Orcs

After her failed first attempt to preside over Aughmoore, the bloody divinity Oghtaa schemed again to lay claim to the land. Opening the ancient battle wounds beset by Norellia, the goddess of the mystic elves, Oghtaa bled from the heavens, coating the world in a thick crimson rain for a single day and night. The Blood Rain soaked deep in the earth, penetrating the very center of the world. From gore-sodden brimstone rose the repugnant Orcs.

It is the self-proclaimed right of the Orcs to rule over every last scrap of land touched by their mother’s precious lifeblood. The Orcs look with disdain upon the pitiful beings resting comfortably along their once undisputed borders. Is it possible that they have forgotten the savage force with which Orcish steel carves through the muscle and sinew of inferior races? They will be made to remember.

The Orcs march forth, driven by honor and glory through the rigors of battle. No worthy foe, neither foreign nor domestic, goes unchallenged. It is said that Orcs do not cry when they are born, but instead herald their arrival with a blood-curdling shriek, which deepens with every vanquished rival. Perhaps it was the thunderous roar of the battle-hardened Orcish warmongers that first commanded the attention of the Dragons. The two races, long separate, have found in each other a burning seed of violence.

Now in alliance, Orcish footsteps stride to the beat of dragon wings, forging a symphony that inspires greater terror than the very calamity of Hell’s open maw. Those that do not flee will crumble under the indomitable force of the Orc army, exterminated as is the fate of all decrepit pests. For those that do flee, few shadows and crevices remain in which to hide from the reign of the Orcs’ thirsting blades. Soon, there will be no opponent nor territory in all of Aughmoore that does not lie under the heavy boot of the blood-bred Orcs.