The last hunter fell! We were among the best! The Oghar tribe was elite. My father Oghr was the undisputed leader of the tribe—he was the one who, following the shamans' advice, brought us here, to the Dark Forests, where the fun never ended.
The Queen of the Succubi gave us people to entertain ourselves with. She taught us much—about pleasure more than the act, about being more than just appearing. For that reason alone, it was worth coming. But this—pursuing humans, following them on the backs of hunting wolves, with my sword in hand, with the madness of fun—that was not all. The shamans trained us like never before, to avoid being wounded in battle. The older warriors mocked us, saying, "That's for humans. Orcs are strong because they survive their wounds." But I was not so sure. Avoiding those cuts and the darts of those who attacked us allowed me to catch up to them, as well as keep my mount alive—something that did not happen with the elders. As I returned to camp, I felt a little sorry that they would see my body. It was strong, muscular, with the age tattoos—it just did not have the first battle scars. I had not allowed them. Perhaps my enemies were just clumsy. But my body shone in its brown-green tone, as healthy as any. I had to keep guiding the new litter. They must become warriors, not poorly tanned leather.
Just as I reached the forest's edge, a tired wolf came out to meet us. No matter how much he hid, I knew it was our shaman, Rograh. He came very tired. To lose two seconds returning to his form—but when he returned, I saw why. He was wounded. We went to help, though we did not know how. We did not heal ourselves—that was what shamans were for. Yet Rograh seemed beyond saving. Words formed on his lips—a request for help we could not make out. So I shouted, to accompany my grief, to remind myself that the wise man, as he was, was not immortal. I searched his garments for something that would give me a clue about what had happened. In his leather robes, I only saw a bloodstain. With a piece of metal, I carefully pried it loose and distinguished with a clarity I hated—the tip of my father's sword. It was the only one always coated with cockatrice venom; its stench was unmistakable. At that moment, something materialized before us. It was a human—I had seen him accompanying Lady Lilith. He asked for help. It seemed our people had violated the agreement we made when we entered these lands. My father knew it! As I thought about what had happened, I saw movement behind the human. He told me he was traveling in great haste—that Lady Lilith was in our camp, being pursued by those who had driven us from our lands. This could not be happening. No! We would lose our new homes! At my command—warriors, attack!
The journey was precipitate. We knew the area—we went out to hunt and sometimes slept on the outskirts, watching for the enemy. How many heads of formidable warriors had been cut off? But now, our heads were hanging by a thread. The elders, with a strength that had faced many enemies, did not want to know about these dealings, about the risks of angering the lady of these lands. But that did not mean they lacked respect. That was something I did not understand—it did not seem like him, even less to attack without provocation.
I arrived a few minutes later at the clearing. There, the battle continued. On one side, I saw my father. On his face were marks like those of victory, but these were not made with his enemies' blood—they were his. They were the marks of two hands that had left his skin exposed. His screams echoed and mixed with those of the other warriors. On the other side, I saw some humans dressed in black. They did not attack my father—they only raised a wall of fire. The rest attacked Lilith with a storm of many elements. Curiously, that did not frighten them. Even with wounds raw and open, they kept attacking. And they did—they attacked Lilith. I could see her in the center, inside a rock, a diamond, something similar, with iridescent edges. In the center was Lilith. I knew it was her, even though she always seemed an imposing female; she looked like a gangly human. But it was her. She looked very unwell—with each blow, her face contorted in pain. I had to stop them!
With a leap, I entered the fray. The nearest humans fell like balls of yarn. My sword rose and fell without stopping, avoiding the obvious attack patterns. When I began to see that I was not the only one in the fray, I was glad the young did not seem to be following our traditional style. They were like me—cautious. Strength had to reside in the mind as well. In the back of that group of mages was one with luxurious robes. He stood out from the crowd. So I lunged after him. The mages tried to invoke horrible things to stop me. But less than two steps away from each, perhaps a second between each of my strikes, he was two enemies away—one away. My sword descended as he raised a metal staff in an attempt to interrupt my attack. But that would not stop me. My fury would not be stopped by trinkets. The impact sounded very intense. Incredibly, the blow did not cut that sorcerer in half—he ran off. When I turned, I could not believe it. My father was blocking the blow. In his eyes, he did not recognize me. Now he was coming for me.
All around, the same thing was happening. I did not know if it was enemy magic or a thirst for battle, but the great orc warriors were attacking their own offspring. I could not keep watching. I barely stopped the next blow, pushed him, shouted for him to come to his senses. But the sword strikes came faster and faster, each with less organization but more strength. With desperation, I saw several humans tracing magical symbols around her. A light began to emanate... this was not good! An inarticulate cry forced me to look back. A lateral sword strike came too close to avoid. Still, I jumped back, hoping to lessen the damage. I got my first scar.
The pain was intense. Even with my sword blocking, my father's blade, driven by his madness, had just made an ugly cut on my pectoral. But he was raising his weapon again. Saliva dripped from his mouth, his eyes were wild—everything was unreal. So I reacted as if he were not my father. My sword traced a circle, deflecting his machete. Suddenly, before him, there was nothing. I launched a slash, taking advantage of the momentum, and the cut left a diagonal mark on his chest. At that moment, some light returned to his eyes. He told me I was now a man. But too late. The humans had finished their enchantment. In the middle of an intense light, they disappeared. Only the destroyed village remained, and the wounded or dying parents contemplating their offspring, who had defeated them.
By morning, the tracker teams left in search of Lilith. As the new leader of my tribe, I apologized before all the other villages. No one paid me attention—as far as they were concerned, we were just a failure and a betrayal. My father howled horribly when he no longer saw Lilith. He barked instructions, and all his flayed companions sniffed the air. Immediately, they left. They did not say a word. In the village, we were digging graves for my father's victims. Every time sweat fell on my wound, it reminded me that I had failed. The wise Whitecap said the only thing my father had to do was attack the keep's enemies—doing so would lift the curse. But I doubted any of them wanted to return; after all, they were not responsible for us. The Oghar tribe had a new leader—Grunth, son of Oghr. I would seek to be better than my ancestors. I would seek to create the most powerful army that defended our lands and sowed terror. But more than anything, I would bring retribution to the people who had welcomed us. I myself would free Lady Lilith, even if I had to kill my father to do so.