The dawn over the Ashfang Hills was thin and red, as if the world itself bled quietly beneath the clouds. Gorak stood at the edge of a rise overlooking the growing camp, arms folded, tusks bared in a quiet snarl. Below him, fires burned, tents rose, and warriors—some orcs, others beastblood barbarians—trained in uneven rows, the ring of steel and guttural shouts breaking the morning stillness.
"You brood like a storm cloud," Drask said as he approached, shouldering his crude iron axe. His scars were freshly cleaned, and new bindings wrapped his arms like tribal markings. "What claws at your mind now, chieftain?"
"A feeling," Gorak muttered. "Like something broken out of a grave."
Before Drask could reply, a shout echoed from the lower camp.
"Strangers approaching! Five riders! Bearing banners!"
Gorak grunted and descended the slope with Drask at his side. By the time they reached the forward line, the sentries had already formed a loose half-ring, spears aimed outward. The riders emerged from a trail winding through the dead bracken—a mixture of pale-skinned men and heavily muscled half-orcs, all wearing cloaks of matted black fur.
At their head was a tall, thin figure mounted on a massive, skinless beast that looked somewhere between horse and carrion hound. He wore a cloak of woven sinew and bone fragments, his gaunt face marked by curling red tattoos.
He raised a pale, three-fingered hand. "I bring a message. And terms. From the Bone-Eater Clans."
Drask spat on the ground. "I knew those grave-mongers would sniff us out sooner or later."
Gorak stepped forward, lifting his obsidian axe—a black-toothed thing, rough and ancient. "Speak. Or die here, herald."
The envoy smiled. "We know of your rise, Gorak of Ashfang. Your petty camp. Your scattered, mongrel followers. You stand in the way of the Bone-Eater tribes expanding into the Hollowpeak region. Submit. Bend the knee. Provide warriors, tribute, and blood. Or we come. And we take it all."
The camp behind Gorak had fallen to silence. All ears, all breath, waited on their chieftain.
"Come," Gorak said softly, "and take it, then."
For a moment, no one moved. Then the herald let out a dry, rattling laugh. "You choose annihilation, then. Very well. Our warriors gather at Bone Hollow. The war-chief himself—Skarn Blackjaw—hungers for fresh skulls. I will deliver your defiance to him."
Gorak smiled, sharp and humorless. "Then deliver something else, too."
Before the envoy could react, Gorak surged forward like a thrown spear, obsidian axe arcing upward. The blade caught the envoy at the juncture of neck and shoulder, crunching through sinew and bone. The herald's body flailed backward, unseated from his monstrous mount, spilling blackish-red blood across the dead grass.
Gasps, curses, screams. The other riders hesitated.
"Leave a message for your bone-chewing filth," Gorak growled, stalking forward, dripping axe in hand. "Tell them Ashfang will be their pyre. Go."
The surviving four riders turned in panic and fled down the path.
Drask grinned. "Well. That went better than expected."
"They'll be back," Gorak said, wiping his axe clean on the envoy's ragged cloak. "With war. Good. It's time to forge this rabble into an army."
Current Forces of Ashfang Camp:
Orcs: ~120 warriors (60% lightly armed, scavenged weapons; 30% equipped with crude iron arms; 10% elite guard trained personally by Gorak)
Beastblood Barbarians (Recruited from Beastborn Outpost): ~80 (excellent scouts and shock troops; loyal to Gorak)
Auxiliary Slaves/Freedmen: ~40 (builders, cooks, messengers)
Black Iron Trader's Guard (Temporary Allies): 12 men (light armor, mercenary loyalty)
Total Fighting Strength: ~200 combatants (at varying levels of readiness) Command Structure:
Gorak (Chieftain)
Drask (Warchief, right-hand)
Ragla One-Eye (Orc huntmaster, oversees scouts)
Two newly promoted orc sergeants (names pending)
That night, under the bloody crescent moon, Gorak assembled his war-council near the cracked altar stone they used as a command table. Maps scavenged from the ruined temple were spread across it, smoothed and marked with char and ash.
"Bone Hollow," Ragla grunted, pointing with a broken spear. "Three days east by the brackish river. Natural defenses. Stone ridges. Defended."
Drask bared his teeth. "We don't have the numbers yet for a full assault."
"Then we bleed them before they gather," Gorak said simply. "We raid their foraging lines. We kill their scouts. Make them wary, make them afraid. And when they overreach..." He tapped a point near the winding ford of the blackened river. "We break them. Here."
Drask nodded slowly. "Clash at Broken Current Ford. Cut their advance before it starts."
Gorak looked out into the darkness beyond the firelight, the scent of blood and ambition thick on the wind.
"It begins." he whispered.
The age of petty clans and wandering warbands was ending. His age was beginning.