Prologue
The Descent Into Shadows
Imagine leaving the tropical climate of your homeland and washing ashore amidst grey rock and black earth. You venture inland, only to find a bleak landscape with sparse vegetation, uninviting topography, and inhospitable indigenous peoples. Your island-dwelling ancestors once called this land forsaken but you and your kin will come to resettle there for the foreseeable future. But why?
The histories are vague as to the reason for the exodus but the few records that remain suggest a combination of famine, conflict, and a prophecy. The elders spoke of a dark future, a time when the waters would recede, and the skies would darken, leaving the islands barren and unlivable. The exodus was not born of immediate threat but of foreboding visions that gripped the minds of those who guided the people. It was said that they saw a land beyond the seas, where the sun’s warmth was less constant, but the earth beneath could provide a new foundation. Yet, what could have once seemed like a promise of salvation now felt more like a cruel fate.
Ironically, it was the mainland that bore the lasting scars of the subsequent Demon War while the islands lay untouched for centuries. Scattered valleys and canyons still showed the lingering signs of corruption, even after nearly a thousand years, though much of the world had returned to its former state. The Orcs, however, had been irrevocably changed, and despite their efforts to reclaim a place among the peoples of Destgrar, they remained outsiders—feared by most and warily observed by the rest.
The despairing hills of the Northern Badlands stood as silent sentinels, their rugged slopes bearing witness to the slow, deliberate progress of a contingent of Orcish warriors traversing the unforgiving landscape. They were lightly armored and traveled with minimalist packs, which ensured swiftness. Alas, their pace was crawling at the best of times. The terrain was perilous. A warrior named Garun slipped down a steep incline and broke his arm on the third day of their journey across the forbidding hills, and while Orcish physiology allowed bones to mend after only a day, it did little for Tarag who broke his neck tumbling into a deep ravine.
Mourning was not a practice of Orcs, neither were funerals. Tarag, a veteran of a thousand battles, would be honored by his brother-warriors through oral history. They would cheer beside campfires, glorifying his duels and military career. Besides those stories, no family would receive his body. No tokens or mementos would be kept as a remembrance. Unlike their pagan ancestors, these Orcs did not consider a glorious afterlife. The honored dead remain on the earth – they do not go anywhere.
Their commanding officer was Captain Jarghost, an Orc of few prior honors in the contemporary military structure. However, the Highlord had specifically commissioned him for the mission at hand. He in turn had chosen the Orcs in the company, and each of them held their quest as sacred as a godless group of warriors could. Much of the region had an extensive subterranean underworld of labyrinthine caverns, which made for superb hiding places for those they had pursued into the Badlands. They searched the crevices of the land - not as scavengers eager to root out some hidden prey but as exterminators with a heartless resolve to purge something detestable. Jarghost and his warriors had been charged with the hunting and elimination of an invasive cult of demon worshipers. Their hunt had begun nearly fourteen years prior.
In those days, Jarghost had followed the rumors of traveling merchants and hearsay among the other less volatile demon cults. For the past year, however, they had been on the heels of their prey, chasing them across the Northlands and Heartland of the Camahali Empire. The traitors' cultist-leader was named Dregar, also known as the Cursed Axe. He had evaded Jarghost for some time, but had cornered himself by coming here. Jarghost desired to storm the earthen depths but feared that he and his warriors would walk into a trap. It was suspected that their deceptive brethren had adopted all manner of dishonorable tactics, as well as magic which could target the body and mind.
It was often said of Jarghost that he let himself be led by passion, rather than wisdom. He would argue that a well-traveled road was paved for both the wise and the foolish. Alas, a freshly blazed trail could offer travelers a respite, to avoid following in the footsteps of the weak and undisciplined. The possibility of pitfalls was a necessary risk undertaken to succeed. Regardless of base speech concerning his tactics, the captain held no delusions on the current situation. Dregar had not unwittingly come here. A cornered beast was more dangerous than one that had the open plains at its back.
Their last night upon the surface, the Orcs were pragmatic. Their objective was to eliminate the cult. With no sign of the traitor-fugitives above ground, Captain Jarghost would order the descent into the cavernous underworld. No Orc among them possessed any fear or doubt. These Orcs had followed their captain across nearly the width of the continent, across frozen fields and over this rugged land. They had not followed him because of promised glory or wealth, the latter being utterly irrelevant in Orcish society. Some Orcs bore titles and accolades, while he bore naught but a dusty cloak. These Orcs followed him because, like him, they were all staunch loyalists. Their obedience was the result of a fore-established allegiance. For some Orcs, that was enough.
The next morning, before dawn, the Orcs made their descent entering the underworld and in the dark depths, they found their brethren.
The world was bathed in a deep scarlet light, and as the runes painted upon the uneven cavern floor flared, the small chamber shuddered lightly. Unnatural winds howled through the earthen corridors. It was an unholy tempest, conjured by magic darker than the depths of the sea. A dozen robed figures stood around a central figure in a circle of spell casting, chanting beneath their drawn hoods. The Orc who knelt in the middle clasped his hands together in fervent prayer, beads of sweat rolling down his face and into his unkempt beard. The runic light flashed wildly on his face, playing on his hard features.
The chanting grew louder, a quiet din next to the booming, hellish storm that had erupted above the cultists at the cavern’s high ceiling. The shuffling feet of Captain Jarghost and his warriors went unheard. As they set their gaze upon the cultists in the midst of their heinous magic, their eyes grew wide with fury. Steel flashed in the red light of the chamber. From the darkened crags in the surrounding cavern walls, armored Orcs charged the chanting cultists. Like a storm themselves, the loyalists fell upon the traitors, hacking them apart with axe and sword blows made stronger by rage. The cultists’ lightly clothed bodies tore easily under the savage strikes.
These cultists threatened to undo the work of a hundred thousand dead heroes. What gave them the egregious notion to carry out the will of demons? What madness had consumed them? The cultists themselves howled, but their screams sounded almost ecstatic to the captain's ears. But, as suddenly as the slaughter had begun, it came to an end. Not a single Orc under Jarghost's command had been slain in the encounter, but traitors' blood rolled across the rocks and pooled around his boots.
The captain cast off his uncertainties and stiffened as a pair of his warriors approached. The two warriors dragged a bloodied Orc between them, laying him at Jarghost’s feet. Dregar the Cursed Axe, Traitor of the North, was dead.
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