"You have brought shame upon our clan!" his brother snarls, "and now you shall pay the price".
The tension tightens like a noose.
Gruk rises, his voice low and full of menace. "Stand with me, brothers". We all rise. We are a unit.
"Enough talk!" Mogor's brother bellows.
The battle erupts in a storm of howls, snarls, and the sickening, wet crunch of bone meeting bone. This is what I need. The memory is vivid. I fight with the ferocity of a cornered beast, my rage a fire in my blood. Mogor, fueled by his own anger, is a whirlwind of destruction, his fists pounding like hammers. Gruk moves with brutal, maritime efficiency. Pandar's temper is a raging inferno. Kilkurk, a juggernaut, sends his enemies sprawling.
We win. Of course we win. We are proven.
"Enough!" I roar, my voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. The other orcs falter, their resolve crumbling before our unity.
We stand panting, bloody, victorious.
Kilkurk, laughing, shoves a mug into my hand. "Let us toast our victory". The bitter scent of ale fills the air, mingling with the iron tang of spilled blood.
"To us!" Pandar sneers.
"United, we are unstoppable," I echo, and the words settle on my shoulders like a mantle.
Gruk raises his mug. "Drink up, my brothers. We have a long journey ahead".
The taste of the ale changes. It is not ale. It is salt.
The tavern floor lurches beneath me. The wood under my hands is wet, swaying. The smell of smoke and zhisk is gone, replaced by the sharp, clean smell of the Southern Sea.
I am on the deck of Gruk's ship. It is a fine morning. The cliffs of Rach are on the horizon. We have been hunting. The last month has been filled with blood. Seven dark elf ships burned and sunk. Seven crews sent to their dark gods. We are bound for the open seas, to rest, to be safe.
The wind picks up.
That is odd. The skies are empty. The seas are calm.
"What is this?" I ask Mogor, who stands at the rail.
"I am not sure," he says, as the wind begins to whip faster.
"Magic," I curse.
The ship lurches, and I crash into the wall. I scramble up and look out the port. A dark elf ship has appeared from nowhere, its sails the black of a moonless night. They have come for their revenge.
A magical fireblast erupts from their deck. The world turns orange. The main deck is covered in flames. The screams begin. My brothers. Orcs are burning, their cries swallowed by the roar of the fire.
"They are trying to sink us!" I roar.
"Abandon ship!" The call comes from Gruk at the wheel. The ship is doomed.
I see Mogor trying to put out the flames. I see Pandar, his arm severed, fall to the deck. I see Kilkurk, his face a twisted mask of terror, consumed by the magical fire.
I have to jump. But where are my brothers? Where is Gruk? Where is Mogor?
The ocean engulfs me. It is cold. So cold. My muscles ache, but I swim for the dark, looming cliffs of Rach.
I pull myself onto the shore, shivering, my clothes drenched. It is a desolate and dreary place.
I am alone.
I failed them. I failed to protect them.
