yourselves relevant."

Qurron tensed, a scowl on his face. “That is a dangerous accusation especially for one who purposefully deceived one of the most promising students of the very same college and betrayed him at the last moment to save his own hide."

Orradin crossed his arms smugly. “You can prove nothing, Qurron. I simply used the traitor you had been training in the magical arts to discern the truth of what happened at Vramsteich. It proved once and for all that the orcs are involved. You and over two hundred men all saw the proof of the matter. Eranius cannot deny the truth now."

The War Wizard sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. “Eranius believed you from the first time the orcs began migrating. He was merely being cautious. The only thing you were hoping for is to be in the right and to have validation in your bloodlust against the orcs."

The Greenslayer bared his fangs and hiked a thumb against his chest. “I am looking out for Raonoak and the Alliance. My 'paranoia' is well founded and you know it! You should know full well the impact of these greenskin bastards! They have a mage on their side that can rob everyone of their magic!"

“Temporarily," Qurron corrected calmly and with a smidge of arrogance in his tone. “As you remember, within an hour of that craven leaving, magic returned to us and we were able to give chase."

“You think too narrowly, mage." Orradin plucked the sword from his hip and levelled it at Qurron. “Think of it. What damage can a single man do in an hour. Worse, imagine if Samuel was backed by a horde of orc warriors. With everyone else prone and unable to move or cast magic, those greenskins could stuff their cocks down your throat, spill their seed into your stomach and have you roaring and fucking just like the rest of them." He snorted softly and sheathed his blade. “Perhaps you would make a better orc than a mage."

The War Wizard shook his head angrily and turned to leave. “Your insults only degrade you further, Orradin." He lifted the letter over his shoulder. “Upon hearing of this news, the men wish to return to Raonoak. It is Lord Eranius' command. I expect you to pack your belongings and abandon this fruitless attempt to find the orcs. We must consolidate our power. Raonoak has more enemies than just the greenskins, after all."

Fury built up inside of Orradin. The orcs were close, he knew it. All he needed was proof. Something to urge them to continue searching and to fight beside him instead of following Qurron's obviously fabricated orders.

As the doors shut, Orradin clenched his fists and turned around, fully intent on letting out a loud roar of frustration. Instead, he found a man in white and gold armour standing in the middle of the Atlas Chamber, a cloak of the stars falling from his shoulders and a helm concealing all of his features save for a pair of deep, sapphire blue eyes with pupils shapes like eight pointed stars.

“You!"

Samuel lifted a hand, indicating silence. “You wish to goad your men and Qurron into continuing the fight against the orcs." It was a statement, not a question. “I have your solution." From beneath his cloak, he drew a few vials filled with a faintly glowing, viscous liquid. “But it will test your character."

Orradin's eyes widened at the sight of the formula but did not step forward. “And what sorcerous potion might that be?"

The mage-knight held the vials gently as he gestured at them with his free hand. “This is the seed of the new age orcs. One drop of this and the affected will become an orc themselves in a pleasurable, orgasmic experience. It need not be ingested either. Just mere physical contact with it will induce transformation."

The Greenslayer scowled. “And why would I want such devilry?"

“That is entirely up to you. You could bring this to Qurron, speak of my attempt at corrupting you and perhaps win his favour. I am sure with what you know of his motivations, he could stand to owe you a little more and this may act as the olive branch between you two. He might even be more willing to stay longer to search for the orcs. Conversely, you could bring it to Eranius, condemn Qurron entirely and earn his favour instead. Then there is the option of sneaking this into the food of your own men."

Orradin's eyes bulged. “Treachery!"

“Very well. Perhaps you can take it then."

The most vocal anti-orc man in all the Alliance tensed. So appalled by the notion of becoming an orc himself, Orradin simply could not formulate words.

“This will be very valuable to you, Orradin Greenslayer," said the mage-knight, striding forward. Taking full advantage of Orradin's stunned response, he placed the vials in the hero's hands. “What you choose to do with it is entirely up to you. But a word of advice…" He leaned close to the hero's ears, speaking in a soft whisper. “An enemy is easy to dismiss when you feel safe in your home and amongst your comrades. Take that away and a man will have no choice but to take up arms."

Samuel straightened and stepped back. “The orcs will attack the Alliance soon. Their first destination will be Whitepeak. Take that as you will."

******

Bhotanmar was a storm of activity. Smoke billowed out of the Blood Claw district as weapons and armour were quickly forged in preparation for the coming battle. The roar of battle and the clash of metal sounded all to the castle district during their training sessions. The spirits gathered their strength over the Thunder Caller district, physically manifesting as orbs of light that swirled over the stone homes. The Nightusk district was abnormally quiet but none more than the Earth Runner.

For today, the Earth Runners made their retreat.

And Oringruud was not very happy about it.

“You give them permission to leave!?" bellowed the Blood Claw chieftain. As was his custom, the raging orc slammed his fists into the nearest piece of furniture, in this case it was Ramdrud's desk.

The practiced politician and schemer let out a tired sigh and reorganised the papers sitting on his desk. “There is no point in forcing people to fight for us. Unwilling soldiers are just as bad as traitors. We would not be like the Alliance who conscripts its citizenry and then 'rehabilitates' them into soldiers."

Oringruud sneered and straightened. “That is not the point. If we start allowing our own people to leave then there will be those that will ask why we all simply do not leave! I have men amongst my ranks who are thinking of deserting!"

“Then I think that would be a question of your leadership and not Amthos, don't you?" Ramdrud replied smugly. “I have no such problems with my tribe and neither do any of the other chieftains." He leaned towards the Blood Claw with a smirk. “Perhaps it has something to do with your penchant of fucking your men and turning them red with ecstasy?"

Amthos sighed heavily. Ramdrud's spies had informed him of Oringruud's newfound ability to transform others into Red Orcs. While he at first thought nothing of it, Ramdrud warned him of the repercussions. For one thing, it was proven that only those whom Oringruud sprayed his seed upon turned into Red Orcs. Arnmok was the first but now there were more and more appearing. Countless victories in battle added with Oringruud's penchant for violence painted these Red Orcs as his 'chosen ones'. This put him in direct conflict with Amthos who had dissolved his tribe and attempted to break down the barriers between the tribes. Oringruud's actions seemed to stubbornly maintain the Blood Claw walls.

“So your little mice have heard of my new ability then," scowled Oringruud. “Well, it seems the Gods have deigned to bless me instead of saving all their favour for our dear Avatar."

“I would watch your tongue in the presence of the Ruler of Bhotanmar," Knaatl warned.

“You mean the Ruler of this death trap?" scowled the Blood Claw chieftain. “Honestly, were it not for the fact that I would never run from a battle, I would follow the Earth Runners and flee this place. This place that you led us to." He pointed an accusing finger at Amthos.

Samuel cleared his throat. “Actually, if you remember correctly, Oringruud, I led us to this place. And while your actions of tribal pride is admirable, I suggest you curb your temper lest you wish for the Avatar to keep you on a short leash."

The Blood Claw chieftain instantly recoiled and sank back into his seat. Amthos had to wonder what Samuel knew of the situation. Sadly, he could not focus on the politics of Bhotanmar at the moment. His mind kept wandering over to Luxaeus. Being so consumed with being an orc, he had forgotten about his brother and his father, both still very much human. When Luxaeus came back, he was thrilled and never even gave it a second thought of turning him into an orc. He would have been glad to fuck his brother himself.

But that Luxaeus wanted him to turn back into a human…

He had never considered that possibility.

“Avatar."

He shook himself back into reality and realised that everyone was awaiting his response. “Apologies. I have been… distracted of late. What were we discussing?"

“This is pointless," growled Oringruud, rising to his feet. “Our plan is solid. The Blood Claws will sail out on the morrow through the blizzard. We will keep ourselves a good distance away and allow Grauhl and his army to make landfall. The moment they do, we will strike from behind while they batter themselves against Urthak's wall. In the meantime, Dalgmar is to see if he can do something about the damn blizzard! It'll be hard enough sailing out to sea but coming back without losing any men would take the gods' good graces and more. Any orc that falls into these freezing waters would be dead before they could drown."

“And when Grauhl does finally appear, leave him to me," Amthos concluded. “The might of the Old Gods gives me immunity to magic and elemental resistances. Further, with Grimight and all of your loyalty, I will be able to defeat him."

“I still say it would be much easier if I just pin him between the eyes with an arrow from Duskvenom," Knaatl grumbled. “My arrows will strike anyone and envenom them."

“Only during the night," Samuel corrected. “Grauhl will make landfall by tomorrow morning. Duskvenom's arrows will only fly as far and as strong as you would be willing to pull it."

“And where will you be?" Oringruud snarled.

“Hopefully trying to quell the blizzard alongside Dalgmar."

“Trying? I thought nothing was out of your reach as long as you asked."

“The blizzard is not merely a force of nature, Oringruud. It is the embodiment of Grauhl's fury, his rage. He has become like an elemental. His very soul infuses the very snowflakes and Bhotanmar itself. How do you think he knew we were here?"

Oringruud turned to leave, turning his back to them. “I honestly thought you told him as part of another one of your schemes." With those last words, the Blood Claw chieftain left.

The words did haunt Amthos however and he turned to his advisor. “Tell me, Samuel, did you tell Grauhl of our arrival?"

The No One shook his head grimly. “No. The Old Gods failed to inform me of the existence of the First Ones and I detect faint traces of the Holy Triad in the First Orc."

Dalgmar seemed aghast as the blasphemy. “Garodrash would betray us?"

Samuel gave the shaman a sidelong glance. “No."

“Then why would he not tell you of the First Ones?"

“Gods seldom like being reminded that there are others more powerful than them."

Knaatl threw his head back and let out a bellowing laugh.

Amthos lifted an eyebrow at that. “You are more powerful than the Old Gods?"

“No," came the short reply. “But Grauhl reminds them of their mistakes and their lack of omnipotence. Grauhl once rose up against them, after all. Some would argue that it is better to forget a failure than fix it." Samuel locked gazes with the Avatar. “You have something to ask me, Amthos."

Now that it was called out, Amthos had no choice but to ask. “What do you know about Oringruud's ability to create Red Orcs? Is it truly a gift from the Old Gods?"

Samuel shrugged his shoulders. “Yes and no. Yes in that it is by the Old Gods' intervention that he obtained that power and no in that they did not give him that ability. I did."

Silence fell upon the audience chamber and even Arnmok looked rather nervous as he held his magical spear tightly. Amthos had been expecting this revelation and he had braced himself for the betrayal that would come. The No One had warned him that they would be at odds with one another at one point or another. But this… He had worked so hard, searched his soul so much to come to the perfect way to rule… and now Samuel had created a division between Bhotanmar and Oringruud.

Then he remembered that Samuel had also given that map to Urthak.

And he came to a realisation.

“Do you agree with my policy of uniting the orcs under a single banner? Of removing the barriers between tribes?"

When the answer came, it was so short, so simple that it inflamed every drop of Amthos' blood.

“Yes."

The Avatar sprang to his feet and slammed a fist into the back of his chair with enough strength that he sheered the top of the wooden furniture with ease. “Do not lie to me!" The fragments of the chair scattered across the dais. “Why else would you give Urthak that map that would the Earth Runners out of Bhotanmar!? Why would you empower Oringruud to make more Red Orcs!?"

It irked him that Samuel did not show any emotion. At one point, he wished he could just reach over, rip that helmet off his head and see the fear in his face.

“I have my reasons."

“You are not helping your case, Hel'midar," rumbled Dalgmar. “While I have put my faith in you before, the spirits shy away from you and fear you. Even Incarius is somewhat leery of you. You will excuse me if my level of trust has dipped with this recent revelation."

Amthos looked to Ramdrud, his spymaster. The bald but fashionably dressed orc was rubbing his chain and regarding Samuel with a look of calculation. Turning his attention back to the No One, he said, “You are my advisor but I acknowledge that you are also an individual with your own schemes and ideals. However, what you have done is create a wedge between Bhotanmar and the rest of the orcs. You are splintering us. We are forging a nation of unity not one of segregation like it used to be."

Samuel inclined his head slightly to the side. “You know, I find the parallels quite fascinating. The Holy Alliance was once forged of three separate races that came as one under a single banner, melding the concepts of race, individuality and national pride into one. Dwarves, orcs and humans all just became known as the 'Alliance'. I find it hilarious that there were also three major tribes that have splintered off from Amthosruud, those of Bhotanmar, the Blood Claws and the fleeing Earth Runners."

Knaatl lost all humour in his voice and was rising to his feet as well. “You did not just compare Amthos to the Triad!"

The No One's eyes narrowed slightly. “But I do not see you refuting my claim."

“He is nothing like the Triad!" Knaatl stormed over to Amthos, resting a hand on his shoulder firmly. “None are being forced to stay and fight! The option to leave with the Earth Runners was open to any that would go! Oringruud forces his will upon others by having them consume his tainted seed!"

“But are his views wrong? Is it wrong to remember where you come from? Your heritage? You are all orcs of Amthosruud but you still come from different walks of life and that has all guided you on your path here. Would you forget about being human once all to be an orc?"

A twang of pain struck Amthos as he realised this was more than just Samuel allowing the Blood Claws to maintain a sense of tribal identity. This was about him and Luxaeus. The topic was too painful to think off and he turned his gaze away from the No One.

“Your actions have caused division in our time of need," he said firmly. “While I value your opinion and words, I do not agree with what you have done. For this, I am confining you to your quarters. Stay there unless called."

Everyone had their doubts that simply putting a guard in front of a door would confine the No One there but it was more symbolic than anything. If Samuel defied Amthos, they would know where his allegiances lay. Trust in him would be very scarce.

Of course, the mage-knight surprised them all.

“As you wish."

Samuel strode down the dais, walking past Amthos towards the exit. But he stopped midway.

“One last thing before I leave though."

Amthos' heart froze in anticipation.

“Remember when I told you that I would defy you?"

Samuel turned a gaze over his shoulder.

“This was not it.

*******

When the meeting finished, the chieftains and their attendants began to filter out of the audience chamber, each of them eager to see to their preparations from Grauhl's upcoming invasion. Arnmok followed the Avatar quietly down the hallway until he was sure they were alone. After casting one last look over his shoulder, he spoke.

“Samuel dinna intend fer, dran'mok ta use his gifts like that, ya know."

Amthos stopped in the middle of the vast, gilded hallway. The stained glass windows were wide open allowing for a chilling breeze to filter through and cause his red cape to billow out behind him. “I sincerely doubt that," replied the Avatar gravely. “Samuel has the uncanny ability to see into the future or perhaps all the possibilities of the future. I am not too sure. Whether or not he intended this to be the outcome, he knew it was a possibility and at this time, I cannot have him making such foolish risks without consulting me."

Arnmok made a face and grimaced slightly. “Dun ya think yer bein' a little… controllin'? Dinna ya want all th' orcs ta be free ta choose their life? Why d'ya care if th' Blood Claws 're red or green? D'ya care that Ah'm red?"

Amthos turned towards the Red Orc, his yellow eyes appraising his bodyguard shrewdly. “Honestly, yes. The colour of your flesh is a constant reminder to me of Oringruud's plot to throw me into a rage and make harsh decisions. Something he is now aware that I know of."

That reminder made the Red Orc sick to his stomach. Though he had yet to fully pledge his loyalty to Amthos, he still felt that the connection between him and Knaatl was strong enough to prove to Amthos that he was loyal to the Avatar. Unless, of course, Knaatl did not speak of their experience to anyone. And why would he?

This very morning, they had awoken into one another's arms and awkwardly meandered around one another before leaving Knaatl's home, still stinking of sex. Arnmok bathed in one of the public baths to avoid scrutiny. Neither he nor Knaatl had spoken to one another since their encounter and there was a degree of shame in the chieftain's eyes when their gazes met even briefly.

“Ah dun know how ta tell ya this… but ya can't judge an orc on th' colour o' 'is skin." He pressed a large hand against his leather breastplate. “Ah know sum orcs in the Blood Claws that're scared o' bein' facefucked by th' chieftain. He ain't gentle…"

“And here I thought nothing about the Blood Claws was gentle," scoffed Amthos, turning back around and continuing down his path. “I had envisioned all the orcs being a single tribe. I disbanded my Frost Tribe, the tribe that Oberyn charged me with, so that they may be the uniting bridge that will bring all the other tribes together. They would mingle with Blood Claw, Earth Runner or Thunder Caller, share their experiences and slowly bring them together as one. But Oringruud… He seems to have other plans."

Arnmok scratched the back of his head absently. “If ya dun mind me sayin' so, that seems kinda… Ah dunno… underhanded?"

There, the Avatar froze. “What?" he sneered.

The Red Orc held up his free hand in apology. “Ah dun mean any offense. Jus'… Seems ta me like yer sendin' yer tribe ta the others only ta make 'em more like th' Frost. Kinda like castin' a net out…" He grumbled at himself. “Sorry… I ain't good with words…"

Amthos sighed heavily and turned away once more. “No. You make a valid point. I can see how some might see it that way and I suppose this is a perspective that Oringruud sees. Perhaps even Samuel. Something to think about." He shook his head free of these thoughts, unwilling to let more doubt creep into his mind. “I have business to attend to in the city. Check on Luxaeus. Knowing my brother, he will not take confinement very well."

“Ya sure ya dun need me ta come with ya? Ah mean, dran'mok ain't gonna attack ya outright an' not so soon befer th' battle but if he makes ya look weak…"

“I can handle myself, Arnmok." Amthos gave him a faint smile. “You need not treat me with gloves. Should Oringruud have the gall to attack me out in the open, I will face my wrath. Tell him that next time he asks."

Arnmok nodded faintly. “Yessir…"

He watched the Avatar leave him and found himself sighing softly. His allegiances were being tested. On some level, he truly appreciated Oringruud. The orc took him into his tribe, gave him a place amongst Bhotanmar and an identity and even swore aid in rescuing Ruven. Then again, it was Amthos and Knaatl who had actually put into motion the rescue operation. Added to that the fact that Knaatl was such a gentler lover…

What would life had been if Knaatl had never discovered his true identity and he had become a Nightusk instead of a Blood Claw? He quivered at the thought of being Knaat's gran'mok.

Memories of that night fed his cock with blood and he growled at himself for letting himself get distracted. Now was not the time to wonder about what could be. For now, he had to find Luxaeus and make sure the Avatar's brother was safely confined.

Bhotanmar palace had a rather symmetrical design and now that he took that into account, he realised it was all to allow ease of access to invading enemies. A sizeable force could easily barricade one of the central paths and cut off all exits to the entire castle. They would be caught between two forces on either end but an enterprising commander could easily use that to their advantage.

“At least I learned sumthin' from Luxaeus…" he muttered to himself as he strode up the steps to the executive quarters.

That thought, however, began to slow his pace as he came to a crushing realisation.

This would be the first time he would be speaking to Luxaeus face-to-face since the paladin has thrown him into the rehabilitation camp. Would Luxaeus even recognise him? The confrontation filled him with a sense of unease. Part of him wondered if he should be smug about it, boasting at how Luxaeus had turned him into an orc. Another wondered if he should be grateful. A simple peat farmer turned into the Avatar of the Orc's personal bodyguard was quite a promotion. If anyone had told him this was where his life would lead when he was human, he would have torn out their teeth out of sheer spite.

Of course, there was no reason for Luxaeus to know who he was…

After being reduced to a gibbering mess, Arnmok felt humbled. Coming to terms with liking a man's cock up his ass and worshiping a virile, dominant male was also something he never expected of himself. But just remembering the tenderness of Knaatl's lovemaking…

He grunted to himself softly and shuffled behind one of the tall, stylised pillars. Grateful for the bitter cold of Bhotanmar, his erection quickly subsided, allowing him to focus. Resolved strengthened, Arnmok continued through the executive quarters to where Luxaeus was currently residing. Two orcs guards were there keeping watch and as he approached, the gave him a nod and a grunt of acknowledgement.

“The Avatar wishes me to check on his brother," he rumbled.

“Winterpaw is in there with him," one of the guards said. “Try not to be too surprised if he starts talking to the Warg. They hold entire conversations with one another."

Having gone through Naught himself, he had no doubt that the real of infinite possibilities could affect someone so drastically. Though his passage was somewhat dull because Ruven was there beside him and the shaman was very well grounded. Still, the stroll through the endless white world was left its mark on his soul.

That place was not somewhere he would like to visit again.

The Red Orc pushed open the broad doors into Luxaeus' room, amazed at how despite centuries, the iron hinges did not creak or wail. Past the ornately decorated, wooden frame, he found Luxaeus standing in front of the en suite with Winterpaw by his side.

“But what is it?" asked the paladin, completely befuddled.

Confused himself, Arnmok stepped into the broad room as big as his childhood home. The stone floors were made of the same dark stone as the rest of the castle. Bright red carpets covered the cold floor and brilliant, silky curtains hung all over the walls. A masterful painting of Raonoak was placed above the hearth while a desk and furniture made of brilliant, coppery wood was artfully placed within the chamber. The bed itself was enormous, bigger than a whole wagon and with a mattress as thick as an orc's thigh. Nestled between four posts, the bed was decorated with furs and the same curtains that added colour to the room. A balcony stood with its tall floor-to-ceiling windows shut but offered an unobstructed view of the Thunder Caller district and the sparkling spirits within.

“How can you not know?" Luxaeus demanded suddenly. “You've been living here for months." Then he rolled his eyes. “Right. Of course use that excuse." Winterpaw growled at him. “So instead of using this… this… alien chamber pot, you just shit anywhere you want and others clean up your mess for you."

Arnmok approached the to. “What're ya two talkin' 'bout?"

The Warg and paladin turned, a look of surprise on their face.

“Oh… it's you." Luxaeus lifted a hand. “I did not mean to be rude. It is just that when Winterpaw and I are conversing, all else seems dulled around us. It is as if we are back in Naught and the only thing standing out in the infinite landscape is my friend here." He gave Winterpaw a gentle scratch behind the ear, something the Warg clearly disliked and snapped his jaws at him. “Sorry! Sorry! Not a dog. I keep forgetting."

The Paladin turned to Arnmok. “To what do we owe this pleasure, red one?"

Arnmok shrugged his broad shoulders. “Th' Avatar sent me ta check up on ya. Make sure ya ain't hurtin' yerself or sumthin'." He beckoned towards the toilet. “Sumthin' cloggin' yer toilet?"

Luxaeus glanced over his shoulder at the porcelain device. “So it is called a toilet, eh? How exactly does it work? Where does the water come from when I pull that rope? Where does it go?"

It was a question Arnmok had asked when he first arrived in Bhotanmar. Samuel had given them all instructions on how to use it. He quickly explained to the older Reinhardt that their leavings sat in the bowl much like a chamber pot but when they pulled the rope, water sent up from the pipes that ran all over the city flushed the faeces down another trail of pipes out into the ocean. Apparently, the goblins invented the technological wonders before they were enslaved by the Alliance and the knowledge faded off in favour of the chamber pots the Alliance favoured. He did not know the specifics but he assured Luxaeus all he had to do was sit on the seat, do his business and then pull the rope when he was done.

The Paladin shook his head gruffly. “It seems unnatural to me."

“That's what we all thought," chuckled Arnmok. “But ya get used to it." He inclined his head to the side. “'ey, if ya ain't been usin' the toilet, where've ya been goin'?"

Straightening in his plain, white tunic and trousers, Luxaeus gave Arnmok an indignant look. “I am a Paladin of the Holy Triad. I am not so crass as to go in the corner of my own room or outside in the bushes. I have simply… been restraining myself."

The Red Orc had to chuckle softly. “Good thin' yer brother sent me ta check up on ya. Ya'd prolly burst if ya held it in any longer."

Scowling at the orc, Luxaeus strode into the en suite and slammed the door shut behind him. Arnmok thought it best to leave at that moment but then he wondered how much damage an untrained adult man would do to a toilet. There were stories from the Thunder Callers where orc forgot to put the seat down and broke bones as they tumbled into the bowl. He imagined Amthos would not be very pleased with him if Luxaeus was sent to the healers on his watch.

Thankfully, there was a loud flushing noise a moment later and Luxaeus emerged, looking relieved and a little more pleased. “Ah, you are still here."

“Jus' wanted ta make sure ya dinna break somethin' in there."

The Paladin puffed out his chest. “I am a grown man and I can handle my own bowel movements, thank you very much." His confidence ebbed a moment later. “Though I find myself confined within these quarters like a child caught with his hand in the baker's bin…"

That sense of confinement was certainly something that Arnmok knew all too well but wherein Luxaeus was forced into his makeshift prison, Arnmok found himself cornered by two dominating forces. On the one side was Knaatl who comforted him but had threatened to kill him once, even going so far as to break his arm. The other was Oringruud, his progenitor but someone whose ambitions were dividing Bhotanmar. Both he felt wanted him on their side.

Or perhaps he was just imagining the attraction between him and Knaatl. Was it possible that the manlust had just driven them both into the carnal act of lovemaking? Or was the Nightusk chieftain merely using him to get to Oringruud?

Either way, he found himself caged and unable to move.

Much like Luxaeus.

“Yer brother jus' wants ta make sure ya dun hurt yerself or others of Bhotanmar…"

“I am a Paladin," said Luxaeus firmly. “I stand for justice. I would not harm the innocent."

“Then why'd Amthos put ya in here?"

Winterpaw rumbled something and Luxaeus shot him a piercing look. “For thinking of our family and our future." The Paladin's brown eyes went back to Arnmok. “Tell me, fair orc, do you have any brothers or sisters? Your parents, do they yet live?"

“M'dad, yeah," rumbled Anrmok. “But he's back in th' swamp prolly farmin' fer peat again. Why?"

Luxaeus went over to the balcony window, peering out into the expanse of the city and leaning against the wooden frame. “Would you see him turned into an orc just like you? Do you see a future where you and he life happily together both as orcs or as one orc and one man?"

“Ah dun really care." The Red Orc crossed his arms, spear resting against the nook of his massive bicep and forearm. “M'dad wus an ass. Bastard did nuthin' but beat me iffa dinna do m' chores. An' even then, he'd still beat me. Called me a 'waste o' space'. Only thin' he ever approved o' was me hunting Greenskin Sympathisers." He shrugged his massive shoulders. “If he gets turned inta an orc, fine. If not, Ah dun give a damn."

He got a pitying look from the Paladin. “I am sorry to hear that. Would that you had a loving parent perhaps none of this would have happened."

“Ah dun need yer pity. Ah like my life now." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Actually… it is a better life but it ain't without it's problems."

“Oh?"

Arnmok looked up to the genuinely curious Paladin. “Jus'… Well, ya know Ah'm heir to th' Blood Claws, right?"

He received a nod of affirmation. “From what Winterpaw has told me, yes. The Blood Claws are also somewhat of an opposition party to Thomas' rule. Oringruud, their chieftain, is very vocal and favours violence. He pushes for an invasion of Alliance lands."

“Yeah… an' he wants me ta use Bloodspear ta drive the Avatar mad with rage," added the orc, regarding the crimson tip of his spear. “But Ramdrud an' Amthos already know of th' plot an' Ah ain't gonna betray them, not after they helped save Ruven.' He shook his head. “Still… I owe Oringruud a lot fer takin' me in an' Ah'm still a Blood Claw."

“Torn between your loyalty to my brother and your progenitor, eh?" Luxaeus laughed softly. “I do not envy you, my friend."

“There's more." Arnmok winced a little. “Oringruud sorta thinks only he gets ta fuck me…"

Luxaeus immediately lifted his hands in surprise. “Oh! Please! I do not need that imagery!"

The Red Orc sighed and began to turn away. “Right. Sorry. Ah'll go…"

“No, no!" The Paladin crossed the gap between them and gripped his arm. “Please, go ahead. Tell me your woes. Just… be tasteful about it?" The smile that Luxaeus gave him was quite charming. It was a little like looking down at a begging puppy. He wondered how much of Winterpaw had bled into the Paladin after all.

“Right…" Arnmok muttered. Luxaeus pulled him by the arm to his bed and they sat side by side. Winterpaw crawled onto the bed as well and lay at their back, offering a sort of fluffy, backrest. “I'm Oringruud's goe'mok. Sort of… his son. Ah dun know much 'bout orc hist'ry but Ah think that makes us exclusive."

“And you found someone else?"

The Red Orc winced. “Ah think… See… after ya sent me to Vramsteich –" He immediately cut himself off as he realised he has just made a critical error. Winterpaw immediately sat up, ears perked and Luxaeus pulled back in surprise.

“I sent you to Vramsteich?" repeated the Paladin. His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “Who are you?"

Anrmok swallowed hard. “Jus'… another guy…"

The Paladin thrust his lower lips forward in thought. “Something I noted amongst the others that were transformed into orcs, their new names are variations of their old names just with the letters scrambled. You are Arnmok… so that would make you…"

He just prayed that Luxaeus would not guess the correct combination of latters.

“Komran? Karnom? Orkman?"

The Red Orc inclined his head to the side in confusion. It took him a full minute to realise that the letters of his name could actually be rearranged to spell 'Orkman'. The irony was not lost on him. Perhaps he was always destined to be an orc.

“Mrakon!" Luxaeus exclaimed, eyes wide. “You are Mrakon!"

The Red Orc flinched at his former name. “Ah ain't Mrakon no more."

Luxaeus gave him a soft chuckle. “Imagine the irony. The man I condemned for unbridled hatred turns out to be the bodyguard of my very brother." He glanced at Bloodspear. “And with a magical weapon capable of causing any touched by it to fly into a rage. The Gods truly have a sense of humour."

“The Gods or Samuel?"

The Paladin threw his head back and laughed. “I would not trust the Star-Eyed Wolf as far as I could throw him. It was his machinations that got me incarcerated!"

“How?"

“He had me confess I wanted Thomas to return to being human after this was all done," said Luxaeus in a matter-of-factly tone. Winterpaw let out a grunt of disproval and Luxaeus threw him a stare. “Please, I'm sure you would be grateful for less weight to carry around."

“Ya want Amthos to go back ta bein' human?" Arnmok repeated. “Why?"

Luxaeus leaned back, resting his head against Winterpaw's flanks and looking up at the velvety canopy above his head. “For family. I love my brother and I know my father does too. I do not think it fair that we be turned to orcs just because he is one too. Worse, every drop of his seed is infectious and he is constantly battling this 'manlust' that the new age brings. We would be constantly wary around him. And what if we have guests or children? One 'accident' and lives could be drastically altered."

That was a valid point and now that Arnmok thought about it, he wondered how all the non-orcs of Bhotanmar survived not being turned. It surely was a constantly trial especially with the Blood Claws out there.

Could orc and non-orc truly co-exist.

“If ya could find a way ta turn 'im back ta an orc, would ya force 'im to?"

Luxaeus straightened and gave Arnmok a startled look. “What do you mean?"

“Ya wanna be a family again, right? An' ya can't see it happenin' if yer all not all orcs or yer not all human. Would ya force 'im ta be human if ya could?"

The Paladin frowned and lowered his head, deep in thought. Winterpaw even lifted his head, regarding Luxaeus curiously. A long moment of silence passed as the muscular white-clad man focused on his own hands and pondered the question.

“I would never want to force something onto someone that does not deserve it. My brother…" A big sigh left the Paladin's broad chest. “… does not deserve to be forced back into his human shape if he does not want to." He lifted his gaze. “He is uniting a shattered and broken people. He has given them hope and a means to continue their line. That does not deserve condemnation or being forced into becoming something that he does not want."

Arnmok looked to the door, lost in his own thoughts. “Yeah… If yer good an' just, ain't no reason ya can't be who ya wanna be."

He felt Luxaeus smile and the Paladin rested a hand on his thigh. “Sounds like you have an answer to your own problem, my friend."

The Red Orc nodded, a smile crawling onto his lips. “Yeah… I think I do."

*******

“Yes, Lord Rainbringer," Ramdrud said with a pleasant smile. “Amthosruud would welcome you into its rule and you would have our protection from any retribution that Alliance may make." He waved a large, green hand absently through the air, wiggling his fingers around dismissively. “And you need not worry about taxes. We orcs have no such concept."

One of the many things that Ramdrud found interesting about the orc society was the lack of taxation. Coming from a tribal society and one that was mostly destitute, no one ever paid taxes. This carried over even to Bhotanmar. Amthos ruled out of respect. When something needed to get done, the tribes all contributed in building it or those wanted it done, did it themselves. He wondered how this would translate to other races who clearly had a concept of money.

Lord Rainbringer, a minor noble on the western side of the continent resting amongst the foothills of the Fangs of the World, fidgeted nervously where he sat. Through the shimmering disc of light in front of him, Ramdrud spoke straight to the noble. He could not personally make trips out past the blizzard but magic such as this still managed to penetrate Grauhl's storm. A pity that the portal magics did not work but it was important to keep up appearances.

“Well, uhm… yes… good..." muttered Rainbringer. The man was old, his hair completely white and heavy wrinkles around his face. The poor fellow looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a long while. The ravages of age. Ramdrud mildly wondered how he would deal with the ravages of time now that he was an orc. Tough even as an aged orc, Dalgmar looked rather fetching. “Can we… erm… Can we expect a visit from you soon, your grace?" the elderly man muttered again.

'Your Grace' sounded quite nice. Perhaps when Amthos moved his capital like he was wont to do, he could be the duke of Bhotanmar. The icy, scheming spymaster of the north. All trade would come through to Bhotanmar via the Lookout's central hub of the portal network. It would be a prime location to ferret out new information and gossip.

Ramdrud fought to remain in the present. He had to maintain the appearances that Bhotanmar and indeed Amthosruud was still a functioning and strong country. Grauhl's arrival was not something he openly advertised to his contacts past the Fangs and he continued to build alliances with disenfranchised nobles and abused townships. From what he heard, things were starting to get very… desperate in the Alliance lands as conscription and brutal laws were enforced to maintain law and order.

“Perhaps some time soon, Lord Rainbringer," Ramdrud said with a pleasant smile. “I will be sure to send prior notice."

A knock came to the door but before he could bid whomever it was to wait, the large double doors to his office creaked open slightly. He gave an exasperated sigh as Ruven slipped in quietly. The supposed 'conduit for the spirits' had been bothering him quite often lately. Being a clerk back in his home town had given Ruven some administrative experience and while he practiced communing with the spirits, he also found himself using his abilities for clerical tasks. He had to admit that Ruven had a knack for organising and finding notes that Ramdrud had misplaced.

“Ruven," Ramdrud said dryly. “If you would excuse me. I am currently in a meeting with the esteemed Lord Rainbringer."

The human shaman lifted a hand. “I will be brief, milord." He lifted a few papers he had in his hand. “The spirits tell me that Lady Estraad from Lorrenlake is sending a fleet to us and will be here within two weeks."

“Yes. I already know that."

“But it is an invasion fleet, sir," Ruven said grimly. “She hopes that whatever happens, there will be something for her to loot. Either our troops will be weakened and she can take them captive or she can look Bhotanmar once Grauhl leaves."

Rainbringer looked curious. “Grauhl? Who is Grauhl?"

There went his care in avoiding the topic of the First Orc in front of Rainbringer. Ramdrud gave the fidgeting noble a confident smile. “Just a minor inconvenience from a land far to the north. Nothing to worry about, Rainbringer."

Ruven was suddenly by his side, leaning forward at the large disc with his brow furrowed. “Something is wrong here…"

“Ruven," Ramdrud scowled. “This is not the time…"

“No, wait…" The shaman peered straight at Rainbringer and the noble flinched.

“Is this common practice amongst the orcs, Ramdrud?" said the Lord of Shatterhill. “Do you let your human slaves interrupt you at any given moment?"

That irked the spymaster in more ways than one. “He is neither a slave nor one who interrupts without warrant. He is the most naturally talented shaman amongst us. A Spirit King even said so."

Before Rainbringer could reply, Ruven suddenly reeled back in surprise. “You're in your Atlas Chamber!"

The noble shrugged his bony shoulders. “And?"

“The Atlas Chamber provides a full map of all of known Tirinead!"

“Your shaman is mad, Ramdrud," scowled the noble. “He simply states fact."

Ramdrud would not show weakness in front of an ally and glanced at the noble. “If he has concerns, then I will hear them." He nodded towards Ruven. “What is it Ruven?"

Ruven was very animated, waving his hands wildly in a rather adorable way. “The Atlas Chamber has the ability to update itself based on the collective knowledge of the College of Mages!" He pointed accusingly at Rainbringer. “He is communing with you from his Atlas Chamber so that he can find us! He has a mage searching for Bhotanmar right now!"

Rainbringer went pale and Ramdrud already realising the truth. He smirked softly and regarded the human noble. “A bid for power, Lord Rainbringer? Hoping to elevate yourself in court by identifying where the orcs are housed? Admirable. Sadly, with this betrayal, I believe Shatterhill will be one of the first places that the horde reduces to rubble." He made a show of picking up a quill and writing on a piece of parchment. “I believe we shall visit you very soon indeed. What say you to a month from this point hence, hmmm?"

Without waiting for an answer, he waved a hand and dismissed the spell, immediately ending the image of the bony old man. The smug smile on his face faded with the Lord of Shatterhill.

“How much do you think they know?" he asked.

Ruven looked worriedly at where the shimmering disc had been. “It is hard to tell. The spirits only told me that someone was trying to find our location through the communication. What little arcane tracing I could do did not reveal how much they had learned."

“Though now that they know Lady Estraad is sending her troops here, Rainbringer will likely attempt to charm his way into her good graces," Ramdrud said, drumming his fingers across his desk.

Ruven ducked his head apologetically. “Sorry, chieftain. It was urgent news and something I thought to bring to your attention immediately."

“No need to apologise. Lady Estraad is known as the 'Western Black Widow' for a reason. Any man who attempts to get close to her generally finds themselves lacking the ability to live. If Rainbringer will risk an alliance with her to further his own ambitions, he does so at the risk of his own life."

The shaman placed the parchments he had been holding onto Ramdrud's desk. “I still apologise for interrupting your meeting, chieftain. I shall be going."

“One moment." Ramdrud rose from behind his desk and wandered over to one of the shelves full of exotic drinks he had brought in. From a decanter, he poured a clear, greenish liquid into two glasses. He handed one such glass to Ruven. “Stay a while. I am in need of the company."

“Thank you, chieftain," Ruven said meekly, taking the glass. He took a sip from it and immediately gagged, making Ramdrud laugh.

“It is something Dalgmar calls 'Hearthfire'. Does not contain a drop of alcohol but it will set your veins afire. Good for these long, cold nights."

Ruven let out a short, derisive laugh. “I would have thought that nights would not be cold nor lonely for one such as yourself." The fledgling shaman gagged a moment and immediately lifted his hand in apology. “I did not mean anything by that, chieftain. Just –"

Ramdrud only laughed. “I see Dalgmar has encouraged you to speak your mind. Good. A sharp tongue is nothing to be ashamed of. I would personally encourage it."

“The spirits say the same…" said Ruven abashedly. “The spirits of fire encourage me to be more outgoing, more passionate. The spirits of storm urge me to be more carefree and less worrisome. Those of earth tell me to find something I am passionate about and hold to it while the spirits of sea teach me to make the best of the situation."

“You sound as if you do not like the current situation you are in."

Ruven took a sip from his cup. “Only a madman would relish the thought of being trapped within a city about to be invaded by an ancient evil." He grimaced at the taste of the Heartfire but made no complaints.

“Some would consider it a worthy challenge," Ramdrud said with a soft chuckle. “Others would see it as not fighting against a ghoul from the frozen north but defending their home."

“You are not worried?"

Ramdrud set down his glass and peered out the broad windows behind his desk. “I am no warrior on the battlefield. But I have come to identify with the orcs and Bhotanmar. This is my home and come what may, I will stand beside my brothers and fight alongside them."

“Are you not afraid of dying?"

The orc spymaster chuckled softly. “Always. But whether it be political manoeuvres or wielding a blade, I am always at the risk of dying." He lifted at arm, flexing a bicep. “Perhaps it is time I put these muscles to good use."

Ruven lowered his gaze. “I only wish I had your stature so that I could at least be a shield or a sword in the upcoming battle."

Thus the reason for the shaman's melancholy.

“You feel that you will not be able to contribute to the upcoming battle," Ramdrud stated. “Your shamanism would be of great use. From what I hear, your mere presence has the spirits here less flighty. The Thunder Callers were exhausting themselves trying to keep them from fleeing especially once the blizzard arrived."

“So I hear…" Ruven swirled the bright green liquid in his glass, staring at the sloshing fluids ruefully. “But I hope to contribute more than just simply standing and being present. My dearest friend was imprisoned in an Alliance rehabilitation camp and I did nothing but retreat to be a mage. Even after months, I could accomplish little more than generate a few sparks."

“That is because you were focusing on the wrong art." Ramdrud wandered back to his seat and sat down, resting his big feet on the large, stone desk. “From what I hear, the arts of magic are very selective. If you attempt the wrong art to that which you are aligned to, you will fail. Now that you know you are destined to be a shaman, why not embrace it?"

“Embracing shamanism is simple." Ruven took another sip from his glass. This time, he did not grimace. “The issue rests with becoming a shaman."

“How so?"

“The Thunder Callers' Trial of Tusks."

As a chieftain himself, Ramdrud was very much aware of the Trial of Tusks for his own tribe. Given his recent duties, he could not always indulge in accepting new initiates and had to hand over the Trials to some of his more trusted confidants. It was hard to miss the Trial of the Blood Claws and he was close friends with Knaatl and knew of his tribe's Trial. With Amthos disbanding the Frost Tribe, their Trial was no longer needed. Only the Earth Runners and the Thunder Callers' trials remained a mystery to him.

“What of it?" he asked.

“It involved the spirits greatly," said Ruven, waving a hand expressively. “To become a full member of the Thunder Callers and truly call yourself a shaman, you must accept a spirit into yourself." He looked to Ramdrud apologetically. “You see, a spirit is very much confined to the element that they inhabit. A spirit of a rock can never move beyond that. It can never feel the wind, drink water or experience the tender kiss of the warm sun. As a shaman, we can act as conduits to the spirits. They can share our experiences of flesh and it is something that they crave. In exchange, they assist us when we ask."

Ruven turned his eyes back to the green liquid in his glass. With one swing, he tipped it all into his mouth and swallowed hard. “My problem is that I am apparently compatible with any form of spirit. Most shamans favour only one or two types of spirits and become a conduit to either. I can channel any."

Ramdrud shrugged. “So why not channel them all?"

“Mostly because like men, spirits contest over land and bear grudges. A spirit of the storm will likely not tolerate the same shaman as a spirit of earth. Spirits of water and fire scarcely get along. It is a talented shaman who can convince two opposing spirits to aid him at the same time. Getting all four to endure each other's presence at my behest is far more than I can handle."

The orc spymaster smirked. “Then perhaps you just need an expert negotiator such as myself to convince them all to cooperate?"

Ruven let out a short laugh. “Well played, chieftain. I appreciate the offer, but the politics of spirits is unlike the politics of mortals."

“Perhaps. Though if I have read you well…" Ramdrud leaned forward, lowering his feet and regarding Ruven intently. “You are unable to decide on which spirit to align yourself to because you feel that they are contesting over you and to choose one would isolate the other. Worse, doing so could potentially cause those other spirits to abandon you and flee Bhotanmar, weakening our defences. Conversely, you understand that in order to realise your full potential as a shaman, you must accept a spirit unto yourself. You hope to do this to aid in the upcoming battle. If not that, then you at least hope that the Thunder Callers will give you an orcish body so you can at least wield a blade. Sadly, neither will occur if you cannot decide on a spirit." He made circles in the air with a finger. “Thus you find yourself stuck in an unending cycle."

Ruven gave him a soft smile but could not meet his gaze. “Your powers of observation are legendary as they say."

The flattery was appreciated but Ramdrud was already concocting plans on how to resolve Ruven's problem and he had an idea of how it could help Bhotanmar and Amthosruud for the future beyond the battle against Grauhl.

“Allow me until this time on the morrow," he said. “I believe I will have a solution for you."

Another short, bitter laugh from the fledgling shaman. “With all due respect, chieftain. Spirits rarely speak with mortals as is. For every hundred children perhaps only one will be able to commune with the spirits and even then, only every one in a hundred of those would be shamans. I do not believe you will be able to convince a spirit to follow your idea."

“We shall see." Ramdrud gave Ruven a mischievous grin. “I can be very persuasive."

******

The biting cold winds of Bhotanmar had iced over many parts of the palace itself which made traversing the narrow ledges extremely dangerous. But Luxaeus could never be accused of being a coward. His hands gripped the bottom ledge of the balcony and with incredible strength and dexterity, he lifted himself up onto the platform. What sweat dripped off his features froze into frost a moment later as he leapt over the masterfully crafted railings. With a sigh, he looked over the edge one more time, amazing that he had managed to climb so far from his own quarters.

With a grin, he marched towards the balcony itself.

Only to find it locked.

“Gods above!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. He hugged himself tightly, only now realising that it had been a mistake to leave his tunic back in his quarters. Traversing the icy walls needed all his mobility and the fine fabric was too restrictive for him. “My bloody nipples are going to freeze off!" he cursed to himself. With a fist, he knocked heavily on the glass. “Hello! Anyone in there!?"

Much to his relief, a figure came into view… though not one he was expecting.

Winterpaw gave him a smug look from the other side of the doors.

“How by Kordain's hairy balls did you get in there!?" he exclaimed. Winterpaw flicked an ear over his shoulder. “Well I cannot just walk around like you, O'mighty steed of the Avatar!" Again the Warg just looked at him and his what cold he felt in his cheeks vanished as he went red in fury. “I am not going to hoist an orc onto my shoulders just to have free reign of the castle!" His eyes widened and he immediately plugged his ears. “Stop it! Having an orc's cock and balls sitting at the base of my neck is not something I wanted to listen to!"

“Hello?"

He balked and peered past Winterpaw. The door to the bathroom of the suite pushed open and out stepped a black-furred Fénrian with a white towel draped across his waist. Bright blonde hair sprang from between his ears and a matching heart-shaped crest sat on his muscular chest. Luxaeus immediately feared he had just tried to invade the quarters of a Fénrian dignitary. His brother would surely have words for him if the diplomat found a half-naked, half-frozen man standing out in the cold at his balcony.

“Luxaeus," the wolf said, lifting a blonde eyebrow. He stepped up to the balcony and unlocked it, allowed the partially naked Paladin to stumble inside. The warmth was very much welcome. “In all the possibilities that I had examined, this was not at all that likely. There was a higher probability that you would feign illness, knock out your orc guards and then try to sneak your way here."

It took a moment for Luxaeus to realise he was indeed in the right room. “Samuel!" He examined the wolf curiously. “I knew you were like a Fénrian but I must admit that I find it odd to find you in anything but your armour."

Samuel hiked a thumb over his shoulder at the large bed identical to his own. There, his armour sat. “Bathing would be rather difficult with armour on."

“Bathing?" Luxaeus gave the Star-Eyes Wolf a puzzled look. “I always assumed with all your power that you could simply…" He made an exploding gesture with his fingers. “Poof all the dirt and grime away."

The wolf gave him a faint smile. “While within the realms of possibility, there is a certain pleasure in feeling water through your fur and soaking in a hot tub. Now that I am restricted to these walls, I find I have time to enjoy simpler pleasures."

The Paladin wondered if he should have taken a bath before he invaded Samuel's chambers. “I see. It is at least… comforting to know there is flesh and blood beneath all that armour. I honestly expected you to be… something unspeakable beneath all that."

Samuel chuckled softly and strode across the room to bring two chairs over. “A fair assumption, all things considered. Have a seat. I must let my fur dry first before I put on any clothes."

“Thank you." Luxaeus took the offered seat and Winterpaw padded over, crouching right beside him. He instinctively reached over and stroked the Warg's fur just over his shoulder. “I assume you know why I have come here?"

“There are two possibilities," Samuel responded, holding up two clawed fingers. “Either you want me to find a way to sever the bond between you and Winterpaw or you desire a way to change your brother back into a human."

He sighed and sat back into his seat. “Despite all that has happened, I feel like Winterpaw and I were meant to have this connection between us. We fight, yes, but it is akin to having another brother. I would not have that changed."

Samuel set his paws on his lap, crossed over one another like a patient mentor. “Then I will tell you now that it is indeed possible for your brother to be transformed back."

Luxaeus' heart leapt to his throat. “How?"

“There are many ways one could transform another's body. Arcane arts, alchemic concoctions, countless. But Amthos is blessed by the Old Gods and mostly immune to magic. Any attempts to invade his essence will be met with resistance just as Noraduil found. No, the only way to truly transform him back to a human is to ask Omtariel, the God King."

“Omtariel…" Luxaeus shook his head. “Why him?"

“In the beginning, Omtariel was the one that forged the bodies of the mortal races," Samuel explained. “It was his expertise that created your organs, nervous system and the complex array of muscles and bones that you use every day. When your brother was transformed, Omtariel was the one that forged his body while the other Old Gods granted him his abilities and equipment. If he is to be changed back, it is Omtariel you would need to implore."

Luxaeus' broad shoulders sagged. “Somehow I doubt that any of the Old Gods would listen to someone who has followed the Triad for so long…"

A soft rattling met his ears and he turned towards where Samuel's armour rested. A soft, green light encased the individual pieces. They lifted off the mattress and shook. The light seeped within the piece, solidifying into a large, muscular, green mass. The gold and white colourations shifted to black and deep, emerald green. Vicious spikes swept out of the shoulders and the smooth breastplate was reshaped into the image of a scowling, orc's features. The helm morphed and shifted, losing its T-shaped visor for a more open face design, giving way to the chiselled, square chin that had two enormous tusks jutting out from the lower jaw.

Luxaeus gawked as the new inhabitant of the armour suddenly slumped into the mattress. The creature rolled off side of the bed and rose to an immense ten foot tall. The enormous orc was stunning in all aspects. The armour that hung from him barely covered his bulging muscles and the rich, velvety green cape just barely reached his rump.

Suddenly, the orc grunted and reached for his groin. His mighty fingers squeezed the metal around his plate crotch. With a grunt, he tore it clean off, the screech of metal causing both Winterpaw and Luxaeus to flinch. The orc tossed the slab to the ground, revealing the three flaccid cocks that had been previously hidden.

“Much better," rumbled the creature, his voice resounding deep within Luxaeus' chest.

“Did you really have to use my armour, Garodrash?" Samuel asked bitterly. “Could you not simply have manifested without deforming what I wear?"

“You could always make a new one."

“Far from the point." Samuel sighed and turned to Luxaeus. “In case you have not gathered, this is Garodrash the God of Fertility and Masculinity, Patron God of the Orcs."

Luxaeus got to his feet but suddenly found himself unsure what to do in the presence of an Old God. Should he kneel? Bow? Pray? He had only every worshiped the Holy Triad and to him, the Old Gods were evil creatures that sought to corrupt the pure.

Feeling the Old God's eyes on him, Luxaeus lowered his head, averting his gaze.

“So you seek to undo that which we have sought for so long, child?"

He shook his head. “No… erm… your… divine lordship. I simply am thinking of the future of my family. Once Thomas has succeeded in freeing the orcs, I wish for my brother back."

“Then why not be an orc like him and join him?" Garodrash licked his lips suggestively. “Nothing would please me more than two brothers, their skin green as an orc should be, mating furiously and seeding the earth." True to his words, the three cocks sprouting from his crotch began to stir and Luxaeus flinched away.

“But why did it have to be Thomas?" he asked, averting his gaze from the impressively long and thick triplets. “Why could it not have been someone else? Why not choose an orc?" He pressed a hand against his chest. “Why not choose me instead?"

“Interesting." Garodrash rubbed his chin with a mischievous grin on his features. “You would trade places with your brother? You become the Avatar, devote yourself to our cause but in turn, once your mission is over, you will become human once more?"

Luxaeus opened his mouth to reply but then stopped. He recalled his conversation with Arnmok and that burning question – would he force this change onto someone if they did not want it?

“I would do anything to have my brother back. But I fear I will lose him if I make him into something he does not want to be." He took a step back away from Garodrash, bowing his head apologetically. “I cannot take that offer." Then he lifted his gaze again. “But I ask, why did it have to be Thomas?"

There, Garodrash turned to Samuel.

“I chose your brother for the same reason that I warned you about telling him to return to be human," said the No One. “There were other candidates, of that there is no doubt. However, none of them had the temperament or situation of your brother. Others would have become drunk on the power and literally gone from home to home, pillaging and raping to make as many orcs as possible. Many would have professed the truth to the rest of the world and been killed for it. Some would even have turned to the Alliance and merged the orc race with the Alliance, putting them under the same thumb of the Triad as the other races. He was chosen not because of what he was but what he could be."

Luxaeus hardened his jaw. “So you chose him?"

“Yes." Samuel gave Garodrash a sidelong glance. “Despite what the gods of this world would have you believe, they do not have the ability to see into the future. Had they this ability, perhaps they would not have been ousted from their throne."

“Watch your tongue, Writer! I am not as weak as I was once before!"

“We are not here to compare muscles, Garodrash," countered the Star-Eyed Wolf. “Luxaeus has questions for us."

The Paladin looking from one being to the other. He lowered his gaze and let out a soft sigh. “Thomas has always been a kind soul and I suppose he's had a degree of innocence to him that many would find endearing." He slumped back into his seat in defeat. “I suppose we just will never be the same family as we were once before…"

Garodrash stepped forward. “When we Gods created the world, Omatriel was the one that gave the mortal races their shape and form. The others gave them the elements to wield, the strength to craft the world around them and the ability to think for themselves. But it was I who gave them the capacity to form familial bonds."

“You?" Luxaeus asked, confused. “Are you not the God of Fertility?"

The massive orc laughed softly. “Fertility is more than just one's ability to sire children. It defines one's productiveness and in many ways, one's value as a man. I gave the world its soul, the ability to live instead of just be_. This came in many forms but the ties of family were one product of this gift."_ He rested a hand on Luxaeus' shoulder. “Take the advice of the God that gave the world the concept of family. Your race or the colour of your skin does not define how who your brother or father are."

The Paladin laughed softly. “I suppose that would make me fairly shallow if I just saw Thomas for an orc and little else…" A soft sigh left his lips. “But it is so difficult to think of him as little more than my little brother. I will always care for him. Being the ruler of an entire nation…" He shook his head in disbelief. “I will need to rethink my path in life… and my father will need to do the same…" Then he let out a bitter laugh. “And now that Thomas has disbanded his own tribe, I cannot even be part of that 'family' either." He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I cannot return to Raonoak as I have turned my back on the Alliance. I do not think I can be an orc either."

He looked up helplessly to the two. “Where do I belong?"

Winterpaw gently nosed his side and he gave the Warg a gentle smile. “Yes, I suppose I at least have you by my side. But I do not believe that is quite enough…"

Once again, Samuel and Garodrash exchanged glances.

“Perhaps there is something I can do to help," Samuel suggested. He strode across the room to where Garodrash had discarded the crotch plate of his own armour. In his paw-like hands, the metal morphed and twisted, reshaping itself as easily as water would flow through a mould. The black and green metal shifted, growing large oblique orbs tapering to a single point before swelling out once more into familiar flaring lengths. When fingers began rising out of the end, Luxaeus realised what it was.

It was a single piece of arm armour. Connected from the shoulder and covering every inch of flesh to the fingers, the mostly black device was decorated with bands of green at the major hinges. It looked heavy but when Samuel handed it to Luxaeus, it was incredibly light.

“This will turn any who wear it from man to orc or from orc to man," explained the Star-Eyed Wolf. “But the one that wears it must do so willingly. You cannot simply force this upon a man. They must wear it of their own free will. Anything less and you will only be met by silence. Further, the one who accepts it will find the armour forever bound to them. They will not be able to remove it. It is both a sign of their eternal conviction to their choice and a weapon by which to defend themselves with."

Luxaeus regarded the device with a chuckle. “I did not think it would be so easy."

“Existence seldom is."

Nodding, he bowed to both Samuel and Garodrash. “Thank you, m'lords. I shall take your advice into consideration."

The former Paladin of the Holy Triad turned and left.

Garodrash glanced to Samuel with his eyes narrowed. “This smells of another of your plots."

“You would not be wrong," answered the Star-Eyed Wolf with a smile. “Though I had my doubts that Luxaeus would find a happy ending in this life, I do believe with this, he just might. Assuming all other pieces fall into place."

“You would turn our Avatar back into a human."

There, Samuel chuckled. “That arm was never meant for Amthos, Garodrash. Do try to follow along." He turned his back to the god. “And no, I do not want that armour back."

******

The mess hall was all a murmur of activity. Qurron's little coup seemed to be successful. The great Orradin Greenslayer, Hero of the War of Apotheosis, Slayer of A Thousand Orcs, had be outmanoeuvred by Eranius' personal War Wizard. Now, everyone was finally going to be free of the haunted halls of Hawkshollow. The men were all packing their belongings, saddling their horses and raising their hopes of seeing their families again.

But Orradin glowered from where he stood. The mess hall originally had a second floor but in the raids of the War of Apotheosis, the roof had collapsed and left a large hole in the ceiling that tore the entire upper level from its supports. Over the years the countless occupants had cleared the rubble and sealed the roof but never restored the second level. Instead, they just crafted a small balcony from where the stairwell ended. There, Orradin stood, watching the men under his command pretend to ignore him and quietly collect their rations and some drink for their afternoon meal.

The familiar 'click-clack' of Qurron's high-heeled boots met his ears and he braced himself for the eventually barrage of boasting. He eyed where the battalion's cook was serving the men some greyish slop akin to porridge but slightly more nutritious but fouler tasting. Would the men notice the odd taste? Was there an odd taste to orc seed? Had he done the right thing or was he just falling prey to the Star-Eyed Wolf's machinations?

“Returning to your brooding once more, Orradin?" came Qurron's snide remark. “We do not leave until the morrow and we will not be back in Raonoak for a week or so yet. It is far too early to be slipping back into your dour habits."

Orradin took a slow, deep breath, easing the fury that was swelling inside of him. “You seem convinced that the men will follow your fictitious order."

“Fictitious?" Qurron repeated, feigning insult. “You dare to cry falsehood on a decree written by Lord Eranius' very hand?"

He spun around, blue eyes blazing with fury at the mage. “No messenger has come here since we arrived. Trispire is over four months travel from here. Eranius has been gone for at least that much. If he had made it to Trispire and then back to Raonoak only to realise where he had gone and then sent a messenger here, he would either have the fastest horse or had the aid of some sorcery." He loomed over the slightly hunched mage. “And I know for a fact that Eranius only relies on magic in the direst of situations."

The aged War Wizard was unperturbed. “And is not the great hero against the orcs running off on his own crusade against orders not a dire situation?"

Orradin seized the wizard's collar, pulling them nose-to-nose. “Let us not forget of your duplicity in condemning Eranius' favoured squire or the loss of his Paladin due to your unreciprocated feelings for the Reinhardt boys' mother!"

Qurron shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “You do not frighten me, Greenslayer. Eranius and Arben know me as their greatest friend and most trusted ally. The word of a man who is about to be imprisoned for insubordination will not sway them."

“And what of all the men who heard the proclamation by the Star-Eyed Wolf and the look of guilt in your eyes when you crumbled under his gaze?"

There, Qurron frowned and yanked Orradin's hand away from him. “Would you put so much faith in a false god? Should heresy that should be added to your list of crimes?"

The hero snarled and looked down his nose upon the slimy mage. “As far as I am concerned, Samuel has done me more favours that you so at least in this regard, I would trust him over the dark whispers that spring from your mouth."

Qurron snorted softly and dusted himself off theatrically. “Words, Orradin. Useless words. Nothing you say or do will sway these men you call your own. They have seen your madness and they turn to Raonoak for guidance."

“A Raonoak you control from the shadows with your poisoned whispers in Eranius ear!"

The wizard smirked at him and turned to leave. “Something you can never prove." He flicked a hand absently in the hero's direction. “The moment we reach Raonoak, chains will be shackled to your wrists and all your rights and privileges revoked. You will be a fallen hero like many of those of your kind that failed to turn to the Holy Triad."

Orradin's eyes narrowed. “Assuming we reach Raonoak."

The words of warning caught Qurron's attention and the white-haired wizard ceased his retreat. Just at that moment, a loud cry erupted from the mess hall. Orradin turned, his jaw tightening as one of the men suddenly doubled over and collapsed to the ground.

The leather armour the man wore began to tighten and stretch. The man rolled onto his back, hips thrusting madly into the air as a very obvious erection started tenting his trousers. A green tinge coloured his weathered flesh. Bones cracked especially around his jaw as it squared off and two large tusks jutted from his lower jaw. Muscles burst out of his armour and his huge, grasping hands tore at the fragments, revealing a rippling, chiselled chest. His mad, yellow eyes seized the growing bulge in his pants. For a moment, he seemed to be trying to quell the monster growing there. Then his huge, growing fingers began stroking the increasing serpent and his cries turned to moans.

Qurron pushed past Orradin, looking down in horror as more and more of the soldiers began changing. One man slammed his swelling fists into a table, nearly splitting it in half. Another seized his head in both hands, desperately trying to quell the urges inside even as his big, green back burst from beneath his armour. Loud, primal roars filled the mess hall.

Things became worse when a newly made orc orgasmed. His lightly glowing seed sprayed from his unnaturally large dick and splattered onto the men near him. The men all stepped back, wiping the viscous liquid from their faces. A look of horror crossed their faces as the same heat and lust quickly overwhelmed then. They were all grunting and groaning, fighting the animalistic lust that consumed them.

Qurron spun to face Orradin, eyes wide. “You! You did this!"

Orradin just gave the Wizard a cynical, dark smile. “Prove it."

“You would turn your own men into orcs just to get your way!?"

“Now how would that serve me?" countered the hero. “I choose to believe those men are still human beneath that green skin. They are victims. And I am sure they would like to see the one who did this to them put to justice."

“They only need to look up!" scowled Qurron.

There, Orradin smirked. “To you or I, wizard? To you or I?"

******

“Our fleet leaves on the morrow," Oringruud concluded. He pointed at the map of Bhotanmar splayed before them on the large, rounded table. “We will hide here." There was a large red circle on the map to indicate where the orc fleet would hide. “When Grauhl makes landfall, we will await the signal from the Lookout."

Dalgmar nodded sagely. “Grauhl's forces will assault the wall Urthak's Earth Runners have built. Once they are there and beating themselves against the walls, the spirits will trigger a rockslide at the mouth of the valley. That should crush their forces. We will then signal Oringruud's fleet to strike."

“The rest of us will defend the wall," said Amthos firmly, regarding the map once more. “Should Grauhl breach the wall, the streets have been blocked and reconstructed to guide them to bottlenecks and traps." He looked up to Oringruud. “You will go from attacking the enemy from behind to being the last men within enemy lines."

The Blood Claw chieftain gave him a fierce grin. “You need not worry about us, Avatar. We Blood Claws are swift as our Wargs. We will cut through the undead army and make our way to the palace as planned."

“And that is where we will make our last stand." Knaatl hovered over the section of the map that denoted the palace. “If they get that far, we fight to our last. We have stores to last our armies for months. The palace is big enough to fit us all." He grunted loudly. “I still do not see why I and the Nightusks must stay at the palace."

“We need someone to cover our retreat," Oringruud said. “Should Grauhl's army breach the wall, our forces need to focus on retreating. We cannot have our men looking over their shoulder over and over. Besides…" He pressed a finger at the diagram of the palace. “You will have a better vantage point with your archers up here."

It was a sound plan. But Amthos hated the idea of making plans for contingencies against the possibility that they could fail. However, he knew that Grauhl was a terrible force that had razed Bhotanmar many times before and all those that fell before him had risen once more to join his unholy army. In his mind, he envisioned charging into battle against Grauhl, bellowing with Grimight over his head and bringing it down to crush the dark orc's head into a pulp. Reality proved a little humbling though.

If his encounter with Noraduil taught him anything, it was that while he was indeed strong and empowered by the gods, he was not invincible.

“My Hardshaft will also protect the palace," Ramdrud said. “In the absolute worst case scenario, we unleash Samuel upon – "

“No," Amthos said firmly, stunning the rest of the chieftains. “I will not go to Samuel for aid."

The other chieftains looked a little puzzled save for Oringruud who had a smug look on his face.

“Amthos, this was always the plan," Ramdrud said gently. “Samuel can rob Grauhl of his magic. If the First Orc breaches the palace, he is to clear the blizzard and then our shamans can evacuate those remaining elsewhere. At the very least, while we may lose Bhotanmar, we can start anew."

“You can start anew." Amthos turned his gaze towards his spymaster. “Vast portals that require the spirits to act in great numbers are blocked by Grauhl's blizzard. Small incantations, however, should be viable. I have spoken to Dalgmar about this. This is how the shamans who were positioned out in past the Fangs were able to return." He turned to Knaatl, gripping his greatest friend's shoulder. “Knaatl, should it come to that, I want you to take Ramdrud, Dalgmar and whomever you can out of Bhotanmar. Start anew. Make sure the orc race goes on."

The Nightusk chieftain shook his head furiously. “Amthos –"

“Bhotanmar is my responsibility," said the Avatar firmly. “I will die defending it." He then glanced to Oringruud. “Besides, as has been pointed out, my ability to turn others into orcs has been passed to all of you. Apart from some innate defences, I am little more than an orc that is hard to slay. I would be the best to hold the line."

The gathered chieftains exchanged glances. Dalgmar had a look of solemn respect on his eyes, lips purses and brow knotted in concentration. It seemed that he was trying to commune with the spirits quietly to search for another solution. Knaatl's golden eyes were wide and was constantly shaking his head, glancing over to Ramdrud every now and then to search for some guidance from the portly orc. For his part, the portly orc rubbed his chin likely trying to think of a way to sway the Avatar. Oringruud seemed to be the only one who was smiling though it was hard to tell if he was honestly pleased or snarling.

“Those are the bravest words I have ever heard you utter," rumbled the Blood Claw chieftain.

“I started this revolution," Amthos answered grimly. “It will not end with me or Bhotanmar."

“Truer words were never spoken." Oringruud crossed his arms. “We must make preparations to depart. Grauhl will make landfall within a few days and our fleet must be away before then." He made to turn. “Come, Arnmok."

Knaatl immediately pounced forward. “You are taking Amthos' personal bodyguard? Now of all times?"

Oringruud flashed him a challenging look. “He is still a Blood Claw. A Red Orc amongst green. He belongs with us. Unless of course…" His eyes fell on Amthos. “The great Avatar would selfishly keep him to guard his hide and show weakness."

Ramdrud snickered softly. “Your attempt at politics and social manoeuvring is crude, Oringruud." He waved a hand over his shoulder, flicking his wrist dismissively. “I see no harm is taking your heir back. I see value in it, after all. A man needs a successor even should he die in battle especially when he and his army will be at the rear of the battle where there is no retreat."

The Blood Claw chieftain snorted at him but before he could say anything further, Ramdrud continued.

“If our business is concluded here, I would ask us all to convene at the Lookout. I have something very important to show you all." He exchanged glances with Dalgmar and the wizened shaman nodded grimly. Dalgmar waved his hands through the air and immediately created a shimmering disc of light the size of an orc a short distance away – a portal.

Puzzled at Ramdrud's words, Amthos followed the others into the shimmering orb. He wondered what other sly plots and ploys his spymaster could have made whilst he was not looking. Perhaps he should get more involved in such schemes. It would not do Amthosruud any good if the Avatar was not in the know of the movements of his chieftains. Then again, he was fairly sure he had caught Ramdrud by surprise with declaration that he would stay behind to buy them all time to escape should the worst come to pass. He was sure that Ramdrud would make a fine king of orcs.

The world swirled into a myriad of colours and twists as he stepped through the portal. Once again, he was at the Lookout. Shamans were everywhere and the presence of the spirits was thick in the air. The mighty Incarius stood on his dais surrounded by his attendants. There was a circle of shamans in front of him. It seemed like a ritual of some sort.

“What is happening, Ramdrud?" Amthos asked.

“This is a momentous occasion," said he Hardshaft chieftain. “We are about to experience a Trial of Tusks of the Thunder Callers!"

Though he admitted that he was curious what the Trial actually entailed, he failed to see why this was so important. “Do we really have the time for this?"

“Ah but it is no mere trial."

From the circle of shamans, one particular figure stepped out; a human.

“Ruven?" Arnmok asked, stepping forward in surprise. “He's gonna be an orc?"

Ramdrud smirked and crossed his arms smugly. “Why yes, yes he is. You see, the Trial amongst the Thunder Callers involve the initiate communing with a spirit. To become a fully-fledged shaman, one must forge a pact with a spirit, binding them to yourself. Spirits crave the sensations of the flesh that we mortals have and in exchange for sharing some of these sensations, they draw upon the shaman's energies to manipulate the elements around them and entreat others of their kind to do the same. For the Thunder Callers, forging a pact with a spirit is your Trial." He rubbed his groin lewdly. “And as soon as the pact is forged, the ritual involves shamans from all over the tribe spilling their seed into a bowl mixed with special dye that is then used to mark tattoos all over the initiate's body. This then brings about their transformation."

Oringruud grunted with impatience. “Fascinating, I am sure. Why must we be here to see the Trial of a whelp?"

Amthos noted the tightening of Arnmok's knuckles. The bond between the first Red Orc and the soon-to-be shaman was strong. There was no doubt that Oringruud comment had driven a wedge between sire and heir.

“Because this is something more," said Ramdrud with a smirk.

Dalgmar stepped forward, entering the circle. The shaman chieftain spread his arms. “Brothers. Sisters. Spirits and all. We are gathered here today to welcome a new brother into the Thunder Callers."

The shamans all began letting out a soft, melodic hum. Amthos was brought back to the days when he was part of the choir when he was human. Someone with a deep bass spearheaded a chant followed shortly by the soft rhythmic beats of drums. A rather brilliant tenor began piercing through the deep rumbles of the orcs, singing lyrics in the orcish tongue. It was oddly uplifting. Even though he didn't understand most of the words, Amthos found himself reminiscing about the days back in Raonoak, attending church, singing along to the hymns and listening to the priests preach about the Holy Triad and their beloved heroes.

“Ruven," Dalgmar said as the song softened. “You have the natural abilities many a shaman would envy. The spirits clamour to you for your purity of soul and kind heart. Many of them would wish to be bonded to you for you most closely resemble one of them. Often, we shamans are not lucky enough to choose which spirit we would be bonded to. The spirits choose us. You, however, are fortunate to be graced by the power of choice."

Choice. It was something Samuel preached constantly. Everyone had their choices and they all had to deal with the consequences of those choices. Had he made the right choices after all this time. Was he making the right choice now?

“So which spirit do you choose?" Dalgmar asked.

Ruven, draped in the white robes of an initiate, lifted his gaze. His eyes met with Ramdrud and the chieftain gave him a nod of encouragement. The initiate swallowed hard and suddenly turned around… at Incarius.

“I choose Incarius of the North."

All chanting immediately stopped. They all looked, shocked at the audacity of this one initiate.

Amthos immediately shuffled over to Ramdrud, gently nudging his spymaster with an elbow. “This was your plan? To coerce a Spirit King into becoming Ruven's bonded spirit?"

Ramdrud's eyes were not on him. Rather, they were on another orc.

Oringruud.

“No. My plan was to show every orc that we have the support of more the spirits themselves."

“By risking the alliance we have with a Spirit King!?" Amthos hissed. “You realise if Incarius refuses then our only defence against Grauhl's blizzard could very well abandon us!"

“It was a calculated risk."

“Too big a risk!"

For a long moment, neither Ruven nor Incarius said a word. They merely stared at one another, likely communing mentally between themselves. Or perhaps the Spirit King was putting the young shaman through some form of trial. Nerves quickly crept up Amthos' spine and he glanced out of the Lookout's tall, open windows at the raging blizzard held back by the will of the spirits.

“To bond with me…" boomed Incarius, bringing all attention back to the great, quadrupedal spirit, “… would be to risk much of your own health."

“'is own whut…?" Arnmok stuttered.

Incarius turned his burning gaze across the entire congregation. “Each of you know the risks of bonding with a spirit. We experience the sensations of the flesh and lend you our aid when you call upon us. It is a binding contract and a brotherhood most sacred. However, neither mortal nor spirit were designed to inhabit the same shell for very long. Our combined essences in the single frame will wither your body as we draw on more and more on your own life force."

Arnmok's eyes widened and he was suddenly in a panic. “No 'ne said nuffin' 'bout that!"

Amthos wondered if he was the only one not aware of these sort of rituals or was privy to Ramdrud's plans.

Ruven threw the Red Orc a glance over his shoulder. “Hush, Arnmok." Then he turned stoically back towards Incarius. “I am aware of the risks, Lord Incarius. Spirits draw upon the natural world for sustenance but when we are bonded, you will draw on my strength for your continued existence. I am aware of the strains it will put on my body. I am willing to wear the risks."

The great spirit leaned forward, his enormous head almost level with Ruven. “You will not last the year."

“I only need to last the end of the battle." Ruven puffed out his chest. “Grauhl is a threat to us all and I am unwilling to sit idly by while my friends and this great city who sent its greatest warriors to rescue me fall under his icy grip! Worse, what if the blessings of the Old Gods crafted into the flesh of the orcs transfers into Grauhl's army? What if it inspires him to spread arcross the rest of Tirinead?" He swept his arms backwards, gesturing at the far, frozen north. “What is stopping him from sweeping all across the continent and turning everything and everyone into the frozen undead?"

Amthos had never seen such bravery before. Ruven was willing to sacrifice everything to stop Grauhl. It made his own decleration of self-sacrifice seem so weak in comparison. He became inspired by the shaman's example and he became more secure in his decision.

Incarius straightened, looking down upon Ruven with an impassive look upon his face. “You are a very unique individual. Pure of spirit. Pure of intention." His eyes wandered over to Ramdrud. “Even in the face of the machinations of a certain orc, you remain true to yourself." The Spirit King took a step back and shook his head. “However, I cannot do this. As a Spirit King, I am charged with the balance of this world and that involves the life of the mortal races. Even for such a selfless act, I cannot be responsible for taking your life."

Ramdrud winced. “I was afraid of this…"

“You were?" Amthos asked.

“Spirits are forbidden from taking the life of another. Yes, when a spirit and shaman are bonded that the spirit leeches off the shaman's essence but that can be offset by good nutrition and a healthy living. Little wonder shamans are skilled in medicinal acts. A Spirit King, however, will take too much from Ruven and there will nothing to prevent his untimely death."

Oringruud snorted loudly and gave Ramdrud a cocky smirk. “Your display was impressive, Hardshaft, but it is ultimately fruitless. A Spirit King will not kill a mortal."

“Ah, but what if he does not?"

The voice echoed across the Lookout. Everyone, even Ramdrud glanced around in surprise, searching for the source of the voice.

Amthos recognised it immediately. “Samuel? I confined you to your room!"

“I am in my room. I am simply shouting very loudly."

Before Amthos could question that, Knaatl let out his trademark booming laugh and he realised that if one orc could let out such a thunderous guffaw, a mage-knight would surely have the ability to throw his voice great distances… even perhaps through walls.

“Writer…" Incarius intoned. “Somehow I knew you would become involved."

“Incarius, you will not kill another mortal who is so pure and undeserving even for a truly valiant act as Ruven is proposing. But suppose I found a way to strengthen Ruven's essence so that you and he may yet be bonded but he his essence will not be drained completely by year's end?"

The Spirit King glanced across the Lookout. So many eyes were on him and even Amthos was awaiting his answer eagerly.

“That will suffice. What do you propose?"

There was soft chiming noise. A pool of black fluid pooled in front of Ruven. The fledgling shaman took a step back in surprise as the puddle quickly grew until it was as wide as a man. As if alive, the substance leapt upwards, twisting and curling into a long, vertical shape that was as taller than he was.

“From the richest veins of blackrock in the Fangs of the World, the essence of Earth…" Samuel chanted. “It shall never break nor shatter. Magic in all forms cannot reshape it and shall fall silent within its vicinity save for the spells cast by its wielder."

Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the Lookout. Without warning, a bolt of crackling, purple lighting descended from all the open windows in the building. Those gathered immediately ducked, falling to the ground and covering their heads. Amthos peered past his raised arms as the lightning struck the tall, black staff.

“The fury of the Storm, from the fiercest of tempests. Power unrelenting and charged infinitely to supply the strength to sustain a soul charged with guarding this world."

Even with the lightning continuously crackling, the air continued to tingle with the power of magic. That chiming noise continued but it was suddenly accompanied by the sound of bubbling water. Amthos glanced over his shoulder and gawked. Arnmok saw his look and followed his gaze.

“Garodrash's balls!" cried the Red Orc.

All turned to see tendrils of water seeping and curling through the streams of lightning, following the path they carved towards the forming staff. The clear lines of liquid seeped into the staff, imbuing it with the essence of water.

“From the temperamental Seas, the might of the roughest ocean and the serenity of the stillest lakes, the roar of the largest waterfalls to the trickle of the smallest rivers. The essence of water to afford flexibility and use to defend, to attack, to heal and to harm."

All the torches around the Lookout suddenly flared up. The braziers filled with incense erupted into pillars of blazing fire. Like the waters, the flames shot towards the staff, curling around the crackling lightning and rushing waters into the black rock.

“And from the most intense conflagrations, the might of Fire. Just as for flames to burn one needs fuel and air, so too will the combined forces of spirit and orc burn brighter and hotter than any other flame on this world."

Ruven suddenly gasped and clutched his chest. Incarius did the same. Light burst from their chests and the faintest tendril of light, like a sliver of golden hair, seeped from their flesh. The storm of elements ended, flooding into the blackrock staff and leaving it a tall, smooth, obsidian weapon with swirls and runes written all along its length, each glowing eerily. The trickles of essence from the two wrapped around the middle of the staff, twisting together and spreading. A golden grip wrapped around the staff, made for whomever was to wield it.

“Thus I grant you this staff," Samuel said. “Made to embody all the disciplines of shamanism, whomsoever wields it, wields the might of the elements as if they had forged a pact with him. The wielder may yet fuel it with their essence to increase its strength and Incarius may stoke the fires as well at his discretion but only through the combined efforts of both parties may the staff's true power be unleashed. As of now, only Ruven may grasp it."

The staff hovered towards Ruven.

“Take it, young shaman. Take Soulidar_. May it be a sign of your pact with Incarius and your conviction to your cause."_

Ruven looked up at Incarius in surprise and for the first time since arriving, the Spirit King was smiling. Beaming, the shaman grasped the staff. The moment his fingeres clasped around it, there was a great blast of wind that pushed those around him back. Even Amthos was forced a few feet back.

“Let this be a symbol of a new covenant amongst the spirits and mortals!" boomed Incarius, spreading his arms wide. “We need not bind ourselves to mortals any longer! Take heed from the bridge that the Writer has given us! This is a new age for shamans and spirits!"

The shamans all got to their feet and rejoiced. The joy of the spirits was palpable in the air. Amthos could only look to Ramdrud and Dalgmar questioningly.

“What does he mean by that?" he asked.

Dalgmar was throwing his arms up in excitement. He had never seen the wizened shaman so excitable before.

“For so long, we shamans have had to offer our very lives to support the powers of the spirits that we beckon. You will notice that we tend to be a little smaller and frailer than other orcs."

The Thunder Caller were a little smaller than most even after their transformation.

“But now…" Dalgmar turned to Ruven as the other shamans crowded around him in joy. “Now, we can forge pacts through the example Samuel has shown us. We can bind our essences to items, the spirits and ourselves. Our mortal shells need not house two essences at the same time!"

“But would the spirits not lose their ability to feel what you feel?"

Dalgmar shook his head as he watched Ruven thrust Soulidar into the air. “I sensed it. A fragment of Incarius and Ruven are bound together in the staff. It is much like the bond between Winterpaw and your brother, Luxaeus. They can feel what the other feels. Speak with one another on a spiritual level. It is astounding!" He turned immediately. “I must go see Samuel to get from him the details of this ritual! It revolutionises shamanism!"

Oringruud let out a huff and turned alongside Dalgmar, leaving but for a different reason. Seeing him furious and forgetting about taking Arnmok with him, Amthos turned to Ramdrud.

“This was never really about inducting Ruven into being a shaman, was it?" he asked.

The spymaster, flushed and stunned by the spectacle, offered him a shaky grin. “Not entirely. Ruven had been lamenting that he could not be a shaman and I thought to use that to my advantage." The bald, bearded orc glanced over his shoulder just as Oringruud disappeared past the large doors of the Lookout. “Arnmok is still very much bound to Ruven. If Ruven's loyalty rests with us, Arnmok is sure to follow and whatever plots Oringruud may have will crumble."

“Plots? But he swore fealty to me."

Ramdrud gave him a look that made him feel like he was a child being lectured. “He gave you his loyalty, not his heart. He still very much disagrees with your policies as can be seen with him creating more and more Red Orcs." The Hardshaft chieftain jerked his chin at Arnmok who had hoisted Ruven into the air and was cheering with the others. “Oringruud made Arnmok his heir. There are those that would hold that as a sign of respect. That he remains green-fleshed and Arnmok is Red and Oringruud continues to make more Red Orcs brutishly, would cause a divine amongst the Blood Claws." He flashed Amthos a grin. “I would even go so far as to say that this is exactly what Samuel planned."

A realisation dawned on him.

The details of becoming a Red Orc were not clear but from what he heard, it came straight from Oringruud. Unless Oringruud somehow discovered a way to fuck himself or submitted to another Red Orc, he would never become a Red Orc. The only Red Orc that was in any position of leadership was Arnmok.

Arnmok whose best friend was now a prime shaman and member of the ever loyal Thunder Callers.

“That sly fox!" Amthos exclaimed, beaming brightly.

“Wolf, to be correct," chuckled Ramdrud. “What say you we throw a celebration of this new covenant? I am sure our warriors would welcome a break before the grave battle to come in a few days. I am sure the Blood Claws would not be opposed."

“Agreed."

*******

To have a celebration in his honour was… Well, Ruven never thought that he would ever have such a celebration even on the anniversaries of his birth. Orcish celebrations were oddly so similar to the ones he had experienced back home. Perhaps that was because in many ways, the orcs were not so different from the humans that they came from. All of Bhotanmar was in celebration. Bonfires were alight all over the city as if in open defiance to the blustering blizzard kept in check by both himself and Incarius.

With their combined might, many of the spirits and shamans were finally allowed to rest. No longer were the Thunder Callers required to keep a constant vigil to protect the city from Grauhl's storm. Only a couple of so shamans needed to remain at the Lookout and only in case Ruven and Incarius lost concentration. Needless to say, much of the shamanistic tribe was relieved to finally be able to have some rest.

As the guest of honour, Ruven sat at the head of the table. Amthos had kindly relinquished his own seat in favour of a humbler one further away while Arnmok and Dalgmar flanked the new Conduit of Incarius, as Ruven had come to be known. The spirits were a flutter in the great hall of the palace as well. The energy in Bhotanmar was so rich that they were able to manifest as tiny blobs of light. If Ruven focused, he could actually see the ethereal shapes of each of the spirits from the serpentine figures of the Spirits of the Sea, the bird-like Spirits of the Storm, the flighty feline Spirits of Fire and even the often shy and lupine Spirits of Earth.

He never felt so accepted now that he had become a shaman.

And yet…

He looked up at Soulidar, the great staff that Samuel had granted him. None but he could touch it or the energies inside would recoil and attack the wielder. Though he had been granted great power, he did not feel like he was doing much yet. It felt so… little what he was doing to protect Bhotanmar. Yes, he felt the strain of maintaining the shield but with all the food being set before him, he merely had to devour a morsel here and there to maintain his strength.

Knaatl's booming laugh erupted from down the table and the orc commented that he already had the appetite of an orc.

And there came the crux of his worries.

He was not an orc yet.

He was a human shaman, a Conduit for Incarius serving the orcs of Amthosruud but he was not an orc.

He felt Incarius' mind brush his own, asking the question that had bothered him.

Did he want to become an orc?

A heavy hand slapped his back. It was Arnmok, drunk and with his face redder than usual. What came out of his mouth was barely intelligent but Ruven understood it. The two had been friends long enough to know what he said even when he was incapable of real speech. Even if he were an orc now…

Ruven looked down at his food. Though he had already eaten so much already, maintaining the shield around Bhotanmar demanded that he eat more. It seemed his body burned the food quite quickly. Just an hour into the celebration and he was already hungry again. He plucked another leg of a turkey and devoured it eagerly as entertainers, human, orc and otherwise, danced in front of them.

Being a human would not drive a wedge between him and Arnmok, he was sure.

But still…

“Master…" he said quietly, leaning towards Dalgmar. “When do you think we can continue to Trial?"

“Trial?" laughed Dalgmar, also partially inebriated. “My boy, you have passed the Trial with flying colours! To test you now would be an insult to the Great Incarius!"

Incarius chuckled at that and Ruven was glad the Spirit King took it all with good humour.

“I meant… When will I get my tattoos and become…" He trailed off and Dalgmar's features grew grim.

“Ah." Dalgmar finished off the mead he had in his mug and set it down. “Well, you must know that being a shaman is not bound by race. We have many dwarves, elves and humans who are shamans."

“I see that." Ruven glanced around the great hall, seeing the diversity in people. “But I would still like to become an orc."

“If I may ask, why?"

Why indeed? Before, becoming an orc was the prerequisite to becoming a shaman. Now, he was a shaman without having to transform into an orc. He was in a unique position; a member of the Thunder Callers that was not an orc.

“I cannot explain it, master," he murmured softly. “I just wish to be an orc. Perhaps it is because I do not wish to be more… special than I already am." A soft, dry chuckle left him. “I mean, I am not only the Conduit for a Spirit King but I am also the only human Thunder Caller. I have always remained somewhat in the background. Mrakon… uhm… Arnmok has always been the one to drive me forward. Outshining him is odd enough but being anymore is… unsettling."

Dalgmar laughed softly and beckoned one of the servers to bring him another drink. “And here I thought I would retire and hand the reigns of chieftain to you."

Ruven balked and stared at the elder shaman in shock.

“Not immediately, of course," laughed the current chieftain. “You are a skilled shaman but as you said, you are somewhat… meek. A chieftain must be decisive. You have wisdom and insight, purity of heart and soul and that is commendable. But as a chieftain, you must make harsh decisions and stand strong to your convictions."

Incarius made a comment and Ruven snickered. “Incarius says that I showed much of my strength of conviction when I stood in front of all the Thunder Callers and demanded that he be my pact partner."

“Under Ramdrud's guidance."

That cut all of his humour. “Yes…"

“You need not worry," Dalgmar said softly with a smile. “One day, I am sure you will grow to be a great leader. Perhaps when you have a few more white hairs on your head." For emphasis, the shaman stroked his own alabaster mane. “For now, I am sure we can turn you into an orc. It might smoothen the transition to when you eventually succeed me or perhaps even form your own tribe." The shaman stroked his chin. “Besides, I supposed you would become a very valuable asset. We cannot have any of the other races sneaking some of their seed into your drink and transforming you into one of them, after all. That would just reflect poorly on Amthosruud."

He had not considered that. Perhaps there was tactical value in being turned into an orc. “Thank you, master."

“Of course. Now enjoy the celebration!" Dalgmar spread his arms towards the vast hall. “This is all in your honour!"

Ruven remained a little longer and enjoyed the festivities. Some of the shamans came out and performed tricks alongside the spirits to the amusement of the other celebrants. He noted that Oringruud was absent as was Samuel but that was to be expected. The Blood Claw chieftain was clearly still fuming and preparing for his armada to leave in the morning. He left strict instructions to all of his Blood Claws not to get too inebriated or he would flay them alive. Samuel was still confined to his quarters though obviously that would not restrict his reach. He made a mental note to thank what Incarius called 'the Writer' later.

When he heard a loud thud from his left, he turned to find that Arnmok had passed out into his meat pie.

“Oh dear…" he sighed. He turned to Dalgmar. “If you will excuse me, master. I must take my friend somewhere he will recover. His chieftain will not be pleased come the morrow if he is incapable of hoisting his spear."

Dalgmar nodded and turned to Knaatl who sat beside him. “My friend! Would you kindly assist Ruven and Arnmok? It seems that the Red Orc has an issue with his tolerance to mead!"

Knaatl, also somewhat drunk, laughed heartily and agreed.

Being much bigger than he was before, Arnmok was hard to lift. Though that never stopped Ruven before. There were many times that the young shaman had to cart a human Mrakon's incapacitated ass out of bars particularly when his friend was lamenting the presence of orcs. The irony that Mrakon was now Arnmok the Red Orc was not lost on him. Thankfully, Knaatl was there to help and the big Nightusk chieftain was able to hoist Arnmok over his shoulder and carry him boldly out of the great hall.

“Where shall we leave him?" Knaatl asked as entered one of the vast halls.

“Let us take him to my room," suggested Ruven. “We must keep him hydrated. I have some remedies that will help him awaken when the sun rises without the terrible sensation of a bloated, furry tongue."

“You sound like you have experience."

“Being drunk or caring for this one's inebriated corpse?"

Knaatl blinked a couple of times and then let out a laugh. “Ah! A sharp wit! I enjoy that in a man."

Ruven shook his head in amusement, a smirk on his features. “You must be very drunk. That was far from subtle."

The chieftain gave him a grin. “What can I say? I would like the prestigious honour of fucking the first Conduit of Tirinead."

Rolling his eyes, Ruven beckoned him towards his room. Inside, there were dozens of books and a few plants that he had been growing for his own remedies. With everything having a spirit associated with it, as a shaman he could entreat a spirit to further enhance the medicinal properties of certain plants. He moved to a shelf where he had stored some exotic spices. Knaatl set Arnmok down on the best while Ruven quickly plucked a satchel of a fine, brown, nearly-black powder and poured it into a jug. From another jug, he poured some water into the brew. A few requests from a Spirit of Fire later and the water was bubbling.

He stirred the mixture before pouring it into three mugs, offering one to Knaatl while he made his way to Arnmok.

“Come on, my friend," he said, gently slapping Arnmok's cheek. “Drink this."

Partially awake, Arnmok opened his lips to accept the brew even though his eyes were still closed. He drank the scalding liquid and winced, his eyes opening a moment later. “Rugh… What is this…?"

Knaatl took a sip himself and grimaced. “Yes, what is it indeed? It is as bitter as a Fallowday rejection from a gorgeous man."

“Coffee," Ruven answered shortly, taking a cup himself. “The Fénrians brew it to help them keep awake. There are variations in it with some milk and perhaps sugar but I find the pure substance helps maintain awareness and concentration."

Arnmok grimaced and rubbed the side of his head. “Ah gotta admit… Ah do feel better…" He lifted his gaze and froze, noticing Knaatl for the first time. “Oh… uh…"

As if coming to his senses as well, Knaatl looked at Arnmok awkwardly and let out a soft, nervous chuckle. “Well… seems you have everything under control. I shall leave you two then."

Before he could turn, the door immediately shut. Ruven, and even Incarius, was curious what had caused the two to become so awkward around one another.

“Now I am sure this is none of my business," Ruven said, “but anything that concerns Arnmok concerns me. I would know what this…" He gestured between Knaatl and Arnmok. “… is all about."

Knaatl grumbled softly and made to rise from the bed. He was still very much drunk, however and slumped back into the mattress. “Urgh… It ain't none o' yer business, Ruven. Jus' drop it."

Throwing his friend a piercing stare, Ruven said, “I seem to recall the last time you tried to push me away and discard my warnings, you were thrown into a rehabilitation camp." Arnmok lowered his gaze and quietly sipped his coffee. “So listen to me now." He glanced at the two. “Tomorrow, the Blood Claws leave and in a few days afterwards, Grauhl makes landfall. This could very well be the last time you two will see one another. Do you honestly wish this…" He spread his arms wide. “… to be the last words you tell one another?"

The two orcs met one another's gaze.

Knaatl sighed and his heavy shoulders sagged. “Your friend speaks true, Arnmok. This may be our last chance to speak with one another."

“Yeah…" agreed the Red Orc.

“So, let us finish our coffee, gather our wits and then resolve this, shall we?"

“Yeah…"

Knaatl took a sip from his mug and grimaced at the taste. Arnmok did the same, his lips barely touching the brew before he set it down, looking at the dark, murky liquid thoughtfully. Ruven, on the other hand, stood idly by and watched the two nurse their drinks with an increasingly exasperated look. After the tenth time the two barely took a sip as if they were dipping a dainty toe in a pool, he had had enough.

“Will you two just speak to one another!?" he bellowed. “Even Incarius is growing impatient and he was trapped in a block of ice for centuries!"

Arnmok sighed and set down his mug. “'suppose Ah shud start…" He took a deep breath but kept his gaze lowered. “Knaatl… Ah… the night we spent together…"

Ruven balked. “You two slept with one another?" The orcs shot him a fiery look and he lifted his hands in apology. “Sorry. Proceed."

Arnmok continued. “Ah never felt that sorta… thing fer a man befer… Or got that sorta treatment from another man. Ah liked it. Ah mean… I really liked it. An'… an' Ah sorta wish Ah we could keep goin' with it… but…"

“But you're a Blood Claw and I'm the Nightusk chieftain," sighed Knaatl. “I will admit, Arnmok, I bore much hatred for you until we worked together to rescue your friend here. I see much of myself in you and I enjoyed my time with you as well. Not a day goes by that I am not haunted by the ghostly touch of your hands or the look of your naked body burned forever into the back of my mind." He grunted and gestured at the armoured bodyguard. “I mean, seriously! You are an orc! Why must you dress so… so…"

“Conservatively?" offered Ruven.

“Yes! Most orcs go around bare chest! Look at me!" He gestured at his own muscled chest exposed to the elements.

Arnmok moaned and it was clear that a tent was appearing in his trousers. “Ya dun need ta remind me… Ev'rytime Ah see ya is like yer teasin' me to come at ya, ta pounce ya an' run mah lips up an' down yer chest…" The Red Orc shook his head furiously. “But… I dun wanna upset Oringruud. He's still mah chieftain…"

“And he and I have never seen eye-to-eye," agreed Knaatl. “I would love to see you again, to hold you, have our cocks pressed against one another and for my seed to glue us together for the night but…" He turned his head away even though his own dick was pulsating hard beneath his trousers. “… I do not want to incite a tribal war between Blood Claw and Nightusk."

Ruven shook his head and waved his hands. “Why must there be a war? Why must you give up your affections for one another in favour of what is essentially politics? You need to be alone because of your responsibilities!"

“Ya dun get it, Ruven…"

“What do I not understand?" Ruven seized Knaatl's hand and dragged him over to where Arnmok was sitting, forcing the chieftain to hold the Red Orc's hand. “What I see are two men who clearly have affections for one another. Both of you have lost someone dear to you and circumstance has brought you two together. Why must you fight this feeling between you two because of politics?"

Knaatl let go of Arnmok's hand even though he wore a pained expression about it. “It would oppose Amthos' vision. We would tear Amthosruud apart as rivalries spring up between Nightusk and Blood Claw."

“Oringruud wud prolly say ya corrupted me," Arnmok muttered. “Declare war an' stuff…"

“The other tribes would likely support the Nightusks," agreed Knaatl. “There would be civil war and we were just made into a country."

Ruven crossed his arms furiously. “Then why not turn this into an advantage? Why not say that this is a means for which the Nightusk and Blood Claw can make peace? Almost like a royal marriage like so many of the lords and ladies of the alliance? Neither side can harm one another as you effectively become on tribe. It would fit with Amthos' rule."

The two orcs regarded each other for the briefest of moments before turning away from one another.

“It ain't gonna work, Ruven. Thanks fer tryin' but it ain't gonna work."

“Then do it for one another," insisted Ruven. He looked to Knaatl. “I do not know you very well, chieftain, but I do know Arnmok. He is slow to trust anyone after his heart was broken. But given that he let you mount him, I am guessing he sees more in you and feel more for you than he would be willing to admit. To let that go now over something as foolish as politics is terrible." He pressed a hand to his chest. “Take it from someone who worked as a clerk in a backwater swamp town. I have read many stories of love that has had worse beginnings than your own and other tales where love was set aside in favour of duty."

Again, gripping the two orcs' hands, he pulled them together, forcing them to hold one another. “Your old duty is to yourself. The gods may demand the world of you but it is you that must live in the world not them. There is no point in forging a country if you cannot enjoy it."

Arnmok and Knaatl's gaze met and this time it held. Finally, Knaatl submitted and sat down beside his beloved. Without a word, the two orcs leaned towards one another, their lips meeting in a tender kiss. Their monstrous erections rose from their trousers, the tips touching ever so gently through the precum-soaked fabric.

Ruven smiled, glad for what he had done this day. It made him wonder if orcs had a concept of marriage and if it would be his duty to preside over such ceremonies. His thoughts, however, were interrupted when the orcs before him began to moan and their hands began roving.

It was his time to leave.

Quietly, he turned around and made for the door. The moment he gripped the doorknob, however, two hands gripped his shoulder; one on each.

“Hold, friend," Knaatl said tenderly. “We both owe you much and I would not have you leave without repaying you."

Ruven turned, seeing the two orcs before him and their massive cocks at full mast. “No need to thank me. Just enjoy yourselves."

“Ah can think o' one way we can thank ya," grinned Arnmok. “Dun think Ah dinna hear ya talkin' ta Dalgmar 'bout wantin' ta become an orc."

His heart leapt to his throat. “But… Can you do that?"

“'Course we can." Arnmok tapped the tip of his erection, drawing a slimy line of precum from his dick. “Jus' a little taste o' our cum and yer gonna be green an' big jus' like us!"

“But… I'm a Thunder Caller! There is a Trial I must undertake!"

Knaatl gave him a smirk as he leaned down, almost nose to nose with him. “I seem to recall to recall Dalgmar saying you already are a Thunder Caller and that Trial would be just a needless ritual." He poked Ruven's nose playfully. “And if you are opposed to the idea, think of it this way: you would be the product of Thunder Caller, Blood Claw and Nightusk. If ever there was a symbol of a union, it would be you."

The clever orc had used his own example against him.

Before Ruven could protest, Knaatl leaned forward and pressed their lips together. The thick tongue of the orc invaded his mouth, gently caressing his tongue and coaxing it to join him in a dance. Ruven could not explain it but he was persuaded to join and his eyelids fluttered at the sign of affection.

Knaatl pulled away too soon and he found himself gasping for more.

“So what say you?" cooed the Nightusk chieftain.

Ruven mentally told Incarius to look away while he verbally said, “Yes please."

*******

Unbeknownst to the three lovers, there was another watching them.

Amthos had wandered over, wondering what had taken Knaatl so long only to overhear the exchange between the three men. He stood quietly, peering through the crack in the door as Arnmok and Knaatl stripped off their clothing and collided with one another, their cocks already rock hard and their passions erupting between them. Ruven stood off to the side, unsure of what to do but that did not last long as Arnmok's big hand seized his arm and dragged him into the bed.

The two orcs madly tore Ruven's robes from him, leaving the shreds all over the room. Though the young shaman made to protest, he began letting out soft moans as the two orcs made him the centre of their attention. Their lips rolled across his neck, long, flexible tongues dancing across his supple flesh. The lengths of their two massive cocks compressed around his own member. Whether from the touch of other stimulation, Ruven's own manhood began filling with blood, rising to meet the two. Slick, clear liquid poured down twin, green towers and lathered all over Ruven's bare chest, giving the young man a chill as the cool, night air touched the damp areas.

Sensing his shivers, Knaatl immediately lowered himself towards the shaman's chest, blazing a trail of kisses down Ruven's neck and towards the man's chest. Arnmok's cock became his first stop as the imposing piece of meat pressed up against Ruven's chest. His lips wrapped around the throbbing, red member and he made sure to make eye contact with Ruven as he slurped and bobbed his head up and down the Red Orc's pulsating member. With ever dive, Arnmok would thrust his hips upwards, pushing Ruven's own cock along the length.

An expert in making love to men, Knaatl knew probed Ruven's body, searching for what would make the shaman howl in ecstasy. His meaty fingers roved the human's nipples. Ruven sucked air through cleched teeth, thrusting his chest forward as if begging Knaatl to continue. Prompted, the Nightusk gently pinched the fleshy nubs. Ruven's eyelids fluttered and he had to reach out to grab Arnmok's broad shoulder to steady himself. The Red Orc bent towards him, cupping his chin gently before pressing their lips together.

Knaatl gently pulled his lips away from Arnmok's dick. Arnmok took from the chieftain's cue and took over pleasuring Ruven's upper body. One massive arm curled around Ruven's torso, his bicep offering a thick, vascular cushion for the shaman to lie against. His fingers seized a taut nipple, causing Ruven to moan into the Red Orc's throat. His free hand seized his own member and Ruven's. Though the human's cock seemed so miniscule compared to the pole of flesh, all three men knew that it would not stay so for long. Arnmok eagerly stroked their pressed members, bringing louder and more feverish moans from the shaman.

In the meantime, Knaatl navigated the maze of limbs that were Ruven and Arnmok's intertwined legs. His desire for men's feet brought him to Ruven's legs as the shorter male pressed his feet up against Arnmok's thighs for support, toes curled in pleasure. Knaatl took one foot, gently kissing the calves and then drawing his tongue along the length of his soles. Ruven gasped and quivered. His toes sunk into Knaatl's lips, a ravenous tongue sliding between his toes and sending a whole new kind of pleasure through his body.

Assaulted from three angles, his feet, his cock and his nipples, Ruven was overwhelmed and thrust madly into the manly orcs who were showing him so much affection. An overwhelming desire filled him and he had no resistances against it whatsoever. The image of Knaatl suckling on Arnmok's dick had burned itself deep into his subconscious. With a hungry growl, he tore his lips away from his best friend's kiss and dove straight for the Red Orc's waiting dick. Arnmok gasped but did not oppose the sudden change and he gripped the back of Ruven's head, guiding him to taking all of his cock.

The Red Orc produced an incredible amount of increasingly thickening precum, more than what Ruven could have consumed. It dribbled down the young shaman's chin and soaked into the sheets beneath him. But he was about to receive more pleasure from another source. Knaatl was not to be ignored.

The Nightusk chieftain grinned mischievously and moved behind the human. He bent down and pressed his nose against the man's balls, taking in the rich, musky scent. His tongue lapped at the hairy balls, sliding closer and closer to the shaman's hole. Ruven's moans grew louder and louder as Knaatl's tongue drew circles around his pucker, begging to be penetrated. The chieftain was more than happy to comply and positioned himself to take the man's virginity.

The huge, orc cock was more than any normal man could take but that would not stop him from try. With gallons of precum pouring from the tip of his green dick, Knaatl pushed the tip of his member into Ruven's ass. The hot spear of manliness caused Ruven to moan, arching his back in pleasure and pain. Knaatl stroked his back gently, soothing him as he made love to the man with the same tenderness that he had shown Arnmok not so long ago.

Both orcs quickly worked themselves into a rhythm but neither were after a lasting session. They both knew the main event would come the moment Ruven had turned completely into an orc. The two men exchanged glances and quickly worked their cocks, pumping inch after inch of their members deeper and deeper into Ruven. The heat in their bodies and the bed creaked as their immense weights rocked back and forth with every motion.

Arnmok suddenly shuddered and let out a soft gasp. He purposefully held himself back, 'saving' some of his seed for when Ruven would finally join him as a brother orc. Knaatl was not too far behind and his seed poured out of Ruven's ass even with his cock embedded deep into the man's pucker.

Both orcs looked down to Ruven in anticipation.

For his part, the shaman was in utter bliss. He never felt so warm before. The heat from the two hoses that pumped hot, orc seed into him seemed endless even though the two males were holding back their true flood. Ruven pulled away from Arnmok's cock, gasping for breath and swallowing the last bits of orc cum that his friend had offered him. He sat up partially, looking up at Arnmok with a dazed look in his eyes.

As their gazes met, the young man's brown eyes began to sizzle. Irises the same colour as tree bark burned away into a bright, gold in colour. Those same eyes rolled back into his head and a series of spasms quickly overtook the human. A deep rumbling roar began erupting from Ruven's throat. His neck rapidly began to thicken, thick veins scaling the length of his neck and feeding down into his shoulders. Bony limbs was pumped full of muscles and mass as his entire body began to morph and transform.

A suddenly burst of power flung Ruven back into Knaatl, knocking both men back into the bed. Knaatl laughed his booming laugh and quickly turned it into a lusty moan. He locked his arms around Ruven's chest, holding the transforming human against him. Ruven's pale, pink flesh began to discolour. A deep, almost bluish-green mark began spreading outwards from his stomach where both Arnmok and Knaatl's seed met. Where it passed, the flesh grew thick as leather and muscles rapidly grew.

His flat, undefined stomach hardened into eight solid plates of immense muscle, his belly button all buy disappearing into the folds of his abdominals. A sound like rocks grinding against one another filled the room as torso flared up. Two enormous mountains ballooned out; his pectorals becoming hard and strong enough to crush walnuts between their folds. They were headed by two, enormous nipples, perpetually hard and demanding attention.

As this happened, his spine stretched and grew. More and more of Knaatl's cock could slip into Ruven with each inch gained and the orc chieftain moaned with the transformation. He need not thrust at all. The more Ruven grew, the more his cock was pleasured. Suddenly, another weight fell atop the two and Knaatl found a big, red mass of muscles hovering over them. The chieftain grunted in surprise as he felt Arnmok's cock press up against his own and slowly push deep into Ruven alongside his own member.

Both he and Ruven roared in pleasure as the shaman was stretched wide by the two, enormous orc cocks pushing into him. Sensing his need for growth, the transformation rapidly accommodated the two cocks, inflating Ruven's rump into two thick, muscular orbs that easily squeezed down on the invading members.

His legs filled with strength as their flesh turned into a blue-green hide. At first, they thrashed out, kicking wildly into the air. Thighs inflated with increased muscles, becoming a pile of taut, veiny flesh barely contained by his new hide-like skin. His calves thrust out and curled around Arnmok's waist, pulling him deeper into himself as his feet flared out to accommodate his new size.

Ruven threw his head back, roaring in pleasure. The rush of strength shot through his arms, carried by thickening veins that crawled all the way down from his inflated pectorals, down to his biceps and into his forearms, forming an unbroken river that pressed up against his skin. Enormous biceps grew into existence, outsized only by his triceps. His hands crackled with the reforming of his bones, forging them into two huge instruments of battle.

The young shaman's features hardened but retained their pointed, elongated features. Two tusks shot up from his lower jaw, giving him the typical orcish underbite even as his chin remained pointed. His brow thickened even as his hair receded slightly, giving him a broad Widow's Peak. The curly hair on his head shrank back to their roots, leaving him with the look of a recently shaved head. At the same time, thick curls began sprouting from his chest, dusting the plateaus of his pectorals with a curly mess.

Ruven suddenly roared as his cock finally surged with the size and girth befitting an orc and more. Perhaps it was some of Incarius' blessing or being the product of two orcs mating with him, but the newly-made orc's cock filled with more and more blood and shot upwards past his pectorals, past his chin and even past his forehead. Arnmok gawked wide at the huge cock that was clearly more than half Ruven's size and could not help but lead down and take the pulsating, green head into his lips.

That was the last push the new orc needed.

Ruven let out a tremendous cry and the last of his human shape was shot out of his mammoth member in a sea of faintly glowing orc cum. Arnmok could only take the first mouthful despite all his practice with Oringruud and was forced to pull back as Ruven splattered cum all over the room. The sheer signs of masculinity was enough for him and he brought down the floodgates. With one last thrust of his own, he joined his friend in a tremendous roar and shot his seed into the ass that so warmly welcomed his cock. He was not the only one either. Knaatl grit his teeth and unleashed his own blast deep into Ruven.

All three men let out a cry of joy and ecstasy; a cry that reaffirmed the affection of two men for one another and also welcoming a new brother into the brotherhood of orcs.

But for Amthos… he could not bear to join them.

He could not even find it in himself to grow aroused at the sight. There was too much blood pouring into his broken heart. The Avatar turned away quietly and hurried away, keeping his head low so that no one might see the tears that were welling up in the corners of his eyes.

On some level, Amthos felt happy for Knaatl. His best friend genuinely found someone that he cared for. There was nothing defining that they were exclusive either. After all, the Avatar had been sleeping with Ramdrud and even Dalgmar on occasion. And yet, it still hurt to hear Knaatl utter those words and sweet talk to Arnmok.

It was utterly ridiculous that he was so hurt by what had transpired. He scolded himself for feeling like he did.

“I am happy for him," said the Avatar, lifting his gaze. “I am glad he found someone. I am sure I will be so lucky one day."

His voice echoed in the vast, empty hallway with the distant echoed of the celebrations only emphasising the dark void. More than ever, the Avatar of the Orcs found himself alone.

On instinct, his feet took him up a few flights of stairs and to a pair of double doors, currently unguarded as everyone was out enjoying the festivities. Everyone, that is, except for his advisor. Amthos pushed open the door and found Samuel within the room. The No One was perched on a large, red chair, a book in his paws and unarmoured. A fire blazed in the fireplace, casting contours against his dark fur and golden blonde hair.

“Samuel?" he began.

The wolf gave him a brief glance before returning to the book in his hands. “If you have come to reprimand me over my interference at Ruven's Trial, you should know that Ramdrud asked me to act. He and Dalgmar were hoping Ruven would become the next Thunder Caller chieftain and since every chieftain seems to have an enchanted weapon, they asked me to make one. The rest was just for showmanship."

“Really?" Amthos entered the room and shut the door behind him. “I wondered… But I was actually here for another reason."

Samuel had a look of intense focus on his lupine features as he scoured the book in front of him. “Is that so?"

He got a feeling of not being welcome and he fully understood given how he treated the wolf previously. “If you would rather I leave…?"

“Not at all. Sit." Samuel gestured at the spare chair in front of him and Amthos took it. “What is on your mind?"

He leaned forward, trying to see exactly what the No One was reading. Oddly, however, the pages were utterly blank. “What are you reading?"

A soft chuckle came from the wolf. “I am honestly surprised you cannot read it." He flipped a page but again, it was blank. “At times, the divergent pathways of time and space can be rather confusing to navigate. Endless possibilities and how they intertwine is like trying to unravel a tangled ball of yarn ten miles thick." He gave Amthos a faint smile. “My eyes can only see so much, after all." The No One patted the book with a spare hand. “I find it much easier to view the infinite pathways when they are in book form. Of course I put a restriction on this particular book. Only those whom it writes about can read its contents."

“Am I in the book?"

Samuel inclined his head to the side. “Yes and no. This book shows what could have been. The various scenarios that your path and indeed the path of the orcs could have taken had certain decisions been made instead of the ones that are currently set in the unyielding stone that is the past." He waved a furry hand over the pages. Words began scribbling across the fine, pure white pages in a script the Avatar could not understand. “I suppose you are too far different from the Amthos that existed within these pages for you to truly see it without me loosening the restrictions."

“It shows you what could have been?" Amthos regarded the book intensely. “Is it a portal to the past? Can we change the decisions we have made?"

The No One shook his head. “As convenient as it may seem, no. The Creator of this reality specifically restricted the world to a single timeline. There are no divergent paths. There are no alternate realities or parallel timelines. The decisions you make, the words we speak and the actions we take will forever we ingrained in the past. Every second that passes are irrecoverable." The No One smirked to himself and looked to the fire, settling his chin on his knuckles. “At first, when I looked upon this world I thought the Creator was performing an experiment on evolution. Have a few steward guard the budding life of Tirinead and see how they evolve without intervention from their maker. But now, I wonder if it not a test of temptation and consequences. An answer to the question: 'Can you live with the consequences of your actions be they good or bad?'"

He shook his head mildly and turned back to Amthos. “Enough of me rambling. You have questions for me?"

As selfish as he wanted to be, Amthos was concerned about his advisor's worry. “You seemed distracted when I entered. Did something in the book bother you?"

Samuel chuckled softly and turned a page back on the book. “Somewhat. There was a possibility of your brother becoming the Avatar instead of yourself."

“Luxaeus?" Amthos asked, stunned.

“Yes. Your brother has long since become disillusions to the activities of the Alliance being capable of travelling around the world as a Paladin. However, he still believed in Eranius and his noble nature. So every time he returned to Raonoak, his faith was refreshed. He could have been chosen just as easily as you were."

He leaned forward, now very interested. “What would have happened then?"

“He is far less trusting that you and questions much. Even under by guidance, he would have insisted on going to Raonoak instead and fetching you and your father. Familial bonds are very important to him, after all. What would have resulted was you taking his word for his chosen path and drinking his seed as a sign of faith. You would have transformed into an orc, albeit one without red hair, and fought beside him. This could have alienated your father, however, based on his decision. Your father could become your greatest enemy or would have been your staunchest ally." Samuel chuckled. “In this particular scenario, there was a very high chance that you and your brother would have become lovers."

Amthos reeled back in shock. “That is insane! I would never mate with my brother! Even now! If I were to turn him into an orc, he would have no contact with my actual cock!" Then he lowered his head. “Unless… he wants to that is…"

“Events would have turned out very differently," Samuel said. “You would have had to fight the stigma of being your brother's lover, finding your own identity outside of Luxaeus' shadow and much more. It would have been an entirely different story."

The Avatar let out a soft hum. “How would he have been chosen aside from me?"

“If you had but held your tongue on Fallowday, Luxaeus would have made a report the following day on his findings, pinning Qurron or another mage for the duplicity. He would have become more disillusioned by the Alliance and would have been a prime candidate for the role of Avatar."

So the book not only told of what could have been but also how it could have come about.

“Does the book tell you what would have happened had I chosen Knaatl as my mate?" he asked.

There was no hiding his true question from the No One but much to his relief, Samuel did not call him on his not-so-subtle question. “Yes. If, at Whitepeak, you had chosen to sleep with Knaatl instead of allowing Knaatl to visit Ramdrud, you two would have spent a magical night of love making under the stars. Ramdrud would subtly hint that he knew of your affections and eventually push Knaatl to confessing his feelings for you as he is all too happy at the idea of two, large, masculine orcs mating under his roof. You would reward Ramdrud with sex between the three of you, turn him into an orc and much of what has transpired would continue. Save for the fact that Oringruud would be more antagonistic against you for showing 'clear favouritism' towards Knaatl and the Nightusks."

Amthos looked to the door. “And I suppose Knaatl would not be making sweet love to Ruven and Arnmok now, would he?"

“No. You would be there joining him."

He snorted bitterly. “I suppose I can only lament at what could have been." Resting back in his chair, he gave Samuel a strained smile. “Tell me of my other potential loves."

Samuel lifted a golden eyebrow at him. “You will not be disheartened by the obvious contrast to your apparent loneliness?"

“A man can dream and it seems dreams are all I have now." He waved at the No One. “Tell me of them. Who else could I have given my heart to and been granted their heart in turn?"

The Star-Eyed Wolf began turning the pages of the book. “Ramdrud could have become your lover."

“I can still see that happening."

“Doubtful. He now relishes the challenges of ruling a vast country more than sex and while it is a pleasurable distraction, he enjoyed court intrigue more. However, had you taken more of an interest in ruling, you would have found him a rival and fighting for power over Bhotanmar through sharp slurs, barely concealed insults and political manoeuvres that would have most other men twisting their heads around in confusion. Eventually, as Grauhl made his presence known, you two would have concented to a truce and worked together to gather allies in defence of this city. Interestingly, in that scenario, your efforts to outdo one another politically would have mustered the greatest defence for Bhotanmar."

“And instead we are left with the piddling few orcs we have," Amthos chuckled bitterly. “How comforting…"

“The two of you would eventually have set your differences aside entirely," Samuel continued. “Eventually, you would bring out the warrior in him and he would have brought out the ruler in you. This match would blossom into true affection and you two would create the first true matrimonial orcish ceremony albeit after months of drawing up the documents that outlined the ritual. You would be known as the Two Kings of the North."

Amthos closed his eyes briefly and imagined that. He and Ramdrud ruling side by side, seated with equal crowns atop their heads amongst a sea of subjects. Perhaps he was a little chubbier for days spent dining with dignitaries and Ramdrud was a little leaner, showing more muscle, from training alongside him amongst the troops.

“What else?" he asked, brushing aside the vision.

“There is Arnmok."

He spun towards Samuel, an incredulous look on his face. “The Red Orc!? I have grown to respect him but as my lover? Surely you jest!"

“No." Samuel traced a finger along the lines of the book. “In this scenario, instead of letting Knaatl go off with Arnmok to rescue Ruven, you would have gone in his stead and let Ramdrud rule. You and Arnmok would have come to blows in the woods one night, away from prying eyes, and eventually you would dominate him but also respect him for you would always be much stronger than him so long as others are loyal to you and he knew that but he still kept fighting. That begrudging respect would lead to a passionate session under the stars and eventually a love. When you two made to rescue Ruven, Orradin would have threatened Ruven as he did but you would offer yourself in his place as you are the Avatar and would make for a far greater prize. Orradin would agree but then Arnmok would spearhead a rescue attempt that would see you rescued. From then on, you two would be bound to one another."

Amthos mumbled and turned away. “I suppose his accent is alluring… in a folksy sort of way…"

“Would you like to hear of the scenario where you and Ruven became mated?"

He rolled his eyes. “If you must…"

“Well, in this instance you approached him before the celebrations and asked him who he was truly loyal to. He would admit he is there for Arnmok but also hopes to make use of himself, to be more than the perpetual trainee. You can relate because you feel like Knaatl is constantly watching your back against assassins, Ramdrud does the ruling for you and even Arnmok is your personal bodyguard. You feel like you are contributing little to the growth of the Orcs save for the odd degree here and there. You and Ruven relate stories and instead of attending the festivities, you spend the night secreted away on the ramparts. Ruven admits to wanting to become an orc to be useful and you admit to not knowing much about magic and feel that were you to learn, you would be more formidable." Samuel lifted his gaze. “Expressing some jealousy of my abilities."

Amthos did not bother hiding his envy. “You can manipulate the world by just asking. You will pardon my jealousy."

The No One chuckled and returned to the book. “Eventually, you and Ruven make love that night, turning Ruven into an orc and thus starting your bond with one another. You and he teach other much. Ruven teaches you the fundamentals of magic which you surprisingly excel at which makes him a little jealous. In turn, you teach him the ways of the warrior and he proves to be a sly and witty fighter, even besting you here and there. Your affections grow and eventually, Incarius cements your union with a spiritual blessing."

He sighed softly and peered into the fire. “A sweet possibility, I suppose, but not one that is remotely possible."

“If you would like to hear of remote possibilities, there is the one where you and Oringruud become mated."

The Avatar turned to Samuel in shock. “Him!? How in the world would that be possible!?"

“By you yielding to him as warchief. He leads the orcs on a road to conquest and you work your way up from a common grunt to become his most trusted lieutenant. It was his attempt to shame you; to prove the Avatar was merely mortal. But your abilities allowed you to excel and he had no choice but to eventually trust you. After you protect him from an assassin, he thanks you with his seed, something you thoroughly enjoy. The two of you become secret lovers but when a lord of the Alliance attempts to discredit him in the face of his troops by revealing that you two sleep with one another, he proves his affections for you by declaring said affections in front of everyone. He takes you as his mate at that very moment on the battlefield."

Amthos shuddered. “So we fucks me right there in front of the men and the opposing army?"

“Yes."

“And here I thought he could not be more brash…" Amthos shook his head and slumped into his seat miserably. “I regret this conversation. Now I know what could have been and am all too aware of how alone I am." He sighed and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Samuel. I think I need to be alone…"

He heard the No One shut the book. “What is your purpose?"

The question caused him to stop in mid-step. “Excuse me?"

“What reason do you have for living?" Samuel said. “And do not say it is to follow the directive of the Old Gods. We both know you have abandoned that path whether intentionally or not." The wolf rose from his seat, looking ominous as a silhouette against the firelight with his blue eyes blazing. “What keeps you waking up every morning, lifting yourself out of bed and taking that first breath of the day?"

Amthos opened his muzzle to say the first thing that came to his mind but… he suddenly found that he could not find anything on his mind to say.

Why was he fighting for Bhotanmar?

Why was he pushing for a nation for the orcs?

Luxaeus had always been the one with the goal of doing what was right and just.

But he…?

“I… I do not know…" he responded. “I just do not know…" He looked worriedly and with confusion on his face at the No One. “What of you? Why do you do this? Is it simply because the Creator asked you to?"

“More than that." Samuel pressed a hand-like paw against his chest. “A sense of responsibility and curiosity." He gave Amthos was pleasant smile. “We are all mortals, Amthos. It is a rare opportunity to be able to grow and learn alongside every person in existence. Though I may be able to see everything that was and can be, I am constantly surprised by those who live the story." He closed his eyes, the smile on his face becoming somewhat rueful and bitter. “A No One is someone who has reached the end of their tale. We tout that we attempt to help others reach theirs but I believe many of us intervene so that we can continue to write our own stories as well."

“So… you do not have a tale of your own so you make yourselves part of others?"

“Perhaps." Samuel opened his eyes and gave gestured towards the fireplace. The flames suddenly flared up and curled through the air. They formed a vague outline of a pair of double doors. When the doors peeled open, Amthos was surprised to see nothing but absolute white on the other side. “But I think you are very much in a similar position to we No Ones. Your story is far from complete but you find yourself going through the motions. You do not know why you do something or why you continue to live this tale. Where we No Ones accept our role as wanderers between time and space, you need a true purpose. I believe I know someone who will be able to inspire you on that purpose."

Amthos regarded the door and gave the No One a smile. “Is this how you managed to 'shout loudly' from your room?"

“No. This is how I managed to bring your brother back from beyond Grauhl's blizzard." The wolf offered his hand. “Hold tightly onto my hand. Do not let go. Focused on it alone. Do that and you will not get lost in Naught."

The Avatar suddenly felt worry creeping up his veins. Something told him not to accept the No One's guidance especially after everything that had happened but when he considered what had happened, he could not wondered if he should ever fault the Star-Eyed Wolf. He took Samuel's hand and allowed himself to be led into the infinite white of Naught.

The endless nothingness was oddly peaceful, serene. There did not seem to be any light, or a floor or anything else apart from the two of them striding across the non-existent path in single file. He even wondered if there was any actual air to breathe and yet as his lungs filled up in his thick chest, he could definitely survive and did not choke on nothingness. Before long, they were approaching another door, this one white and plain, almost invisible in the endlessness of Naught.

They stepped through and found themselves in a dark chamber. As Amthos' eyes adjusted, he took in the stone around them, the wooden support beams, the used bed and the open window that let in the cool, night air. The scent of mildew was in the air and the scent of a man accompanied it.

“Where are we?" he asked.

Samuel pressed a finger against his lips, indicating silence.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway beyond an old, wooden door. Amthos readied himself for a fight, regretting that he had left Grimight back in his room in Bhotanmar. A short while later, the door sprang open and the man that entered carried a lamp ahead of him, muttering under his breath. The newcomer first lit the lamp beside the door, illuminating the rest of the room, before shutting the door behind him. Only then did he take notice of the two individuals standing in the middle of his bedroom.

“You!" Orradin cried. His fingers grasped for a sword on his belt but found none there.

“Peace, Orradin Greenslayer," Samuel said, holding up his hands. In one hand, he held Orradin's blade. “We are simply here to talk."

Amthos felt his blood start to heat up at the sight of the man that had condemned him, who had caused him to be branded as a Greenskin Sympathiser and started him on this path. But at the same time, his mind cooled the rage within him for had it not been for Orradin's zealous hatred of the orcs, he would never have become the Avatar of the proud, green-skinned race. Though he could arguably say that it was because of Orradin that he was currently alone, he had no one to blame but himself for the decisions he made that led to his currently state of love – or lack thereof.

“If you are here to convince me to side with you, you are more delusional than I imagined," snarled the hero. “One shout and I will have you and your foul pig there gutted."

“You have seen what I am capable of, Orradin. You would not be so foolish as to try. Further, you have yet to see the might of the Avatar."

Orradin's eyes widened as he laid eyes on Amthos. “This… This is the Avatar of the Orcs?" His lips curled into a strange half-smile, half-scowl. “I always knew orcs put value in those with red hair. Seem to think that it is some sort of blessing from Garodrash. But looking upon you, I see little that would make you truly special. Save perhaps that you were once the measly squire that I had condemned with a few words."

Amthos absently scratched the remnants of the brand that was still emblazoned on his chest. “And I see you have lost much weight since we last met, Greenslayer. Perhaps marching in pursuit of me has actually been a benefit to your health."

“You flatter yourself." Orradin crossed his arms gruffly and pressed his back against the door. “I only seek to have every orc wiped from this world as is right. Humans, elves and dwarves are the rightful inheritors of Tirinead. You savages do not deserve to exist a moment longer."

“You accuse us of being savages yet you do not know us."

The hero's blue eyes blazed in fury. “I know you all too well! I was raised by one of you! A ruthless brute with no remorse and who only lived for battle! He had no affection for a child! He pulled no punches and showed no mercy!" He pressed a hand against his chest. “I was deprived of my childhood and turned into an instrument of war by his savage hand!" He pointed accusingly at Amthos. “If you must blame someone on the downfall of your befouled race, blame yourselves!"

Amthos turned to Samuel for clarification.

“Orradin was taken from his parents when he was discovered to be one of the children blessed by the Old Gods," said the No One. “He was shaped into a warrior against the orcs from the onset and trained under an orc gladiator." The wolf's eyes switched back to Orradin. “Have you ever considered, Orradin, that your mentor's situation and brutality was a product of his situation and not his race? After all, there was no way he could have survived. Either you killed him or the moment your training was complete, he would be killed. Or perhaps it was just him. Have you considered that you are being somewhat narrow minded at judging an entire race on a single individual?"

“Single!?" Orradin roared. “I have seen atrocities committed by the orcs across the years before and after the War of Apotheosis!"

“Greater than the atrocity committed by the Alliance when they slaughtered all the women and children of an entire race!?" demanded Amthos. “You condemned the entire species to die agonisingly slowly!"

“It was more than you all deserved! If I had my way, you would all be dead in an instant!"

Samuel suddenly raised his hands, demanding silence. “We did not come here to debate what has come to pass."

Orradin scowled and crossed his arms again. “Then say your peace and be done with it. I will warn you now, I will not do anything to abandon my quest to see you all put to the slaughter."

“Even if it means sacrificing the humanity of your own men?"

Amthos started at the accusation and by the look on Orradin's face, Samuel's accusation was very accurate. “What is he talking about, Greenslayer?"

“None of your concern, Avatar," scowled the hero.

But Samuel spoke anyway. “We are currently in Hawkshollow. Orradin has been using this as a staging ground to find the orcs. However, Qurron grows impatient with the lack of results and hoped to contrive a means to discredit Orradin and have them all return to Raonoak. In retaliation, Orradin turned many of his own men into orcs, proving to everyone that his leadership is needed and giving the men who have turned a purpose."

Orradin's features turned bright red and his rage flared up once more. “Only because you gave me some of the orc seed that allowed me to turn them!"

Amthos turned to Samuel in shock. “You did that?" The No One's nod sent his heart spiralling downwards. “Why?"

“To prove a point." Samuel gestured at Orradin. “Look at this man, Amthos. Look at him close. Can you see how you two are so similar?"

“We?" bellowed the Orradin. “Similar!? You must be jesting!"

The Avatar was about to utter the same protest but he as he looked at Orradin's beetroot-red face, he saw something. He saw a man who was just going through the motions; hating the orcs because he was told to and because it was all he ever knew. Nothing he did was for himself or perhaps it was this false purpose was so ingrained into him that he could not know anything else. If someone were to take the orcs from him, what would he be?

The same could be said for Amthos.

If his title of Avatar were to be taken away, who was he? His 'gift' was granted to the other orcs. Realistically, anyone could hold Grimight and even Winterpaw was found more and more in Luxaeus' company. Apart from a few other resistances, he was just an exceptionally hard-to-kill orc. He had no talent with magic, no true experience in battle, no true leadership skills and had no one to call his lover.

He was just like Orradin.

And that made him sick.

Amthos closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh. Strangely, a great sense of relief flooded through him. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he felt lighter, more at ease. Perhaps this was how the No Ones felt when they accepted their place as eternal wanderers between the pages of a story.

“Thank you, Orradin," he said with a serene smile. “You have put me at ease."

The hero looked to him with a befuddled gaze. “What?"

“I lacked a purpose," he answered, gesturing vaguely through the air. “I told myself I had one. I concocted this lie that I existed to elevate the orcs to an incredible force, free of the Alliance and capable of carving their own destiny. But I have now realised that lie." He lowered his arms, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And now I am free of it. I still have no purpose but at the very least, I am aware of it. Now I can search for one."

Orradin snarled at him. “If you lack a purpose, then make me your purpose! Do your best to slay me, orc! I swear to you that you will die in my hands!"

Amthos shook his head and began to turn away. “Perhaps. But there are far grander goals in life than slaying a nemesis."

“Nothing else exists for me that the total annihilation of your foul race!"

There, he could just laugh. “I pity you, Orradin Greenslayer, I truly do. Every aspect of your life is bent around killing orcs. Your very name is built around it." He turned his back fully to the hero. “But what will you do once the last orc is dead? Would you collect our seed and force feed it to men so that you would always have something to hunt? Would you simply wither and die in a brothel, penniless and destitute?"

“You know nothing of me!" bellowed the hero.

“I know more than you would be willing to admit." He glanced to Samuel. “Let us go, Samuel. I have learned all I can."

Another door sprang up in front of the Avatar, opening wide into Naught.

“Until next we meet, Orradin," said Amthos, striding boldly into Naught. “May you find your true purpose."

*******

The day of battle had arrived.

Orcs had amassed atop the Earth Runner Wall, armed to the teeth. Those not on the wall either hid amongst the blocky houses of Bhotanmar or manned the barricades of the palace itself. Amthos imagined that to all the other races that had come to this city before, they would never have been as prepared as they were now. The blizzard would likely have killed a fair number of them and when Grauhl came, he would've swept across the entire city like a farmer culling his field.

At the very least, they were prepared and would give Grauhl pause.

Though even were they to fail, they had contingencies.

Amthos cast his gaze throughout the Lookout. Those that could not or would not fight were gathered under light and warmth of Incarius. Ruven, now a stunning orc with rather handsome, chiselled features, stood in front of the Spirit King and speaking with others of the Thunder Callers. They were revising the play to breach Grauhl's blizzard and opening a portal for others to escape through. It would require compressing the shield around Bhotanmar to just the palace alone. That would allow them enough power and resources to punch a hole through the all-consuming storm and get everyone else out. Now that he was an orc as well, Ruven's physical endurance and ability to maintain spells was far greater than when he was a human. Dalgmar was particularly pleased with the young orc's transformation.

Amongst those milling about the Lookout, was Knaatl. His Nightusks were tasked with defending the palace. They knew the twists and turns of the building better than anyone else and they could stall any invaders as the orcs made their escape. Though the Nightusk chieftain was not too pleased with the assignment, Amthos was now grateful that the first orc he ever turned would not be joining him at the front lines. He could not stand the distraction.

Before Knaatl could notice him, he turned and quickly left the Lookout. Unfortunately, he did not get away in time and just a few steps outside of the spire, Knaatl's hand was gripping his shoulder and turning him around.

“You would leave me without a word?" said the dark-haired orc with a coy smile. “This could be the last time we ever get to speak with one another."

“I would rather not think of it," said Amthos with a brave smile. “I know we will meet again in this life or the next."

“Still planning on sacrificing yourself, then?"

He looked out a nearby window at the wall just at the mouth of the valley. “No. I will not sacrifice myself." Knaatl visible relaxed at that. “I will fight until the last orc has fled and if I am able, I will join you."

There, the chieftain regained some of his former discomfort. “That is an improvement at the very least. I would still fight alongside you. Duskvenom can kill anything with its poison."

His friend's concern was appreciated and touching but the memory of three orcs curled around one another in such blissful ecstasy and in a loving embrace marred his emotions. Had he not been the wiser, he would have begged Knaatl to fight alongside him. Surely a single strike from Duskvenom could topple Grauhl.

“Only when the sun is down," he responded. “Grauhl makes landfall in a few hours. Daylight is still very much upon us."

Knaatl turned his head away and cursed. “Damn Samuel. I am sure he had placed that restriction on me just to prevent me from joining the battle."

“You put too much faith in his ability to see the future." Amthos gently shrugged off Knaatl's hand. “We have more sway in our fates than he does."

With those words, he left Knaatl and made his way down into the palace proper. Wherever there was a large space, non-combatants were aiding in fortifying the doors and windows with any last minute barricades. Anything to slow down Grauhl's army should he ever get this far. Amongst those helping was his own brother, Luxaeus. It comforted him that Luxaeus wasn't wearing any armour. That meant he wasn't going into battle.

But to reaffirm that…

He gently tapped his human brother on the shoulder and Luxaeus turned to him. For a moment, Luxaeus appraised him, unable to recognise him. It still broke his hear that his own brother could not register or accept his role in this world. Then again, he had to question exactly what that role was. He was no longer going to pretend that he had a purpose. Though he did wonder how many people in this chamber truly had something they could call a purpose.

When Luxaeus finally recognised him, his brother's features broke out into a bright smile. “Ah! I was wondering if I would see you before we headed to the wall." Luxaeus placed his hands on his hips and looked about the chamber with pride. “I dare say that no undead minion of Grauhl's will ever break through these barriers. But with both of us at the front lines, they would get close!"

Amthos sighed softly. The back of his neck prickled and he rubbed the back of it absently. “Luxaeus… you will not be joining us at the forefront."

His brother's features fell. “You jest."

“I do not," he rumbled. “At least one Reinhardt should survive this battle. I do not intend to die this day but should things turn for the worst, I need you to survive."

Luxaeus shook his head defiantly. “I will not lose you a second time, Thomas."

“You will not lose me. Not if I breathe still." Amthos gripped his brother's shoulders tightly. “But I refuse to be responsible for throwing you to your death against an army of the fallen."

His brother shrugged off his grip roughly. “When will you understand, Thomas? I am a Paladin! I am capable of fighting."

“Not so much now that you have turned your back against the Triad and they will not grant you their blessings." Amthos shook his head firmly. “My mind is made up, Luxaeus. Even should you somehow sneak away from confinement and make it to the wall, I will personally drag you back to your room and lock you inside." Before Luxaeus could protest, he held up a finger, silencing him. “The time for debate is over. My mind is made up. You are a Paladin so you follow your lord's wills. You are in my nation so I am your lord. You will obey."

Luxaeus deflated even though his eyes remained furious and defiant. Amthos knew he could not keep his brother in the palace without further restrictions put in place. So as he left the chamber and entered the courtyard, he approached where Winterpaw was resting alongside a battalion of wargs that had come to their aid. Wargs did not fare well on boats either so the Blood Claws had to leave their trusty mounts back on land under Winterpaw's command.

He approached his trusty steed, though he wished he could communicate with the King of the wargs like his brother could. Bowing in respect to the King, he said, “Winterpaw, I need a favour of you."

The warg inclined his head to the side.

“Please stay here and keep Luxaeus from doing something foolish. I know he will try to join the battle somehow. I do not wish him to himself in harm's way. Constantly worrying about him while on the field will only distract me and we both know that I am the most capable of facing Grauhl."

Winterpaw lifted his head and looked pointedly up at the spires of the palace.

“Yes, I suppose Samuel would be more powerful," Amthos chuckled. “But if he has taught us anything, we must not rely on the gods or their messengers to do the work for us. We will not win this day if we rely solely on his abilities." He lowered his head thoughtfully, resting a hand on Winterpaw's shoulder. “The Gods created us only for us to serve them. Grauhl broke free but even then, he is bound by his hatred of them. If we are to truly be free, we cannot rely on them or Samuel."

Winterpaw regarded him and gave him a wolfish smile. Clearly the King agreed.

“Thank you, my friend. Keep Luxaeus safe."

The matter settled, Amthos rose and headed out of the palace grounds. It was a long trek to the wall itself but it gave him time to review the city and all its preparations. Every street had been fitted with barricades and traps. Some homes had been rigged to explode at a moment's notice. Entire roads had false grounds that could easily fall away and trap dozens within. Barrels filled with oil were perched precariously on rooftops, ready to fall on unsuspecting prey before being ignited.

All of Bhotanmar had been transformed into an enormous trap. The closer one drew to the palace, the harsher the traps. Though against an undead foe such as the army behind Grauhl, he was unsure if these traps would actually prove useful.

They could only do their best.

Fear gripped him as he approached the enormous, black wall of Bhotanmar. Created by the Earth Runners, it was a tremendous edifice. Armed with ballistae and something Urthak called the 'Doomwall', it was an imposing sight. Should an opposing army break through, hundreds would die. And it would be because of his leadership or perhaps lack thereof.

Just the death of Oberyn had left him with a scar that he still bore. How would the deaths of countless more impact him? Each person, orc nor not, that was standing on that wall had a story to tell. Whether or not that story ended today on these walls against Grauhl could ultimately be determined by him.

Hundreds of orcs sat atop the Earth Runner wall, armed to the teeth as they stared out into the blizzard kept at bay by the magic of Incarius. No matter what how prepared they could possibly be, one stray arrow, one dent in their armour, one little mistake and their life – their tales – could end.

If this world had countless possibilities but only one timeline, what could have been if the people who died today had lived instead?

These thoughts made Amthos' head spin and he suddenly felt a sickening emptiness in the pit of his stomach that was threatening to swallow him entirely. The strength left his legs and he had to stagger quickly behind a stack of boxes just to steady himself. The troops could not see their Avatar in such a state. Not now on the eve of battle.

His chest felt like someone had carved a big chunk of flesh from his chest and no matter how rapidly he breathed, nothing could fill the hole. The weight of that emptiness was causing his body to collapse. His eyes were so wide and so strained that they could almost pop out of his head.

“Avatar?"

Amthos immediately straightened like someone had shoved a metal pole through his spine. He spun and found himself looking upon a young orc. Armoured like the other orcs, this one was a big, burly specimen that could have fit amongst the Blood Claw. It was hard to peg his race given that his skin was a very generic green. The colour of his hair was hidden beneath his horned helmet but his eyes were a rather unique blend of bright, cornflower blue with a golden ring around the edges.

“Y – Y – Yes…?" he stammered. Realising he should be more authoritative than that, he puffed out his chest and purposefully deepened his voice. “What is it? Can you not see that I am preoccupied?"

“I'm sorry, Avatar," said the orc, holding up his hands. “But I saw you rush here and I thought you were sick." He inclined his head to the side, a gentle smile on his face. “From all appearances, you're got a big weight on your shoulders."

Amthos shut his eyes and sighed. “I do. Nothing you could ever understand."

“Fate of the world hanging in the balance. Your every choice deciding the fates of everyone around you? Life or death situation. Past mistakes haunting your every move. The odds against you?" The orc chuckled softly and crossed his arms, shifting his weight to his right leg. “Am I getting close?"

The orc spoke in a rather strange way that seemed a little out of place but he could not pinpoint what was so odd about it. “You oversimplify the issue…"

“Probably," said the orc dismissively. “But if you think you're the only one that has to make these decisions, then you are wrong." The orc looked up at the wall with a faint smile. “There are people up there that have made the same decision as you to fight. None of them had to stay, you know. They could have left with Urthak. But they instead to stay here and fight. You gave them the power to choose and they chose to fight. Every person up there is not only responsible for themselves but those that they are fighting for." He held up one hand. “He guards one brother with one hand." And then he held up the other. “And protects another brother with his other."

“But I would be responsible for sending them to their doom…"

“No you're not. Remember, there is always desertion."

Amthos gave the orc a foul look. “Thank you for reminding me…" This strange orc just smiled at him and shrugged. “And what do you fight for?"

“My son." The orc turned his strange eyes towards the palace. “He's up there. But I am down here fighting for him."

“I am sorry…" Amthos murmured.

“Don't be. Like I said, I choose to fight for him." He flashed a toothy grin at Amthos. “If you're going to be responsible for every person on this world, you might as well be a god." He poked Amthos' chest. “And if you're going to react like this every time someone risks their life or dies, you are going to be one very sad god." The orc took a step back and spread his arms wide, beaming brightly. “People may blame you, they might curse you but you can never make them do something they don't want to do. No one ever can blame anyone but themselves for the things they do."

“But –"

“Unless you have the power to dive into a person's brain and control every physical and mental decision they make you are not to blame for anything they do. Even a solemn bastard forced back blackmail has a choice. When backed into a corner, you can always fight back!" The orc winked at him. “That's what you did, isn't it? The Old Gods forced you to be their Avatar and you used it to make this nation."

Amthos opened his mouth to retort… but found himself frowning instead. “I… I suppose you're right."

The orc smiled and turned towards the wall. “Well then, if you will excuse me, I have a battle to fight. Not because you told me to or because you forced me to. But because I want to."

The Avatar suddenly found that hole in his stomach and chest filling up with courage and pride once more. The strength to lift his head proud filled him and when he looked up he saw the fluttering white banners with the emblem of two crossed orc tusks emblazoned upon it. The way the tusks were curved, it almost looked like an 'A'.

A for Amthos.

A for Amthosruud.

“Wait!" he cried towards the orc. “Your name, sir."

The orc gave him a smirk. “Nájos."

A group of other orcs came sweeping in, marching up the steps to the wall. The strange, insightful orc vanished and Amthos was left with the swell of pride in his chest. He marched up to the wall, joining the other commanders that stood with a full view of the battlefield. Ramdrud and Dalgmar greeted him with a nod and he stood between them so that all his troops knew where he was.

“I am surprised you do not have Winterpaw with you," Ramdrud admitted.

“I've had Winterpaw guard Luxaeus," said Amthos. “His wargs are better off in the streets as well. Not up here in the cramped walls."

“I would have thought a Paladin of the Alliance would have been a welcome addition to our defence," said Dalgmar. “But I very much doubt that the Triad would grant his prayers knowing where his allegiances now lie."

Amthos grunted softly. Silhouettes were forming within the thick, white blanket of the blizzard. There was a mast and the vague outline of a longship. “One of the reasons I kept him from the battle."

“And what of Samuel?" asked the shaman. “Would he not have been best served to join us?"

“He aided Orradin in turning some of his own men into orcs for some unknown purpose. While the outcomes of his schemes have been positive for us, thus far, I still cannot trust him." He grinned bitterly. “Though something tells me confining him to his room would do little to restrict his abilities. He actually –"

Further conversation was cut off by the bellow of a deep, resounding horn. It was like the sound of a great whale dying off in the ocean; a deep, mournful noise that sapped the warmth from his very veins. The shadows in the blizzard grew more solid, defined. The few silhouettes in the blanketing blizzard multiplied. A dozen soon became visible. Then two, three. Soon, the entire horizon was obscured by the rapidly growing silhouettes.

Amthos could only hear this own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His grip around Grimight tightened. The strength of pride in his chest hardened like steel, reaffirming his convictions. This was his choice. Those that followed him like Ramdrud and Dalgmar made their choice to follow him. He would defend them as brothers. He would mourn their loss should they fall. But their choices were their own.

That was his stance.

And from that… he felt a little closer to finding his purpose.

That ominous horn blew once more. The blizzard echoed the cry, howling in response and battering the barrier maintained by the shamans. From the still waters of the northern ocean, dark figures moved.

A creature emerged from the murky depths. A pair of horns breached the surface quickly followed by a rusted, weathered helm. Dead, glowing blue eyes shone beneath the dented metal, icy skin barely hanging on frozen bones. Ancient armour of a design not seen in ages rose from the waters, hanging on the desiccated flesh of warriors long dead but empowered by a terrible hatred of the Old Gods. It was nearly impossible to tell the species of the creature being so horrendously deformed by time and Grauhl's curse.

The first undead warrior was quickly joined by another and another and another until the docks of Bhotanmar was quickly over run by the marching, icy warriors. From where he stood on the wall, deeper into the valley, Amthos thought they looked like a swarm of blue ants coming, marching in a disorderly manner and just lumbering forward towards their goal.

The longships began making landfall. They passed through the barrier of the shamans; revealing their long, aged frames somehow kept afloat and moving despite tattered sails and holes in their hull. Ramps unfurled from each ship as they came to port. More undead soldiers came marching from their confines, joining the flood of walking corpses as they advanced upon Bhotanmar.

There were just so many of them and their icy gaze froze even Amthos where they stood.

Then he arrived.

Compelled by some unknown force, all eyes switched to the largest of longships just as an immense figure stepped off the ramp. The beast was enormous, just about as tall as an Earth Runner orc. Unlike the undead around him, his green skin was intact and his enormous muscles still easily carried his weight. Long, silky white hair tumbled from his head, almost making a mane down his back but partially hidden by the snow-white boar's head pelt he wore on his head. His chest was covered in thick, black armour engraved with arcane runes. Forearms as large as a man's thigh were covered in viscious, black armlets made of bear fur and large, red claws not of this world. His titanic legs were wrapped in leather armour with the tattered remains of chainmail hanging from his orc skull-shaped belt like a cape. Tremendous, black boots capped with the skulls of wargs carried him easily towards the wall. From his back, sprouting from the armour of his back were ten enormous, black spikes, rising behind him like a dark halo. Atop each spike was the skull of each of the major, non-Alliance races; an orc amongst them.

Grauhl.

The First Orc's eyes burned with an unholy blue fire; the power behind them actually rising as ethereal flames from his eye sockets. His tusks were so large that the stretched from his lower jaw all the way to his eyebrows. In one hand, he wielded an enormous club. In many ways, it resembled Grimight; it was enormous and heavily spiked but every inch of it was made of ice and soul-sapping white wings whirled around it constantly.

Amthos found himself unable to move.

This creature… this… First Orc was simply awe-inspiring. Every inch of him demanded respect and fear. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees there and then.

A hand suddenly fell on his shoulder, shaking him from his revere. Dalgmar was giving him a fierce stare.

“We did not come all this way to fall to the mercy of an orc too stubborn to die," said the shaman fiercely. “Rally your troops. The spirits are with us."

Amthos turned towards Grauhl and the approaching undead army. Mustering his courage, he lifted Grimight into the air and let out a bellowing roar. Empowered by the Old Gods, his voice carried all across Bhotanmar. Every orc heard him and even Grauhl was given pause. Every citizen of Bhotanmar was knocked out of the freezing fear the First Orc offered. Encouraged by their Avatar, they readied their weapons.

“Let the battle begin," Ramdrud said pensively, drawing the blade of his enchanted weapon. “For Bhotanmar. For Amthosruud."

*******

The roar of battle could be heard even from where the Blood Claw fleet hid amongst the blizzard. Every orc hade to huddle together for warmth and Oringruud would not allow any fires. Even as the raging winds sapped the strength from their bones. For three days, they had stayed out in the biting cold. Arnmok at least found comfort in having his progenitor's dick deep inside him for warmth.

But now the battle was upon them.

Arnmok looked to the sky just as a blinding flash erupted from high above, the Lookout. The shield erupted outwards, pushing the blizzard back. With the increased might of Incarius and Ruven's combined strength, the shield could be expanded a little further to give the Blood Claw fleet direction. It would do them no good to crash upon one another.

Arnmok stood beside Orungruud at the front of the ship.

“We shud start advancin'," he said. “Grauhl's made landfall. We can batter 'im against the wall an' crush his troops in time fer Amthos ta trigger the Doomwall."

Oringruud let out a soft rumble… but didn't give the order.

“Chieftain…?" he asked.

The Blood Claw chieftain's eyes narrowed. “Sound the retreat."

Arnmok spun towards the chieftain, eyes wide in shock. “Whut!?"

“You heard me," snarled the chieftain. “Turn the fleet around." To emphasise his point, the Blood Claw chieftain turned, facing the wide-eyed red and green orcs on the ship. “I will not see my tribe slaughtered defending a doomed city."

Hearing his chieftain and dran'mok's words, both crushed and angered him. His mind instantly went Knaatl and Ruven who both stood in the city defending it with their very lives. He could not leave two of the most important men in his life to die against Grauhl.

At the same time, he owed Oringruud so much…

“What are you waiting for?" barked the chieftain. “Sound the retreat!"

Arnmok quivered where he stood. “You swore an oath to Amthos."

“Oaths can be broken," snarled the orc. “I am not a blind follower that would do whatever is asked of me because of an oath. I will not see my tribe dashed upon the rocks or walls. I must think of what is good for the Blood Claw. I did not survive all these years after the War of Apotheosis just to die for a lost cause under a binding oath."

“But –"

Oringruud suddenly whirled around and seized Arnmok's neck, lifting him a full foot off the ground and over the edge of the boat. “If you would throw your lot with the preening child, then you can swim back to Bhotanmar!" The chieftain glared at the rest of the ship, his voice carrying across the rest of fleet. “Any who would throw away their lives for some false sense of loyalty can do the same! But remember, you are all Blood Claws! You follow my lead not some boy who would call himself warchief!"

Turning back to Arnmok, Oringruud scowled and bore his fangs. “So what will it be, goe'mok. Will you stand beside me as you should or will you go crawling back to that whore of a chieftain you bed and the bastard shaman who hides behind his spirits?"

Already conflicted between the Blood Claws and those he loved in Bhotanmar, Arnmok found himself torn between his loyalties. But the moment Oringruud called Knaatl a whore and Ruven a bastard, his decision was made for him.

“Ah'd rather die under a proud flag than live under a craven's name."

There was a flash of disappointment and maybe even sorrow in Oringruud's eyes. But the Blood Claw chieftain did not let it linger and he scowled. “So be it."

With a grunt, Oringruud tossed Arnmok overboard. The cold water hit him like a million icy daggers striking his flesh from all directions. Arnmok immediately swam to the surface, grimacing as his armour bore him down. He immediately kicked off his boots but that was still not enough. Taking a deep breath, he dipped beneath the surface and immediately shucked off his trousers and the leather armour. He made sure to grip Bloodspear as he lightened his load and swam back to the surface. Though he was mostly naked save for a loin cloth, at least he could keep himself afloat.

The creak of wood filled his ears as the ships began to turn around.

He could not let this stand.

“Ah fight fer Bhotanmar!" he roared. “Ah know sum o' ya still 'ave loved ones back in th' city! Ya came out here 'oping ya'd be savin' them! Dun turn yer back on 'em! They're countin' on ya!"

His heart sank just like his armour as the ships just continued to turn.

“Dun make this the first memory o' Red Orcs! We ain't cowards! We ain't traitors!"

The waves from the turning ships shoved him back beneath the surface. He spluttered, spitting out salty waters. A strong arm suddenly seized his waist and pulled him back to the surface. The sounds of groaning hulls was punctured by the sounds of heavy, orc bodies hitting the waters. Armour was tossed wildly overboard. Orcs, red and green but all Blood Claws dove into the icy ocean. Many still stayed.

Still, seeing so many of his brothers joining him warmed his heart and the Red Orc looked up defiantly at his father.

“Swim!" he hollered, turning back towards Bhotanmar. “Swim ta shore! Let's show 'em the might o' th' Red Orcs!"

*******

“They're fleeing…"

Even from where he stood, Luxaeus could see the Blood Claw fleeting turning and fleeing. Rage boiled in his blood. In the short time he had been here, he knew that Oringruud and his Blood Claws were not to be trusted. Now, a crucial part of the defence's strategy had turned tail and fled! Having been in many battles himself, he knew how this could impact morale.

He had to get down there.

The Paladin grimaced and slammed on his last bracer.

Winterpaw growled his disproval.

“I know Thomas told me to stay here," he snapped back. “I know he is trying to protect me. But I cannot stand idly by and watch my brother fight this battle alone!"

He remembered Amthos' words to him all too clearly. Part of him was insulted that his brother would think him weak but the other was also a little jealous that Thomas could command him in such a way. His eyes wandered to the trunk where that metal arm that Samuel had given him rested, hidden away. A part of him considered putting it on, turning himself into an orc. If he were to become an orc, would that have Amthos see him as an equal and let him fight beside him?

Or was it more than just a matter of race?

He shook his head.

It was more than just the colour of his skin. They were brothers, after all, and he knew that Amthos was protecting him for more reason than because he no longer had the blessings of the Triad. In his place, he was sure he would've done the same.

But that did not mean he would not try to join the frey.

Winterpaw thoroughly protested.

“I have scaled these walls over and over again for the past few days," Luxaeus said fiercely. “I can make it down to the courtyard easily enough. I will head out into battle and join my brother. I will not lose him again."

The King of the Wargs stepped in front of him, barring his path to the balcony.

“No, never in my armour," he admitted. He picked up his hammer from where it lay on the bed, strapping it across his back. “But I must try."

He pushed past Winterpaw...

… and the Warg King bit down on his arm, not too hard to pierce the metal but enough to hold him back.

Their gazes met… and he gave Winterpaw a genuine smile. “I shall. You need not worry. I will return. Rest assured."

Reassured, the Warg let him go and he stepped out into cold. Taking a deep breath, he looked to the north. The battle had already begun in earnest. The ballistae on the Earth Runner walls and catapults all along the city were hurling their payloads into the army. The shamans were weaving their spells with the spirits willingly fighting alongside the orcs. But even from where he stood, he could see the overwhelming force of Grauhl's undead.

The wall would not hold out for much longer.

Luxaeus reaffirmed his convictions and peered over the ledge of the balcony. It was a very long drop to the bottom. One wrong step and he would surely be splattered on the icy stones below. But as he had reassured Winterpaw, he had made the climb secretly up and down for the past few days in anticipation of this moment.

He could do this.

He had to.

So he began his climb.

In his heavy armour, every frozen ledge was treacherous and incredibly slippery. But he had practiced the climb every day since his confinement. The same handholds and ledges had grown to be second nature to him. The only thing he was missing was time. Every crash and explosion urged him to move quicker and had him cursing Oringruud under his breath over and over again.

Winterpaw told him to take his time and not to rush things.

“I know how to climb!" he snapped, inching down another floor. “When I was a boy, father would always catch me climbing the walls of our manor. It's why he sent me to the seminary. To teach me discipline."

His foot grazed one of the ledges and he gasped as he suddenly dropped a foot. Thankfully, his hands had a firm grip between two large bricks and he didn't plummet to his death. Heart racing, Luxaeus found the foothold he was looking for and stabilised himself.

“See?" he laughed softly. “Nothing to worry about."

He got a snide remark for that one that he refused dignify with a reply.

Stealing a glance towards the wall, he could see the shamans were starting to utilize the spirits. An avalanche triggered on the slopes of the mountains, guided by the shamans. The rushing snow swept down into the docks, avoiding the wall entirely and burying anyone that was caught beneath its folds. Had that been any ordinary army, it would've been a death sentence.

But this was an undead army maintained by the hatred of a single figure, after all.

“Must focus," Luxaeus told himself.

He crept down the wall, grimacing as the icy cold of the air began to freeze his armour against his flesh. The warmth was starting to be sapped from his flesh by the very metal that was designed to protect him! He vaguely wondered if it would have been smarter to sneak his armour somewhere in the ground below than actually bringing up to his room, putting it on and then wearing it as he descended down the wall…

He got a bitter analysis from the King of the Wargs.

“Would you just shut up!?" he bellowed. “I am trying not to fall to my death here_!"_

A loud crash suddenly erupted from the defensive line. Luxaeus turned to look in the direction of the defenders. His eyes widened in terror. A tremendous wave of force erupted from somewhere on the battlefield. The mighty walls of the orcs shattered. A wall of snow and harsh winds came sweeping across Bhotanmar. It came rushing towards him with a roar that was slowly quickly building up to a crescendo.

“Oh fuck…"

Luxaeus could see his doom. He looked straight up. Winterpaw was perched over the edge of the balcony, looking down at him with the same look of horror he wore.

“Tell my brother I love him."

*******

A few floors above where Luxaeus had begun his treacherous climb, Samuel sat in his chair, book on his lap and turning the pages. There was a sad frown on his face as he read the passage detailing what could have been had the proud Paladin simply decided to wait or perhaps trick the orc guards alongside Winterpaw to joining the battle. Even if Luxaeus had simply climbed up and asked him for help, perhaps events would have turned out differently.

Samuel regarded the book in his hands. Within its pages were all the other possibilities that could have happened. Luxaeus could have worn the arm, turned into an orc and joined the battle easily enough. In truth, that is what he had hoped would happen. Sadly, the choice rested with Luxaeus and the Paladin made another choice. It made the Writer sick to his stomach as he saw all the 'good' outcomes displayed on the page before him.

“If there is naught but good endings within these pages…" Samuel sighed. “… then what is left?"

“You seem sad, Writer."

Garodrash was suddenly sitting opposite to him, once again dressed in his pilfered armour. The God of Fertility seemed pleased that the Writer of Reality was so despondent.

Samuel sighed softly and shut the book. “You know, I had been wondering for a while now why it is that you never told me of Grauhl. Then I think back to that conversation we had back in the forests right after Knaatl was first transformed." He fixed Garodrash with a piercing stare. “You despised the idea that I was turning Amthos into something you did not envision, an independent force not reliant on your aid."

“Just what are you accusing me of, Writer?" By the god's smirk, it was clear he already knew.

“You planted the location of Cald-Harun in Urthak's mind. You gave him the maps that would have him find this city knowing that he would eventually lead the orcs here. Knowing that the Earth Runners would flee, you could effectively use them as a means to start again while Grauhl wipes out the rest of the 'heretic' orcs. They already carry your gift so you need not worry about creating a new Avatar. With Oringruud turning traitor as well, you have another avenue to re-establish worship in you."

The God smirked. “If you think you are the only one that can weave plots and intrigue, Writer, you are very much mistaken. You rely too much on your sight to pave your decisions."

“Perhaps. But at the very least I have faith in those I lead and value the lives of this world. You would discard people as easily as you would breathe."

“They are but mortals."

“You are mortal, Garodrash. Or need I remind you how close you came to being obliterated." Samuel rose to his feet, turning his back to the god. “The people of Bhotanmar will not fall so easily. I have such faith in that fact that I would turn to look at the future." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes back at the god. “Tell me of the Vessel of Life."

The God of Fertility went rigid and if at all possible, his green features grew pale. The mighty fingers around grabbed his armrests of his chair, causing the wood to crackle and snap. “I have no idea what you are talking about."

“Deny it all you wish, Garodrash." Samuel turned his gaze towards the book. “If you recall, that book contains all the possibilities of the past. I know what you did. I know how you gave mortals their soul."

Garodrash's lips tightened and even as a tremendous roar erupted from the battle further down the valley, the God was unfazed. “Do not patronise me, Writer. If you have something to say, say it."

Samuel spun around slowly. “Omatriel, despite all his power as the supposed 'God King' could only give mortals their shape. Rivellin as the God of Wisdom, gave the people of Tirinead their ability to think. But it was you who gave them their soul. You tout yourself as the 'God of Fertility and Masculinity' but in reality, that is to hide your own foolish fragility over being responsible for granting every living being in this world that little spark of essence of divinity."

The God sprang to his feet, the entire room quaking with his rage. “Omatriel's ambition ripped open a hole between the Etherealm and Tirinead! Raw magic was flooding into this static, unyielding world of mortals, threatening to rip it asunder! Had I not found a means to put that magic into the bodies of these toys, Tirinead would be ripped asunder!"

“And yet, here you stand lamenting over the freewill that you granted and how it has aided in your Avatars and people deviating from you."

“Our world was forever changed when we stepped into Tirinead from the Etherealm," snarled the orc god. “The creation of humans was a necessary step to stabilise the world. Yes, we may have experimented a little after that but it was all in the name of progress! We had a system!"

“I am aware," Samuel said, waving hand absently over his shoulder. “Now the Vessel – "

“The so-called 'Holy Triad' has no idea the damage they are causing," snarled the furious deity. “The link between the Etherealm and Tirinead cannot be altered. The chaotic magical essences of the Etherealm bleed into this world. Under my guidance, mortals procreate and create more and more hosts for which the essence can be contained. They can then channel their own magic or the magic from the Etherealm into objects or spells to regulate this flow. But when the Triad sterilised most of the races, the flow has been disrupted! This world is slowly dying due to their rash actions!"

Samuel said nothing and just watched the god rant.

“We had a system…" rumbled Garodrash remorsefully. “Why do you think we stopped creating more species? Why do you think we encouraged the War of Apotheosis up until the Triad usurped us? This world can only sustain a certain population. Any more and the magic will be sapped from the world and children would be born without souls."

“And any less?"

The God grimaced. “Those with great magic would only grow more powerful but their spells and incantations would grow more and more chaotic. It would be akin to filling the entire world with a flammable gas. Just a single miscast spell and that would ignite everything and burn it to ash."

The No One then turned entirely towards Garodrash. “A reason I need to know about the Vessel of Life, Garodrash. I have a plan. One that will help restore the balance of Tirinead and give you the worshipers you desire."

That caught the deity's attention. “The Vessel is the object I used to initially pour the raw essence of the Etherealm into the soulless mortal shells that Omatriel had created. There is a group of worshipers that currently guards it in the south eastern part of the Fangs of the World."

Samuel glanced off to the right, eyes shifting to their all-seeing state. The wolf frowned. “When was the last time you checked on them?"

The God rose to his feet, eyes wide. “Not recently. I was lacking power, after all. Why? What ails them?"

“Nothing… yet. But it seems that the Triad has noticed them." His eyes went back to Garodrash. “Do not interfere, Garodrash. No matter how tempting it may seem."

“I cannot let such a powerful artefact fall into the hands of the Triad! With it, they could grant life to any inanimate object!"

There, the Star-Eyed Wolf smiled wanly.

“Exactly."

******

The world had become blanketed in white. Amthos was still reeling. His ears rang and his mind reeled. Trying to gather his thoughts, he remembered standing on the titanic wall of the Earth Runners, shouting commands as his enchanted voice carried across to all the defenders. A combination of shamanism and war machines was holding back the undead. The creatures piled against the base of the wall. Their aged, ancient weapons could do nothing against the hard stone and craftsmanship of Earth Runners. So instead, they literally piled themselves on top of one another, climbing atop one another in an attempt to mount the wall.

Luckily, they were prepared for that. Amthos ordered the ignition powder poured upon them and huge barrels were rolled off the edge of the wall onto the spires of desiccated, frozen bodies. Their best archers would fire a single flaming arrow into their midst, striking the barrels and…

Boom!

Was that wat caused the explosion? Was that what knocked him to the ground?

Amthos shook his head grimly. No. It wasn't. It was something… else.

Lifting his head, he could see the mountains of the valley starting to push past the thick, white cloud that surrounded him. He felt the chill of snow and as the thick blanket of white began to clear, he could see other orcs starting to appear out of the mist. Some lay flat on the snow, unmoving. Others were clutching injuries or trying to help others to their feet. Some lay beneath large blocks of black rock.

Then he remembered.

Grauhl.

The First Orc had let out a tremendous roar and charged straight the wall. The moment Grauhl lifted his massive, icy axe, Amthos knew felt a sense of impending doom.

The wall had just shattered so easily like glass. The orcs were hurled straight off their feet. An incredible force like the Gods themselves picking each of them and flinging them into the sky had hurled them into the air. The blast had hurled the snow from the avalanche triggered earlier straight into them, blanketing Bhotanmar. Amthos remembered flying through the air, weightless but with the wind slashing at him as he wildly barrelled into the sky. Then a slab of rock hit him clear on the head and he went black.

He was surprised that he was alive. Perhaps if not for the blessings of the Old Gods, he would be dead.

That could only mean that there were so many others had perished in the blow.

The clank of metal and creak of bones filled his ears. Grimight lay not too far away. Taking it in his hands, he straightened. A terrible, ghoulish wind blew, blasting the last of the sheet of snow. The full destruction of Grauhl's blow came into view. The once mighty wall of the Earth Runner stood shattered, an enormous hole opened right before them. There were still orcs on the wall itself, scrambling desperately to regain their bearings even as the undead began charging up the stairs at them. On the ground, Grauhl's hulking form led the undead on a slow, deliberate march through the gap into the city.

Amthos lifted Grimight over his head. “To me!" he bellowed. “To me!"

Retreat was their only option. They had to make it through to the city. The traps would slow down Grauhl.

Then, he heard deep, resonating laughter. His eyes fell on Grauhl.

“So," rumbled the First Orc, his voice so deep that it was like the very earth itself was speaking to him. “You are the Gods' newest little project are you?" The First Orc threw his head back and let out a tremendous laugh. “Stuck in their cycles as always!" He raised his huge hands into the air as if welcoming the Gods' wrath. “Did you finally seek to replace me after all this time!? Would you have the orcs be led by this weak facsimile!?"

Amthos growled and lifted Grimight over his shoulder. “I am no copy of you!"

Grauhl regarded him with a sense of amusement. His undead army stopped just behind him though the ones fighting the orcs on the walls continued to push forward. “Oh no? Compare yourself to me, little one." He lifted his icy club. “You and I bear similar weapons. We command armies. What's more…"

Grauhl reached for his helmet and wrenched it off. A full mane of bright, fiery red hair stuck out against the snow and battle.

“We both bear their 'mark'."

Placing the helm back on, the First Orc continued. “We are products of their machinations. Created for their 'grand schemes' but with little care for our thoughts and feelings." He slapped a fist against his armoured chest. “Look to me if you would see your future, child! I am what you will become once the Gods are done toying with you. You will be discarded, cast aside and expect to integrate into their perfect little society, just another face in the masses! You will not be rewarded for your hardship and toil!"

The Avatar shook his head defiantly. “I do not follow the Old Gods blindly. They may have granted me these gifts but I am not a puppet on their strings!"

Grauhl seemed surprised at that. “Oh? Is this a pawn who has grown into a king?" He laughed softly and held out his free hand towards Amthos. “Then surely you see the futility of fighting. Join your army with mine. Together, we will defy the Gods!"

It was a tempting offer. So many were suffering already and so many were dead or dying. If he could stop the fighting now, perhaps he could save others from more suffering. But then he remembered that strange orc's words. Everyone who stood upon that wall made the choice to stand beside him. They still had the choice to fight back and surrender.

They made their choices.

And he had to make his.

“I do not agree with every decree of the Gods," he said. He lifted Grimight and brought it slamming down into the ground, causing the ground the quake and shatter around him. “But I will not turn my back entirely to them! There are no gods in this world, just mortals! And those that gave me this power are mortals that asked for my help! I will not betray them!"

Grauhl snorted derisively. “Then you will die with them."

On some silent command, the undead army poured out from the other side of the wall. Amthos was grateful as other orcs immediately began flanking him. He let out a tremendous roar and swing Grimight. His single blow slammed into the skulls of the undead, hurling them high into the air with a tremendous boom.

Blades slashed and metal struck metal. Orcs roared and the undead wailed.

“Fight to the stairs!" he roared. “Fight to free our men!"

He would not leave any man behind. With Oringruud betraying them, those men stuck on the walls had no reinforcements coming. He would not damn them to join Grauhl's army. With every swing of his mace, he cleaved a path towards the stairs up to the walls. Seeing him fighting so hard inspired his men. They fought harder to try and join them.

This heart pounded in his chest.

He was getting closer!

He could rescue his men!

A huge hand suddenly snaked out of from his right. It seized his neck and lifted him easily into the air.

“You care for your minions far too much," snarled Grauhl. “The Gods did little to care for us when we were their minions. Why should we extend the same courtesy to our own?" To emphasise his point, he grabbed one of the undead around him and hurled it straight into a group of Orcs. The bony creature shattered into a dozen pieces and the orcs were toppled over and stunned.

Seeing such a wanton display of carelessness, Amthos sneered and slammed Grimight into Grauhl's elbow. The blow caused the might First Orc's arm to collapse and drop the Avatar. “Then we would be no better than them," sneered the orc.

He let loose another roar and swung his mace at the First Orc. Grauhl met his blow with his own club. The blow sent out a tremendous shockwave blasting out from the point of impact. Undead and warriors of Bhotanmar alike were hurled away from them by an expanding ring of force. Amthos grit his teeth together and brought all his might against the next blow. Grauhl lazily blocked the attack, sweeping his arm wide to push the Avatar back.

“You are weak, boy," sneered the First Orc. “You cannot hope to stand against one who has defied the Gods for as long as I have! They cannot even claim my soul! I am immortal!"

Amthos sneered. “Then you would be no better than the very gods that you defy."

Grauhl's eyes flashed in fury. “I am nothing like them!"

He saw his opening. In Grauhl's fury, the First Orc left himself open. Amthos rushed forward, ducking beneath the huge orc's mighty arms and sweeping his mace wide. Grimight slammed into Grauhl's knees. The force of the blow staggered the First Orc but did not topple him. Smaller and faster, Amthos danced away just as Grauhl regaining his footing.

“You mock the gods and their cycles," Amthos said. “And yet here you stand stuck in your own!"

“You know nothing of which you speak!"

In his fury, Grauhl launched at him with a roar, bringing his icy club over his head for a clumsy, overhead smash. Amthos easily ducked beneath the blow, rolling forward between Grauhl's legs and springing to his feet. He swung Grimight and caught Grauhl's flanks, bringing a roar from the First Orc.

“You come back to this very city every time someone occupies it," shouted Amthos. “You kill them, raise them as your undead army and then leave. Over and over again for centuries. It is the same thing. You have enclosed yourself in your own cycle!"

Grauhl let out another roar. His cry shook the earth and as he turned, his eyes were blazing with fury. He charged straight Amthos, club ready for a sweeping blow. Amthos held a smirk to himself and dove to the right –

Only for one of the undead warriors to suddenly latch onto him, colliding with him and tripping him. The ground smashed up against his chin and there was a moment of pain. But nothing compared to the terrible blow that came next.

Grauhl's club smashed against his back.

He screamed in agony, tears welling up in his eyes. Any other man would have been cleaved in two but it was debatable whether or not living at that moment was preferable. Grauhl's might hand seized his arm and hoisted him into the air.

“I have no dreams of conquest," sneered the First Orc. “My every breath is an affront to the very gods you claim allegiance to. By continuing to exist, I prove to them that they are not infallible. Only a foolish child like you would believe that to truly succeed would be to destroy your opponent." He leaned close, his stagnant, icy breath sweeping over Amthos' ears. “No, the greatest punishment is living with your sins."

Grauhl's hand tightened around Amthos' arm, crushing muscle and bone. “For your gall, I will make you watch as I kill each and every one of your precious men and bend them under my will."

“I will never let that happen!" he roared back. He swung Grimight. Grauhl lifted his own club and barred the blow.

“You will have no choice in the matter."

There was a sudden roar.

A greenish-yellow mountain suddenly came charging out from the side. It collided with Grauhl, stunning the First Orc into letting go of Amthos. Similarly stunned, the Avatar hit the ground and looked to his saviour. His eyes widened as a wave of enormous greenish-yellow orcs ploughed through the army of undead like maddened bulls through a crowd of people. The orcs easily cleared a path through to the wall and those trapped suddenly had a clear path to the ground.

“Earth Runners…?"

The orc that had saved him hefted Grauhl boldly over his head, huge muscles bulging. With a roar, the familiar chieftain of the Earth Runners hurled the First Orc into the very undead that the dark orc had raised.

“Urthak!" Amthos exclaimed. “You came back!"

The chieftain turned to him, grinning. “We are orcs. All of us. We stand together."

Grinning brightly, he rose to his feet…

… just as a dark shadow rose up from behind the chieftain. Before he could shout a warning, one massive hand seized the back of the chieftain's skull.

“I will not be made a fool of," sneered Grauhl.

The chieftain and Avatar locked gazes.

“Urthak!"

******

“Fool! I warned you this was a stupid endeavour!"

Winterpaw.

Luxaeus opened his eyes. His entire body was wracked with pain. It was so blinding that he could barely register the dizzying heights of the palace above him and the devastating blizzard that trapped them all within Bhotanmar. He was vaguely aware of a faint wetness creeping out from the back of his head. The pain was quickly subsiding though, replaced by a terrifying cold that slowly crept throughout his entire body like he was slowly being frozen solid. Somehow, he found the strength to turn his head to the left. The massive Warg was standing beside him, poking him with a wet, hard nose. He could feel blood seeping between the joins of his armour.

Everything felt cold. Very cold.

“I… I cannot feel my legs…" he mumbled.

“I am surprised you are alive at all!" exclaimed the Warg. “You are dying!"

“I… I… I can't," he mumbled, fists tightening. “I must… help… I must help my brother…"

“Stubborn fool," Winterpaw sneered. The Warg turned to someone standing out of sight. “Is there nothing you can do?"

“I cannot take away the consequences of one's actions," came a soft, feminine reply. “Time here is linear and I do not command the very essences of this world like R3 can. But perhaps there is something you can do." Soft, supple hands gently rested on Winterpaw's shoulder and another on Luxaeus' armoured chest. “You both share an incredible bond. One forged from beyond this world. If one were to use that bond as a bridge to transfer your strength into his body, you would empower him to heal his wounds."

Winterpaw turned his icy blue eyes towards Luxaeus. “I will only do this once, fool-of-a-man."

Luxaeus' lips curled upwards in a faint smile. “You would save me…?"

The Warg barked at him. “Only so I could forever taunt you with how right I was."

He could live with that. “Thank… you…" His eyelids grew heavy. At least… that was what he thought. The cold had reached his face and it was encroaching upon his vision. A creeping, chilling darkness began seeping out from the corners of his vision, threatening to consume him entirely.

Luxaeus suddenly gasped. A bright, white light cascaded from Winterpaw's body, travelled through the White Woman and straight into the crippled Paladin's body. An immense warmth filled him and it soothed the pain wracking his body. Sensations returned to his chest, arms and face. The chill throughout his body faded and he oddly felt… stronger than ever. A faint prickling stabbed at his and the pain from having his blood seeping out of wounds faded.

The sounds of fighting filled his ears. He could hear the roar of orcs, the clash of metal and the screech of war machines as they activated. Dozens of cries filled the air, both of victory and death. But it was more than that. He could hear more than the obvious cries. Somehow, he could hear the breath of a panting orc as he was pushed behind the lines of fighting. He could hear a blade digging deep into a dwarf's flesh, piercing his lungs. An elf screamed as he fell into a pitfall trap meant for the undead.

His nose wriggled. Though the smell of his own sweat and blood was dominant, he could detect the effort in the orc's blows, the fear in those that stayed within the palace and the acrid odour of the dead as they advanced through the city.

He grimaced. “What is… happening to me…?"

“Your bond with Winterpaw has strengthened you and saved your life."

He felt stronger than he had ever been but still could not feel anything below his waist. As the light faded, he tried to wiggle his toes but found them unresponsive.

“I… I still cannot move my legs…"

Winterpaw was panting and could not respond. He turned his head and found a beautiful, ethereal woman in all white standing over him. This was the White Woman. The supposed deity alongside the Star-Eyed Wolf.

“If any more were to be transferred, Winterpaw would cease to exist," she said sagely. “You would exhaust his very soul to repair and eventually alter your own body. I am sorry. There are limits to the soul no matter how strong it may be."

The Warg shook his head and nosed Luxaeus. “No matter. You will not need your legs."

“How will I fight…"

“I will be your legs. Get up."

Blinking, stunned at the offer, Luxaeus rolled onto his stomach. He reached over his back and pulled the remnants of his hammer from his shoulder. The weapon had been shattered with his fall just like much of his armour. Using it the bent haft as a crutch, he propped himself up. Winterpaw then lay down beside him, letting the Paladin crawl onto the Warg's back. Luxaeus grunted as he had to physically grab his own leg and swing it over Winterpaw's back so that he might resemble some sort of riding position. He straightened, panting and sweating.

“Hold on tightly, fool," Winterpaw said firmly. “We ride into battle."

Luxaeus smiled and gently stroked Winterpaw's fur. On a hunch, he scratched the Warg beneath his ears. Winterpaw flicked his ears back at the gesture. It would have annoyed him normally but since it came from Luxaeus… the Warg did not mind at all. It actually felt pleasant and even Luxaeus sensed it too.

“Thank you, my friend. Thank you."

The White Woman approached him, holding up a hand. “One moment, brave Paladin. You cannot ride into battle with a broken weapon."

Her upheld hand turned upwards, a tiny little white star appeared between her fingers. “The Triad may have turned their back on you but there are others that would lend you their aid."

“Whom?"

The star blinked and a faint, musical note sang through the air. “The undead are seldom raised of their own accord. The souls trapped by Grauhl in their rotting bodies rattle and rail against their restraints. Those freed seek vengeance but are unable to do so. Before they pass on to the next world, I would have then grant you some of their strength."

By these words, wisps of ethereal, bluish-green energies came flooding in from all around them. These threads began coalescing on her palm, surrounding the star that summoned them and feeding it, causing it to grow bigger and bigger. The shattered pieces of Luxaeus hammer rattled where they lay. They were drawn towards the star and Luxaeus relinquished his grip on the hammer's haft, letting it fly to the White Woman.

The pieces circled the star a few times before they slammed into it. The cracks shone with the incredible power contained within and even as the shaft locked into place, veins of the same blue-green energy seeped through the metal. A large aquamarine jewel remained at the centre of the hammer, the source of the scintillating light.

The White Woman handed the weapon to Luxaeus.

“I give you Shatterfrost_, brave Paladin. May it forever be a testament to freedom. Just as you sought freedom to aid your brother and the souls trapped by Grauhl sought freedom from their imprisonment, so too let this hammer carve a path of liberty for you and those you care about."_

Luxaeus took the hammer, awed by its sheer power. He could feel it humming in his grip, radiating with incredible warmth.

“Thank you, milady."

“Remember your lessons well, fair knight."

He nodded firmly and gripped Shatterfrost tightly. “I will."

Winterpaw suddenly threw his head back and let out a deafening howl. His cry was echoed by all the wargs within the city.

“To battle!" shouted Luxaeus.

*******

The gates of the palace were finally within sight. Amthos had never run so far and so fast in his life. He thanked the gods that he was granted with infinite endurance. The only problem was that the rest of the orcs were not so lucky. After fighting for their lives and then seeing a great chieftain get his head crushed with the bare hands of a monster, morale was low. The flight through the city and to the palace gave everyone something to focus on. The traps did their job, however. Grauhl's advance was slowed and the remaining orcs were able to flood through the gates.

Knaatl made his way to Amthos, throwing his arms around the Avatar.

“I feared the worst when I saw the wall collapse." The Nightusk chieftain glanced about. “Are those… Earth Runners?"

“They came back," said Amthos. “But Urthak… Grauhl crushed his skull…"

Knaatl looked mournfully towards the great wall that the Earth Runners had made. “When this is over, I swear to you that he will be honoured."

Ramdrud and Dalgmar hurried over, panting heavily as the last of the orcs made their way through the gates. The massive, iron doors screeched as they were pushed close.

“This is our last stand," Amthos said firmly. “If things start to turn for the worst, Ramdrud, Dalgmar, I want you both to sound the retreat. Have Ruven begin the ritual to open the portal and get the civilians out of Bhotanmar."

“I will not abandon you," Knaatl said firmly.

Strange as it may seem, the thrill of battle had mended the wounds between them and Amthos said, “I would not have it any other way. Perhaps we can hold them off to nightfall and you can pin an arrow between Grauhl's eyes."

Knaatl let out his thunderous laugh.

“Avatar!" came a cry. He turned towards the walls of the palace where one of the soldiers was standing. “There are orcs still fighting their way to us!"

“What?" Amthos climbed the ladders to the walls, Knaatl right behind him. Together, they peered out into Bhotanmar, now transformed into a hellish landscape of fire and dust. His eyes widened as he saw a large group of orcs, maybe a hundred or so, barely clothed and surrounded by the undead.

And their flesh was red.

“Blood Claws…" he breathed.

“Not all of them turned traitor," Knaatl said with a grin. “And if I am not mistaken, that thick-skulled ape wielding the spear is Arnmok!"

It was comforting, at least, to know that his bodyguard remained loyal.

“Open the gates!" Amthos roared. “We need to cut a path through to them! Now!"

The closed gates once again screeched open and the moment there was a big enough gap, Amthos was charging through with Grimight in one hand towards the group of Blood Claws, Knaatl right beside him. Dozens of orcs were right behind him, roaring and giving heart to their red brothers. The undead saw their approach and began lifting weapons to be at the ready.

Amthos braced himself for the collision.

Then a large, white bolt shot past him. Loud howls cut through the roars of battle. Wargs came pouring out from all the alleyways and side streets. Leading them was a tremendous white Warg with a man riding him, hefting a shining hammer over his head.

“Back! Back you undead filth!" roared Luxaeus. The Paladin swung his hammer. With a single strike, the undead shattered. Wisps of blue-green energies erupted from the gaping mouths and sunken eyes of the walking corpses and their bodies immediately collapsed.

The Wargs charged through the hordes of undead, their fangs ripping and shredding limbs off. They easily cut a path through to undead with plenty more to spare. Seeing their long-time companions, the Blood Claws leapt upon the backs of their mounts and were immediately carried over to Amthos' group. Even Arnmok was riding atop a large, brow-furred steed.

“You came back!" Amthos exclaimed.

“We ain't Blood Claws no more," said the Red Orc with a grim grin. “Oringruud 'as painted the Blood Claws as traitors. We ain't traitors."

Loud yelps and cries pierced their reunion. They turned as the tremendous figure of Grauhl came marching over, cutting a path through his own troops and the few wargs that remained. Showing no mercy, he grabbed one warg by the scruff and broke the poor creature's neck as easily as he had crushed Urthak's skull.

Amthos bared his teeth and stepped forward in front of his troops. Winterpaw brought Luxaeus over.

He shot his brother a piercing look. “I knew you would find your way down here. I just never expected you to be riding my mount."

“Winterpaw is more than your carriage, baby brother," said Luxaeus with a grin, patting the warg's shoulder lightly. He turned grimly towards the approaching Grauhl. “So what say you we destroy this abomination against all of Tirinead and then we can discuss how I make a far better warg rider than you or your other orcs."

He huffed and hefted Grimight. Beside him, Knaatl stepped forward, nocking an arrow against Duskvenom. Arnmok stepped off his Warg and readied Bloodspear.

Grauhl regarded them all with a scowl. “You gather around you a circus, boy. I have seen many men occupy this city, my city. But never before have I ever seen such a disgrace to the orc race. You may be big but you possess none of the qualities that make a true orc!"

Looking to all those beside him, all the orcs, red and green, and the wargs, he felt that Grauhl could not be more wrong. He then glanced over his shoulder at the walls of the palace. Warriors were upon there. Bows and arrows ready. Ballistae armed. Orcs, men, dwarves and elves alike. All of them were there. Then he lifted his gaze up to the Lookout. Even though he could not see them, he felt the eyes of all the people awaiting the outcome of their battle there. The spirits whirled around the Lookout as well.

He turned back to Grauhl, a serene smile on his face.

“How can you claim that I am not a true orc when you are not one yourself?"

Graul's eye twitched in fury. “Child, I am the first orc ever created!"

“And you have since lost sight of what it means to be one. You've spent so long hating the gods that you failed to see that 'orc' is not a race. It is a people." He spread his free hand around him. “We come from different tribes. Different beginnings. But we have all come here to fight for our home. All you have ever done is indoctrinate any you come upon to your way. That is not how we live. That is not how orcs live!"

“Fool!" bellowed Grauhl. “The Gods made orcs to be warriors! They separated us into tribes to 'test' which tribe would conquer all the rest! They were like children, experimenting and toying with us, testing us until one tribe would eventually come out victorious! To be a true orc is to conquer! To dominate! There is no unity under a single banner!"

Knaatl took a step forward. “And yet here you stand, the corpses of your fallen enemies tangled around your will. No unity under a single banner? Perhaps so. Just domination under your iron will. What makes you better than the gods you deride?"

“Enough!" shouted Grauhl, storming forward. “We end this now!" He lifted his arms. “Watch, all you who would claim my city! I will crush your messiah and then I will come for you all! This is inevitable!"

Amthos smiled.

“Nothing is inevitable. We are mortals. We choose our path!"

He let out a bellowing roar and charged. Grauhl met his charge, shouting and leading his army of the damned forward. A black arrow flew past Amthos ear. It struck Grauhl's helmet, knocking it clear off and displaying the massive orc's proud, red mane for all to see. Grimight slammed into the icy club of the First Orc. Again, a shockwave erupted from the blow, pushing back everyone around them.

But Luxaeus and Winterpaw and the combined might of two men within them and they stood their ground. With a tremendous roar, the two swept past Amthos. Winterpaw bit down on Grauhl's ankle and Luxaeus swung Shatterfrost high. The King of the Wargs tore the armour clean off the First Orc's leg and at the same time, Shatterfrost struck Grauhl with the might of all the souls that the dark orc had trapped. The blow caused Grauhl to staggered back and gasp. His armour had collapsed into his chest, making it hard to breathe.

In the moment of distraction, Arnmok let out a bellowing roar and vaulted into the air using the butt of his spear for leverage. With let out a roar and thrust Bloodspear right into Grauhl. It passed right through the orc but it's effects were immediate. Grauhl's eyes blazed with fury. He backhanded Arnmok aside and he tore the crushed armour clear off his chest.

Thwack!

An arrow embedded itself into his chest. Grauhl looked down, his brow furrowing in confusion for a moment as black veins began creeping up around the wound. Pain shot throughout his body as the venom Knaatl's enchanted bow began to take root. But the First Orc would not fall to a simple poison. By sheer force of will, the First Orc tore the arrow from his bare chest and let out a roar. The venom did not progress any further.

Grauhl lifted his club into the air and brought it crashing to the ground. The earth shook with the blow and suddenly heaved. Orcs and undead lost their footing, all save for Amthos who managed to remain standing.

The First Orc grinned viciously.

“Just you and me now, child." A strange, red glow began fell upon Grauhl. The confident expression on his face fell as he looked up. “What –"

BOOM!

Flames crashed upon the First Orc. Balls of flame, spears of lightning and even great spikes of ice came shooting from high above. Amthos turned in time to see the shaman perched high on the lookout, throwing their hands forward and flinging everything they could at the First Orc. His heart swelled as even the civilians began hurling rocks and anything on hand. Buckets, cutlery and even chamber pots came flying through the windows high above them.

Amthos grinned broadly and turned defiantly back at his opponent. “You see, Grauhl? This is who we are! We are not just a single race! We are a people!" His heart swelled with every word he uttered. “There are no longer any rival tribes. No identity based on the colour of skin or stigmas against worship or history! We are orcs!"

He pounded his chest proudly. “And it is my purpose to lead them! I am the Avatar of the Orcs! I am their Warchief! I am Amthos Hordemaker!"

Grauhl scoffed as he shrugged off a fireball. “I have heard such proud utterances in the past boy. All have fallen to me. You shall be no different!"

The First Orc bellowed and charged. He threw aside his club, bare hands primed to seized Amthos and crush him just as he had crushed Urthak.

But Amthos was ready.

His speech did more than just rouse his spirits.

It gave time for the others to find their footing once more.

TWHACK!

An arrow slammed into the exposed shin of the First Orc, the armour torn aside by Winterpaw earlier. The sudden pain and weakness that came from the venom caused Grauhl to stumble forward, his momentum taking barrelling towards Amthos. Winterpaw came charging from the side, Luxaeus astride him. With his footing gone, there was no way Grauhl could control where he fell. But a blow from Shatterfrost was enough to send the First Orc crashing to the side.

Arnmok was suddenly beside Amthos, offering his spear.

“Avatar."

Nodding, Amthos jumped onto the unbreakable spear, feet planted along the shaft. With a roar, Arnmok hurled him high into the air.

Grauhl rolled onto his back just in time to see Amthos raise Grimight over his head and let out his battle cry.

“For Amthosruud! For Tirinead!"

******

The moment Grauhl died shook all of Tirinead. When Noraduil perished, there was a blistering beam of divine energies that shot into the air. When Grauhl perished, a tremendous blast of arcane energies erupted outwards in an expanding, bluish-white dome from the moment Grimight smashed his exposed skull to a pulp. The blast spread out wide, expanding all over Bhotanmar and beyond. The great blizzard that the First Orc maintained immediately died. Every undead under Grauhl's command crumbled to the ground, their souls finally released from their seemingly endless servitude.

The rush of energy was felt by every mage, priest or even anyone vaguely attuned to the arcane arts. Even though some did not see the phenomenon entirely, within weeks they would receive reports from the north of an incredible burst of light that washed over a large part of the Fangs of the world before eventually dissipating as it spread further and further into Tirinead.

Mere days later, many would report their spells seem to have grown stronger. All the power that had been controlled by Grauhl's iron will were finally released back into the world, returning to the cycle.

Even the Holy Triad seemed relieved though their plots continued to turn.

******

In his own private quarters in Trispire, Lord Eranius von Karksteid woke suddenly. He was unsure what had woken him. His lavished room seemed empty for the most part. Everything in Trispire was uncomfortably decadent. Even the air seemed constantly sickly sweet. He missed the harshness of the north. That was where he was most comfortable.

Then he became aware of the hooded figure standing right beside his bed.

He scrambled back in shock, reaching for the blade beneath his pillow instinctively.

The figure lifted a hand in silence.

“PeACe ErANius."

The voice that came from the figure sounded like three men were talking all at once. “Who are you? What do you want?"

“We wIsH OnlY PeACe. We aRe tHE TrIAd"

“The…?"

“We hAVe TaKEn poSSeSsion oF tHis ImPerFECT VeSSEl tO EnTRUsT yOu wITh a miSSiOn."

Eranius only swallowed loudly. If he was truly speaking with the Holy Triad, he should both be afraid and deeply honoured. Such a spiritual encounter was reserved only for the Grand Chaplain, after all. Why would he be so worthy?

“What is it that you would have of me?"

“TaKE tHis mAn tO HaWKsHoLLOw. ORRaDIn hAs tURneD sOme oF hIs Own mEN iNTo oRCs. ThIS mAn iS to aCComPaNY thEM. HaVE theM jOIn tHE riSIng orC naTIoN UNdEr tHe gUIsE of nEW coVEeRTs. THEn tHIs mAn wILl dO hIs miSSiOn. YOu, oN tHe otHeR HaND, wiLL brRiNg uS soMEtHInG we nEeD."

A holy mission from the Gods of the Alliance themselves.

How could he possibly refuse?

“And what is that?"

“BrInG us tHe Vessel of Life."