in hand, wings of bone and sinew keeping him up above the ground, the troll charged at the wall he very well could have flown over, crushing his head against its stone foundation before shattering the barrier with his greataxe.

With a broken skull, the troll marched through Lorestal's streets. The brave militia formed against him, and almost with a haphazardous lack of interest he swung them aside, leaving many maimed, killed, or torn in half in single swings. He cared only for the twelve knights which appeared before him when he reached the city square. Together, the twelve faced him, and like a horror story, the book almost seems to struggle telling of the troll's might. Their blades creaked across his skin like oak wood; wounds from his body repairing with a terrifying fury; his axe cleaving armor and sending the guarding knights tumbling as their shields broke. He fought, curiously, as the knights did: with no insistance and no care for his own survival. It was as if both sides were prepared to make this their last.

And yet, it was twelve on one. Though weaker individually, the knights together adapted to the troll's fighting style, wearing him down through careful flanking attacks where his wild-if-focused swings can be evaded. And it was through sheer fatigue, not blood loss, where the troll finally fell. The knights, at once exhausted, proud and terrified, cut off his head in haste, burning it and his body to bone and placing the burning remains in a deep grave now mounded with dirt upon dirt.

Il'Tak only managed to read out the first few sentences of the next page, where there was a rumbling of the deep grave, when sleep finally overtook him.

He awoke not as he slept, with an additional blanket over him and the book now enclosed tightly between his hands. Dura's mythril blade is sheathed upright in the tent. A look at the blade sees its giving a small shine, clean of goblin blood. All his provisions are accounted for and nothing in the sack of books had been touched. Someone just seems to have taken the liberty of tidying up a few things last night.

Cadrogg stands just outside the guest room, door opened, looking out at the main hall as if keeping guard. The ruins lack the light Il'Tak may expect at sunrise; only small trinkets of light come from the flaps of cloth at the makeshift ceiling. The goggle-wearing Walker turns his head. "Good 'morrow to you," he says to Il'Tak. The scout wears a small smile on his face. "Slept well? The chieftains are waiting for you, when you're ready." Cadrogg speaks as if under strict orders, serious when commanded by his superiors.

Il'Tak can't help but grumble as a stray beam of light assault his tired eyes. For all of his endeavors in the dead of night, Il'Tak could not remember ever attacking a book with such tenacity or enthusiasm. As with any muscle, however, any exercise with new muscles can leave the body sore and exhausted.

Come to think of it, sore and exhausted was an excellent description for his mental state as well.

'I found him...'

While Il'Tak appreciated a tale of bravery of bloodshed as much as the next orc, reading through the trials and battles of the Lorestal Knights was a bit of a chore. The book took so long kissing their hairless arses with titles and honors and flowery words (some of which Il'Tak had never heard before) that the actual fights themselves seemed like more of an afterthought... or at least that's how it seemed at the time. Given his rush to find a single thing, Il'Tak may have been low on patience.

He did find it, however. Right there on the page, written in black and white.

The troll Chimeras feared. The troll who flew on wings of bone. "He-With-No-Name"

Il'Tak had smiled broadly, secure that he knew something that this big-brain writer knew not.

The Troll's true name was Xir'Nag

...Probably. The Saga of Xir'Nag mentioned that the troll flew down from the heavens... but there have been dozens of retellings. Some say that Xir'Nag leapt from the side of his mountain when he went to rejoin the world. Others claimed that Xir'Nag tamed a dragon made of lightning... or that he had dragonblood. A few more fantastical tales even spoke of a talking blade that flew through the air, dragging Xir'Nag behind him. Even with wings of bone, however... everything seemed to line up. If there were other city-breaking trolls who flew, after all, someone would have started legends.

No, Il'Tak was almost certain that this troll was Xir'Nag

'...and he is dead'

Il'Tak had spent nearly an hour rereading a single paragraph, hoping or praying that Gruumsh would change the words on the page. Every time he read, however, the Army of One was decapitated and burned to ashes. The Breaker of Men was broken by twelve knights.... as were Il'Tak's hopes and dreams. Maybe this time the pages will say something else. Maybe this time...

Il'Tak was taken by restless dreams throughout the evening. The whispers of broken loved ones tortured him with nightmares, Those nocturnal horrors, though, were by far preferable to the waking contemplations of failure and futility.

How many days has it been since Il'Tak left on this ill-fated journey?

3? 4? A week or so?

Everything seemed to blur together, torturing the orc with the certainty he had that a hero would save him.

A hero who no living being had seen in many years.

Because he was already dead.

And so were they.

With that final dark thought, empty dream and consciousness blurred into a mindless mass and Il'Tak embraced oblivion.

Until this beam of light appeared, that is.

Slowly stretching out his arms, Il'Tak realizes that things are not as he has left them. He holds in a curse as he realizes that his possessions have been moved around. Leaping to his hands and knees, Il'Tak winces with soreness as he scans for danger... and finds Cadrogg.

Laying eyes on a friendly orc, Il'Tak allows himself to calm. While still thoroughly embarrassed that someone was able to sneak up on him, he is still alive and seems to be safe. Of course, whoever cleaned up likely found him pouring over that book. What if half of the clan thinks him some sort of word-spewer?

Face now thoroughly red, Il'Tak straightens out his pelts and grabs his blade.

"I slept," Il'Tak replied, simply, "and I am ready."

If the reddish hue of the green orc's face happened to be visually concerning, Cadrogg isn't showing any signs of it. "I hope the place wasn't too ill-suited," he responds, adjusting the goggles strapped on his thick forehead. "None of us Walkers ever really get used to rest in shifting sands and patchwork ruins." He gives another small smile to Il'Tak. Unlike before, Cadrogg's face show a lack of rest with those ugly black rings around his youthful eyes. "Come. This way."

The Walker leads Il'Tak back to the entry room of the large ruins and through a door on the other side. The hallway beyond, leading to a ninety-degree right turn, has only one clear path, with most of the other doors or entrances mostly filled in by sand and dust. Very small specks of stone tap off the top of the remaining roof as the two walk through to a miraculously clear open door at the end.

Inside is, what Il'Tak can gather, once a small throne room. The walls of this place appear tall, stretching above the cloth-made 'roof' tethered eight feet from the ground. Faint hues of red and yellow form like lines along the ruined walls as if remaining traces of paint. A surprisingly fresh, recently placed brown rug of leather is lined on the sand from the entrance to the other end of the room.

The other end of the throne room is, perhaps to no surprise, two thrones lined up next to each other. Each show small specks of sand as if the stone-worn seats had been dusted off and have a very dim yellow hue to its material. Interestingly, one throne has its backrest cut off near the top to match the height of the other; the cut is too clean to simply have worn away through time.

The seats, in fact, were likely designed for humans or elves. The two occupants are a male and female orc respectively, both having the same brown skin as the other Walkers. The female chieftain has a well-toned build, similar to that of Cadrogg, based on her arms; her body is clothed in loose cloth and thin, brown fur not unlike that of a wolf's sheered pelt. Her sharp facial features and narrow eyes almost give her a judgemental appearance as she eyes Il'Tak. Next to her throne is a large iron greataxe whose handle a perfect match for her hands.

The male chieftain, in contrast, is built like that as Dura: almost as bulky as an ogre with those muscles seen beneath his loose cloth shirt and trousers. His clothing, lacking the rich fur of the other chieftain, almost makes him seem like a 'typical' Walker. There are, however, three clear signs of his authority: a remarkable-yet-foreign metal bead necklace, two ornate axes places on opposite sides of his throne, and his expression. The orc has a focused, almost-calming look to his thick eyes and mouth. He gives Il'tak a look without presumptions or worry that's so still, he seems like a statue.

Cadrogg takes several steps forward, standing right on the brown rug, and kneels down on his knees. He looks to Il'tak and motions him to step forward.

"The orc from Aijur," the male chieftain speaks; his voice cold as stone. "You are brave to make the trip here. The sandsea is only traversable for the hardy or the wise." The chieftain's words, spoken without any change to his expression, are told as if he's lightly judging the orc.

The female chieftain speaks next. "You are welcome to our camp, however short it will last." Unlike her expression, this chieftain speaks with an easier tone, both authority and welcoming at the same time. "But your circumstances are unusual. To arrive alone, from Aijur, with a heavy sack of not food but reading materials, is something we do not overlook." Her eyes slightly turn right, narrowing them at Cadrogg who flinches slightly in response. "Know my name as Triscur, and his as Arku. And before we ask what you want, we want to know why you are here, to the last possible detail." Both chieftains speak eloquently for orcish. And though they welcomed Il'tak for the night, they are clearly hungry for information.

Say what you want about humans and their love of mazelike cities. When they build a place of power, that power can be felt in the room for centuries.

Facing the Chieftains, Il'Tak feels the energy drain from his bones. What is even left to say, now that his misison is failed.

"I apologize," mutters Il'Tak, kneeling in deference, "in spite of the, uh, reading materials, I'm not much with words. Spent most of my years trying to avoid speaking with others... otherwise, I wouldn't be here."

Clearing his throat, Il'Tak stands and continues, "About a week ago, maybe a bit more, I was heading back from a week-long hunting trip. Bears, Elk, and the like. You know."

"When I approached the village, however, all that I could smell was this overpowering stench of smoke. I could see it on the horizon, that smoke. More than a single bonfire would make."

"I came up slow, like I'm hunting prey as normal, and I see humans walking my tribe out of the burning ruins of my home. Every tent aflame or ashes. Bodies resting here and there, but most of them alive."

"That was the worst of it, I think. There weren't enough bodies. Not on either side. While the humans had some sword and armor folks on horses, there weren't enough of them to wipe out the sons of Aijur. If you've never visited, we were built on top of a hill. Rivers on two sides, thick forest at our back, and a clear view of the horizon. Over a hundred good men and women ready to fight and die. We even had treaties like the local goblins. We should have won by a landslide."

"We didn't even go down fighting. Except for the weak and sick, those ones that they killed, everyone was marching right along. Not an ounce of fight to them. Some of them, those bound in chains, seemed like they had given up. The others, though? They were just... empty. They didn't even waste chains on them, letting them walk right along with the others. I tried to save one as they passed through a ridge... Tried to pull him aside, to talk to him, to bring him with me... and he wouldn't even look me in the eye. Wouldn't say two words. Kept trying to keep walking along, to join the rest of those orcs in the line... so I let him"

"I... I couldn't..." Il'Tak swallows, ever-conscious of the chieftains' gazes, "I should've fought them. I should've fought with valor and died, even if nobody else did. Even after such a loss, I could've done something that day to redeem our honor. I couldn't though. The thought that they might not kill me... that they might stand me in the same line so I could have those same empty lines... I ran. I ran right back into the forest and waited. Waited until I was sure it was over."

"After that... I had some time to think. I went back to the place I called home to grab the blade of my forefathers and bury the dead. From there... well, things have been complicated. At the moment, I'm doing my best to warn the tribes of the humans and their treachery. If they want an army of orcs, I doubt they will stop with just my tribe."

Arku and Triscur listened at the story that led Il'Tak up to this point. The two chieftains sat upon their stone thrones with relative degrees of calming excitement. While Triscur lifted her brows at several points during the speech, Arku remained like an unsettling statue. A look behind Il'Tak reveals Cadrogg lightly-but-uncomfortably flinching upon hearing about the Aijur orcs who've lost their will to live. How couldn't one feel uncomfortable? Orcs are not known for simply 'giving in,' especially when the entire tribe is at risk.

There is no immediate response after the story ends. The dusty winds blowing into the makeshift leather roof remain the only source of sound as the female chieftain places one hand on the handle end of her greataxe; a finger from her other hand rests on her cheekbone as her sharp facial features give a thoughtful look. Arku's eyes, and only his eyes, look over at his fellow chieftain.

"...He's honest," Triscur claims with authority, "though perhaps lacking in