Death Comes For Us All — The Endstory of Krasc

[stevebarracuda]

From a higher vantage point, Krasc sits at the edge of the Sharpteeth Woods. He takes a knee, and looks toward civilization, pausing, reflecting. From under his hood and mask, he snorts, and growls. Whether he is aware that others may be observing him at this moment, he does not make it known.

In his thoughts, Krasc speaks to himself: "All this time, to find place, respect, for the Orcbloods...failed. What once was impossible, has now been replaced..."

As Krasc pauses here in his thoughts, as on this place on the hill, he looks down upon is chest, looking at the marks that were given to him: two orc hands pressed palm up upon his tunic, now stained white with the shape, the symbol...a symbol of power.

Whether this mark actually gives him strength, it does not matter to him, for it is what the symbol represents that wholly matters: a new tribe, a purpose. For one such as Krasc, seeking this purpose was what his role as the Hand of the Orcbloods always meant. That failure...has now been replaced with...possibilities.

Again, Krasc snorts himself out of thought, and stands to walk south. He knows these paths and the off shoots of the main Tradeway well...it was the information that he bartered with to enter into acceptance. Now, he must prove his worth to them...

Days later, Krasc arrives at the cave of the Brotherhood of Orcbloods. For so long, this home for his nomadic brothers and sisters has laid empty, unused...a symbol for everything, everything that the Gray must endure while tribeless and without a tribe from which to unleash the true nature of their beings, to let their blood flow as it was meant to flow. No, the Brotherhood has been forced to walk amongst the weaker races with tolerance for too long...

...but his Brotherhood was not to be found, this day, nor any recent day.

Krasc looked around the lair of the Orcbloods for one, last time. To himself, he thought: "My brothers, my life, a new tribe awaits me...awaits us..." Krasc leaves a message for his Brotherhood, for those that still might arrive here, a message that says to them what Krasc must do, what he will do, and where they may find him...and what they will gain when they do so...

With his great battlestaff, Krasc leaves a final mark in the ground. A mark, a crest, not seen nor understood by many. A mark by a new tribe of Orc. The mark drawn on the ground, that moves the earth to be made, appears in black.

It is days later still, in a place farther north than the Orcbloods lair, but again at the edge of the Sharpteeth Woods. With all care, speed and stealth, Krasc makes his way through the woods to observe those that would push their might into lands claimed by others. There is much that can be gained with patience...

For months, nay a year or more, Krasc has traveled the region of the Gate, time and again, in the search for lost Grays, in the search for establishing a new home for his brotherhood. What he knows better than most is the path of the outcast, the paths for getting in and getting out of civilization before those without respect for his kind can unleash their power. In this time, Krasc has himself gained in strength, power and knowledge.

And, he will gain more, and he will deliver it, and it will turn the balance in the favor...of this new tribe.


// Things that can be known by any others:

• a) Krasc's movement from Sharpteeth Woods from FAI region to Beregost region.
  b) Krasc's movement north from Beregost along the edge of the Sharpteeh.
  c) The placement of marks of the white hands, palm up, around the Sharpteeth.
  d) Anything I've posted on Rumor of the Sword Coast.

// This is the RP thread for the Endstory of Krasc. If you want to be a part of it, then you're welcome to join in with posts, actions, etc. that might bring this story to it's conceived conclusion: the slaying of Krasc???...in a told-story type of way, not just a "I jumped you on the Tradeway, you're dead, yeah for me" manner, please.

If you have questions about what might be appropriate, then please PM me first. Otherwise, I look forward to the short or long version of this yet-to-be-written-tale.

[Maverick 40]

A gust bristles the leaves before the camouflaged elf. His senses having already been keen through decades of training, were now heightened by the need for basic survival. His people were endangered now and when faced with the decision to fight, or run, they choose this wood as their stand. His eyes caught the large figure moving with a feline's agile grace and a swiftness beyond anything seemingly natural.

The hulking figure stopped not but ten paces before the elf as he hid quietly behind the ferns, his sight being obstructed slightly by the wavering fronds. He could hear the beast's panting breaths as he squinted his eyes and forced himself to concentrate on it's grotesque features. "Orc", he whispered almost imperceptibly. But, this one was not of the tribe he had been alert for.

The elf stared at the figure, his head slightly turning within the shadows. "A grey, but why here?", the elf thought and then, as surely as the creature arrived, it was gone again. All that could be heard was the rustling of leaves. The elf slunk back further into the shadows awaiting others, but no more orcs came.

"The Councilor may wish to know Grey now enters this wood, but why?", he thought to himself...........

[stevebarracuda]

Images...memories...desires...

Two white hands, palm up...an encounter in the Sharpteeth with Orc-blooded, black as night...to belong to something greater than your own, a surge of spirit and strength...

Krasc stands outside the cave. It was months, years ago he last visited this place. But memory did serve him well: the gibberling heart, when consumed, provided a mystical strength that would enhance the strength of his new tribe...an edge and power to fuel the already immense strength that flows within Orc blood.

Although this heart was of a unique power, the gibberlings were a weak tribe, and no contest for Krasc when wielding the Cleaving Arm. They fell like so many do under his fury.

The gibberling chieftain's heart beat strong even when pulled from his chest by Krasc's own hand. Raising the heart high into the air, Krasc growled in release, his voice filling the halls of the cave with a resonating frequency to mock further any of this weak tribe that would dare to still challenge him. The heart, still beating, pumped out it's last drops of blood, but retained it's power, to be consumed, ingested, when the time was right.

---

Days later, Krasc returns to the fires of the Sharpteeth Wood, to deliver the heart...and seek other commands, to fulfill other wishes, on his path to acceptance.

Krasc's innate speed is rarely matched, and the new task is to seize upon information, location and capacity of the enemy. He carefully observes the funnel points for any movements of opposite forces.

The great sense of smell that is granted the Orcs by their gods gives Krasc the upper hand, to know at which distance he can approach the battle lines, and from even that distance, his fine tuned senses, are able to determine numbers, casualties...and determine the fear that grows amongst the elves, the hins, and the humans.

Even those camped due south of the Sharpteeth are being watched. It is now a game of chess. From experience, Krasc knows that the weaker races of the Sword Coast assume much, and that contributes greatly to that weakness. The Orc—gray or black—is wise, intelligent...when the enemy only prepares for blunt destruction, and relies on heresay and legend, the new tribe will take the Sharpteeth by having a complete upper hand.

---

The Sharpteeth Wood is large, encompassing a vast distance...but the speed of foot that Krasc travels is blinding. He is tireless, making detailed mental notes of each point of entry to the woods, finding defensable positions and ambush points, preparing this locations with scent marks that only Orcs can understand.

Under the cover of night, Krasc does approach the Imp that offers reward for evil deeds. A deal is struck up between the two, for one particular task. Krasc wagers in this moment that this Imp's master would revel in more power within the Sharpteeth as well.


///Things any PC could discover:

• - a slaughter in the Gibberling's Cave, and the dead body of the chieftain de-hearted.
  - Gray orc tracks throughout the Sharpteeth, from edges of Gullykin to Doron Amar to the entry point to the Friendly Arm Inn.
  - Any PCs speaking with the Imp could gain knowledge of the Gray Orc in the Sharpteeth...of course, you'd be outing yourself to work with the little evil bastard...

[Maverick 40]

It was night and the elven scout waits for the other Rangers to come. He had been meant to be extracted two days ago and his rations had run out that morning. He subsisted on some edible berries but he knew this would not last. To break rank before being relieved was against their code, still he felt something was wrong.

He began to slowly move, creeping behind the brush with little sound and then he saw them. His comrades just beyond the river, beheaded and hanging by their feet from trees. This was his first tour in the field and the site caused him to stir for the need to vomit suddenly came upon him. That is when more voices appeared speaking a broken gutteral language he did not comprehend except to know that it was his enemy.

"Ughuk uk matka!!!", he heard one barbaric Orc yell and then the woods before him were alive with movement. It was a trap and the elf found this out near too late. He turned his heels planted his feet and darted south west as fast as his nimble feet could take him. He heard the Orcish war cries and crashing of the bushes behind him getting rapidly closer. He finally broke through a clearing and set before a path he heard another shout.

"Oi, be duckin elfie er' loosin yer head!!!", he heard a large dwarf say while running towards him brandishing a giant axe. Then suddenly the burly creature swung the great weapon through the air, directed at the elf's neck............

[mrieder79]

Durin Ironfaar was lost. Again. He had spent the morning interrogating the various members of the elven band, En Dharasha Everae, regarding the whereabouts of their leader, Laisren. Most of the elves had been charachteristically quiet and secretive on the matter, although Durin was able to coax Mendel into revelaing that he was on a scouting mission. Durin was unable to coax or coerce any furthur information from the tall elf and stomped off, leaving Mendel chuckling and shaking his head. Luck found Durin later that evening as he happened across his drinking partner, Tan. The half-elf had procured a fifth of exotic brandy from Calimshan and was well on his way to intoxication when Durin found him. A few more rounds and Durin had a close approximation of Laisren's position. After ensuring the now unconscious Tan was safe, the stout dwarf trotted off in the direction of the Sharptooth Wood in search of Laisren.

Durin was passable as a woodsman. His abilities had been vastly improved by his time with the elves, but he still found the maze of trees baffling, nothing like the orderly patterns of tunnels and stone he knew so well. He took a detour when a pair of young orcs sought to ambush him. The stout dwarf ambled straight through their primitive trap. The trap sprung as intended, but the crude spears glanced harmlessly off of Durin's finely crafted armor. The pair of orcs leapt from hiding, hoping to take their quarry by surprise, but Durin surprised them by rolling out of the way and cleaving the nearest orc nearly in two with a quick backhand stroke. The axe continued it's arc and tore a deep gash in the thigh of the second orc. Wounded and terrified it blanched and fled, leading Durin on a chase that ranged into unfamiliar woods. Eventually Durin found the young orc lying in a ravine ashen faced and quivering from blood loss and exhaustion. Durin chuckled as he strode forward and dispatched the helpless orc with a quick blow, then spit on the quivering corpse.

He lookd around and muttered to himself. "Stinkin arc. Good riddance!"

He kicked the corpse again for good measure then made his way out of the ravine. The wood was dense and dark here, completely unknown to Durin. He took a few minutes to get his bearing and then set off on a course that he thought would lead him to Laisren.

That was a day and a half ago and now the Dwarf wandered through unfamiliar woods hopelessly lost. He wasn't hungry. An unfortunate wolf had thought the lone dwarf and easy meal. Never one to be picky about his food, Durin had quickly skinned and roasted the wolf and packed the remaining meat away for later. He also had come across a thicket of skunkroot - the pungent smelling bush with bulbous roots commonly used in the tanning of leather or production of soap. Most of the civilized races could barely stand the smell of the plant, but it was a favorie of Durin's and he happily filled his pack with several large bulbs.

He had just hefted his pack over his shoulder when he heard the commotion. He ran to the top of a small hillock and saw a score of orcs running toward him. Before them was a lone elf, hard pressed to keep ahead of the running brutes. In an uncharacteristic display of restraint, Durin decided to forego his usual war bellow and instead ran as quietly as he could toward the commotion.

He came through a thick stand of saplings and saw the elf looking back with a particularly swift orc a mere arm's length behind him. Durin roared and shouted a warning.

"Oi! Elfie, ifn' ye want t' be keepin yer heed ye best be duckin!"

Durin's heavy waraxe sailed through the air and the elf, with preternatural agility, rolled beneath the blade which struck the surprised orc full in the chest, cleaving him nearly in two. Durin pulled his blade free and turned to the elf.

"Oi lad, c'mere"

The elf had little time to react as Durin grabbed him and spoke a word under his breath. Thick metal bracers on his forearms blazed and the pair were momentarily bathed in a soft blue dweomer. Vitality and energy surged through the two and they leapt away, spurred ahead by the powerful enchantment contained in Durin's bracers. The incongruous pair flew through the dense forest. The elf lead the way, choosing the easiest and quickest rout throught the dense forest as though it were a wide trade road. Through the blur of trees, Durin spotted a rocky outcropping overlooking a dark opening.

"Oi! O'er there!" He pointed to the cave and the scout nodded in agreement.

The magic of the bracers faded just as they reached the cave and soon the sound of the pursuing orcs could be heard closing. The crashing and hooting calls growing closer. Louder. Durin pointed to the top of the rocky crag and the elf nodded, catching the dwarf's meaning. Lithe as a cat, the elf sprung from ledge to ledge until he was twenty feet above the forest floor and barely visible within a crevice. Then Durin turned, took his massive shield from his back, and waited.

The first orcs of the pack bounded into the clearing and stopped suddenly. Surprised to see a lone dwarf casually leaning on his shield and drinking from a small wooden keg. The pause gave Durin a chance to size up his opponents. They were large, but not exceptionally so. Most wore crude skins and tattered cloth and all carried stone tipped spears or clubs with spikes of steel or stone pounded into their heads. The rest of the band arrived, fifteen in all and they formed a disorganized ring around the dwarf, apparently dumbfounded by the sight. Several could be heard grunting to one another in their gutteral language. One made a motion with his hands akin to breaking a stick in two and the whole band hooted in laughter.

It was this laughter that prevented the orcs in the front of the gathering from noticing that their comrades behind them were falling one by one, clutching arrows protruding from their throats and eyes. The laughter died down and was replaced by the silent gurgle of one orc as it slid to the ground with a heavy thud. The twelve remaining orcs turned to see three of their comrades laying on the ground twitching slightly. They whirled around again as a bellowing roar erupted behind them. Durin crashed into their ranks, taking two of them from behind with one swing. He plowed over a third with his shield, bearing it to the ground and stabbing it's face with the pointed tip of his axe. Two more fell clutching arrows. The remaining seven closed and surrounded Durin, stabbing at him with their spears and raining blows upon him with their spiked clubs.

The dwarfs heavy shield and armor served him well, but the press of orcs threatened to overwhelm him and bear him to the ground. One orc that stayed too close lost an arm to a quick backhand swipe and another was knocked unconscious by the flat of the blade. While Durin was distracted, three orcs leapt upon him from behind, bringing him down. Durin rolled and twisted as best he could to avoid their spears, and lost the grip on his axe in the process. One orc was atop him, with its hairy hands about his neck. He grasped them and bit at the fingers to release them but the grip was iron. Durin felt his head begin to swim and just as blackness closed around the edge of his vision, the grip loosened.

When his vision returned, Durin saw the two orc hands still around his neck, but no orc attached to him. He turned and saw the elven scout withdrawing his thin blad from the chest of the handless orc. Around him lay dead orcs, filled with arrows, their life blood slowly draining into the dirt and detritus of the forest floor.

The pair said little. They gathered their belongings and provisions and moved away from the site of the battle, toward the north. Toward the camp of En Dharasha. After running for half a day, they stopped to rest and recover from the exhaustion of the battle. Over the embers of their small breakfast fire, the elf spoke to Durin and inquired of his presence so deep in the wood.

"Well, ah'll tell ye. Ah was lookin' fer Laisren."

The scout looks confused. "Laisren? And what business do you have with him?"

"Well, I've been wondering... an' come t' think of it ah could've been askin Mendel or Tan too, but ah've been wonderin, since ye elves cannae be growin beards on yer faces, does that be meanin ye cannae be growin th' beards on yer arses too?"

The elf stared at him incredulously, his mouth haning half open for a long moment.

"Eh, lad, ye alraet there?"

The elf shook his head. He stood, gathered his things and silently moved toward En Dharasha. Durin followed behind muttering about elves and their strange ways.

Upon returning to the elven camp, Laisren and Mendel were troubled to hear of the organized tactics displayed against their scouts in the wood. Durin could make out little of their discussion between deep draughts of ale, but he could tell they were troubled by something. He also heard a word, possibly a name, spoken by Laisren several times.

Krasc.

[stevebarracuda]

The war rages on in the Sharpteeth Wood.

Krasc played the role of information gatherer, having moved through the forest with supernatural speed—always a step ahead of the defenders—gaining information of their positions, by observing at the edges of Doron Ama, Gullykin and the Fist Outpost.

In all the years of his soul being tainted by the association with the weaker races, one of the greatest lessons learned by Krasc was the power of information.

"Death comes for us all...but for some, it comes quicker...," were words that rattled from his Orc lips quickly and often. But, it was those that new how death would come, and greater still be able to decide the death of others through strategy, through tactics...the weaker races always assumed the ignorance in the Orc clans...

It would be their undoing.

Yes, the war rages heavy in the Sharpteeth. But Krasc—having played the cat-and-mouse game for days, nay weeks, within the forest, had provided enough to his new tribe, enough for the Blacks to make quicker, more efficient use of the endless horde...now, Krasc moved far away from the obvious battle.

Distraction was key. Guerilla tactics. Remain always two steps ahead of your enemy.

Krasc made his way North. The Fist was pouring energy into the defense of the elves, hins and dwarves...and whatever forces would be sent south to wage war, they must originate at the Gate.

To know ahead of time the quantity of soldiers sent, would gain the the shaman, and the chieftain, an edge.

Under the cover of night and the pouring rain, Krasc observes from the northern farmlands the security of the Gate. If his memory serves, he notices that guard forces are dramatically thin at the entrances as of late. This benefits his stealthy approach.

"Fools...*snort*," he lets out in a gurgly mix of Orc tongue.

Krasc's superb sense of smell leads him to a secret...let the stench and waste of the humans be their folly...

The sewers pose no threat to this mighty Orc, and soon, he reaches a convenient exit.

Under cover of night, the streets are more than likely abandoned—the rain that belts down upon the Sword Coast doubly keeps the streets clear. Keeping his hood low and staying away from the lamplight, Krasc turns to see his goal...

The Fist Stronghold. Is it busy? Can the preparations for war, strength in numbers, be noticed from this origination point? He must find a better vantage point.

Taking precautions to remain out of sight, Krasc waits through the night, seeing what is to be seen. The heavy rains continue fall, and Krasc takes full advantage to get closer to his goal. If there is no amount of forces gathered here, then the Blacks won't be pressed to worry about unknown enemies. If the Fist are working around the clock to prepare for further assaults south, then any gauge of forces will be valuable information.

But dawn comes quickly on Faerun, and Krasc spends no more time than necessary in the Harbor District, in order that he may escape back through the tunnels and out into the farmlands, where his speed can allow him to avoid most if any notice amongst the common folk.

In no time, he'll cross the long distance to the Sharpteeth, taking the hidden paths, swimming the Chionthar before daybreak, and crossing between gully and hilltop unfazed with fatigue nor without sense of purpose.


/// Things any PC could discover:

• - Having late night business in the gate, Krasc could have been observed...
  - Knowing the sewers well, they could have witnessed his leftover path of many, many, many dead rats...
  - Travelling north than south parallel to the Tradeway, could provide any tracker in the region with clues to his speed and direction

[Maverick 40]

The scout sat out in the distance, the city's lamps lit the sky and he stared at the giant gates as if it were a living breathing creature. He turned his attention back toward the open sewer grate and the tracks leading down within. He did not wish to enter this tunnel, it smelled foul and his stomach began to turn. Then he thought of the mission given to him by Villi Mendel and the lifeless bodies of his dead comrades unceremoniously hung from trees.

He held his breath and plunged down, splashing in a mix of putrid running urine and excrement. It was too much and his cover was taken involuntarily from him by his need exit the contents of his stomach. He felt better and once he came to his senses he moved back to the shadows. All along the path as he began to move were giant rats, dead and being torn asunder by their own kin.

The Ranger fired a few arrows to scare the vermin off and examined the body of one of the cadavers. The creatures skull had been caved in with a blunt instrument, it has not been killed by it's brethern. The Ranger inspected the skull to find fine wooden splinters and a impact diameter of 4-5 inches.

The creature had been killed with a single swift and powerful two handed blow from a staff. "Krasc....", the Ranger whispered with disdain. He looked down the long corridor and then turned back to climb the open shaft. He nimbly flew up a ladder and at the top let out a gasp.

He turned to his partner and retorted, "Now, I smell like you Dwarf". "He is here though and in the city, we will need the humans help I fear", the elf said and turned from his companion and back toward the city with it's luminescent light beaming into the dark sky.

// Awaiting anyone from OSR whom might wish to be apart of this Please PM Mrieder79 to set up an introduction post into the topic ))

[stevebarracuda]

A war band of adventurers makes their way into the Sharpteeth, with what appears to be a mission to push the Black Orcs from the Sharpteeth...if not this, then to force their own ideologies upon the children of Gruumsh through brute force.

Hidden at the edges of the woods, one watches their party move without stealth through the trees and along the obvious pathways.

Easily enough, a signal is passed to the horde by the watcher, and within no time at all, the Black Orc unleashes a cruel lesson to those that would challenge the Orc might that now has claimed the Sharpteeth Wood as their home.

The adventurers' bodies pile high, and as the carnage rages in the foreground, the watcher sits hidden, snorting in what can only be translated as...pleasure.

[stevebarracuda]

Krasc's feet push hard against the ground as he moves at speed along the hidden pathways that skirt the edge of the Sharpteeth, the Black Orcs, and most especially, the massing forces of Fist, Elves and Dwarves that move into the Sharpteeth Woods region.

What once might have been a simple forest animal path has become widened and trampled under returning travel...and it is on one particular path the Krasc has frequented in his scouting missions, that he pauses...and takes a long inhale, judging the scents of the area.

He takes to one knee, lowering himself closer to the ground, and inhales deeply through his nostrils once more.

"Dwarf....," he speaks aloud in a bubbly, phlegm coated growl. With his inner voice, he also speaks: "And another...well hidden...but...yes...the perfumed essence of...Elf...." If an inner voice could growl, it would.

Quickly, Krasc stands up and holds his great Cleaving Arm at the ready. He turns, looking behind him, then forward along the path. Leaves rustle in the wind, but there is no immediate impression of him being followed...

...but he knows he IS being followed. Krasc snorts, contemplating, letting his wisdom, his intuition, guide him.

Knowing full well where the Elves that arrived from the north have encamped, and knowing where the Black Orcs have staged their forward battle groups, he begins to run at supernatural speed directly through the brush, trail blazing directly to the zone between both armies.

Beneath hood and mask, Krasc's face contorts into what could be considered a grim smile, and thinks to himself: "Follow me then...to the place of death...."

[stevebarracuda]

A single figure stands facing a burning pyre deep in the Sharpteeth. Many bodies lay deep within the flames—skin blackened on the outside, skin black on the inside...

Krasc stands facing the pyre, with no movement, no words, no snorts...

...only a single thought, pure in form, stirs within him, gaining strength just as the smallest sea breeze transforms into at hurricane of untold magnitude: THEY WILL PAY...THEY ALL WILL PAY....

He then turns towards civilization, a march of determination in his step, his Cleaving Arm held firm with clenched fists....

[stevebarracuda]

///In the time between the Black Orc War (third siege on Doron Amar) and shortly after the siege upon Triel by Gajutar Spearback.


The last battle alongside the Black Orcs ended with defeat. Krasc fought to the last, having been felled by elven magic, his mind finally overcome, and he was brought to his knees. The Cleaving Arm of Krasc, fell from his paws upon the ground in front of him, and the hulking figure fell flat to the ground...a defeat so heavy for the leader of the Orcbloods, his body sank nearly an inch into the soil, there, in the wood of the Sharp Teeth.

Krasc was left for dead. His spirit was dead, devoid of energy and will to carry on. His strength had not been enough...that was the last thought that rushed through his mind as he faded from consciousness.

But his soul wasn't allowed to leave the hulking body. The forest covered the body in leaves; disappeared from sight, from light, from the air, the creatures of Yurtrus crawled to his body, laid inside a natural forming compost. But the maggots and slime didn't devour, no. They cocooned his body. While within, his physical strength was drained, but in return, it could only be the Orc God of the White Hands that granted him a will and wisdom of strength now coursing through his Orc blood, beyond the measure any others.

Days, months...the incubation was over seasons. The form that would on one day rise from the hovel, did not speak, did not listen, did not think...it just lumbered, moved, walked, galloped, then ran—with supernatural speed—in the direction of the spirit. It's own consciousness was awakening to the new world around it. The scent of the lands nearest him drove him, and he relied upon the wilds to teach him, again, how to survive.

Like a lodestone made from flesh, the reborn Krasc followed this inner pull...and as it happens, needle pointed north.

---

Most of the memories are gone. He remembers the Great Cold Years of his early youth, the rescue and the hard lessons given afterwards, both by the monks and by the human species. He remembers the travel west, a time when he learned to be stronger with staff in hand. There are flashes of a new tribe forming, then lost...then himself being lost, a damage done in body and spirit.

The earth healed him. The wild of the forest protected him. The creatures that cycle life through their bodies taught him. The earth bubbled the truth up from its bowels and gave him wisdom over strength. The blood was stronger than ever, inside. A reborn protector of the kin of orc blooded. Krasc would take this oath, again—he was this oath, embodied.

Deliverance.

[stevebarracuda]

Krasc enters the northlands. The smell of death is on a burning wind, and it pulls him toward civilization. The events that capture his sense of smell and leads him to a human village, are missed. However, the residue is left upon the lands for some time, and Krasc finds the source. Under the cloak of night, the heavy breathing and hulking figure grabs a paw of raw earth near a wagon of bailed straw, soil singed by flame...and saturated with orc blood. A low growl, bordering sub-base frequency, emanates from the figure, and it's paw-like hand slowly closes over the soil and it squeezes through his meaty fingers.

---

---

...some travelers leaving the Inn at Soubar late in the night, depending on their level of inebriation, would have seen a large hulking figure running through the village from the small lake to the outskirts, into the woods. The figure, masked and weaponless, moved with an supernatural speed...and growling, tusks glinting in the moonlight.