Orestes, finishes his business in Vornak and sets off after his comrades. Atop his horse, he thunders along the dusty roads, ignoring black cloaks and beggars alike.
It is with a sense of shame that he perceives the multitude of orc women and children lining the verges.
Of all the races to have suffered under the merciless claw of Thereanthor, the orcs have suffered the most.
After the Demon’s armies were destroyed and Fissa won, the Dragon came down hardest on them because they had provided the main armies against both her AND the demon.
All the surviving tribes were broken up and banned from reforming as anything larger than small groups of less than a hundred. Of that hundred, only thirty of them were allowed be males of fighting age.
The many destroyed tribes are called collectively: The Sundered.
Orestes knows his history; members of his family had been involved in battles against both the invading monsters and their diabolic armies.
What he doesn’t know however is how the orcs became so organised and who their leader was. He was never seen or caught.
After a few days Orestes comes to a roadside shack/shop. It’s easily and quickly ‘disassembleable’ and seems to be selling furs and animal skins as well as a few hanging meats.
There are several orcish youths hanging around, but it’s an older, larger one that steps out in front of Orestes and beckons him to stop and buy some of his wares.
“Buy some skins, my brother?”
Orestes waves the request aside and instead asks about the group he’s pursuing.
The grizzled orc Artors, snarls and spits.
“I ran into them. Are you looking to kill them?”
Orestes pauses for a moment while he considers the question and the half dozen, armed orcs now on their feet.
With wishes of ‘May Gruumsh drink the blood you spill” behind him and some free slabs of horsemeat in his saddlebags, Orestes gallops on towards Gon Dulat.