The Ironsong Tribe

A beautiful array of colors paint the sky, as the sun sets on the world. Darkness is coming for the land, but it takes its time, in no rush to force everything into its shadowed embrace. Everything’s quiet, barely a whisper from nature as the day comes to an end.

Cloudy black eyes look towards the heavens, not admiring the evening sky, rather they patiently wait for night to come. The owner of those eyes, a massive seven foot tall Orc; absent mindedly tightens his grip on the axe he bares. It’s crudely made double sided blade is sharp enough to cut through paper, though its not needed as the axe weighs close to eighty pounds. Black and red war paint cover the chiseled features of Nashrok’s leathery face, teeth clenched as tight as they can be, considering the two tusks protruding from his lips, both the hair on his head and jaw are tied at the ends as is the custom with his tribe.

Thump… Thump… Thump… Its night, and everything’s no longer quiet; Nashrok along with the hundred other orcs surrounding him begin to growl, twitch and march forward to the beat that echo’s from their drummers. They make their way out from the woods, towards the dimly lit walls of a human city, less than a hundred feet away the beat speeds up and they break out of the march and run towards the city’s gates. Their growls are now savage shouts and roars, weapons held high as they plan to lay siege to the town.

From atop the two guard towers behind the city gates arrows are released by the human archers, their aim proves fatal as at least a dozen orcs are dropped before they could’ve ever done harm. Regardless of this vane attempt to staunch the attack, they make it to the gate. Sparks fly as they tear at the iron separating them from their goals of glory and blood, and some even scale the walls. A loud clang as the gates finally give in and hit the ground, the human army clad in plate mail rush to meet the threat. Within seconds, blood and bodies both orc and human litter the streets.

The bloodlust was killing him, a strain against his heart; Nashrok needed to quench his thirst for gore, which was near impossible since he was still far from the front line, hearing the cries of the dying only served as a painful reminder he wasn’t doing any killing. A drop of blood hit his eye lash and any patience he had along with his sanity was lost, he lowered his axe and crouched low, then with a thrust of his powerful legs he flew into the air, towards the fight. A few blades nicked at his skin as he flew over his brethren, the huge axe held behind his back. Time slowed down and he couldn’t hear anything beyond his own outcry as he landed amongst the humans, their swords were poised upward waiting for his descent, a quick swing of his heavy blade knocked some to the side, the others dug into his tough hide. He was bleeding now, but it didn’t matter he found relief in the pain, the ground hit him hard a sword or two still lodged in his sides.
While on the ground he grabbed for one of their legs, unable to react the man just screamed in horror as he was pulled down, soon after used as a shield while Nashrok made it to his feet, axe in his free hand. They saw their comrade being held by the vicious orc, some gritting their teeth in disguise, waiting for an opening so they could bring down the miscreant. There were none, and by the time there was, the human shield was thrown at them, Nashrok’s axe was already in full swings, being masterfully maneuvered around his muscular body, gaining momentum. Wide eyes stared up at him and lips quivered, the men closest to him felt the breeze following the huge axe, no longer so confident they tried to back away.

Except for one, a brave man by any standards who had seen more than his share of battles and wasn’t going to be scared off by some dumb orc, so instead of fleeing he ran at Nashrok from behind, two swords extended outward, aiming for his spine, he knew this would be a killing blow and he would be a hero. Apparently Nashrok did too; the orc looked over his shoulder at the charging man, bent his knees and spun his body around, bringing the axe in a downward arch towards the hero’s neck. It was too late for the man to retreat now, so he just closed his eyes as the crude edge of the axe bit into his shoulder, pushing his body to the ground in a bloodied mess. Stepping on the man’s torso for leverage he yanked his axe free looking for his next fight.

Felt like minutes but lasted hours, both sides fought valiantly but the savage army of monsters won. Each of them found salvation in the chaos, along with a few new wounds that would turn to scars and marked their day of triumph.