A sinister quiet had fallen over the orc village. A false peace, born not of serenity, but of extermination. The huts of earth and wood, rudimentary but which had still formed a village just the day before, were now little more than gutted coffins. A stench of copper and death rose from the corpses littering the ground, a macabre harvest offering the eye an endless spectacle of horror.
This place had not been annihilated by an army, nor by a curse. Only by two demons.
Or rather, two men: Dylan and Julius.
At the center of this charnel house, perched on a crudely carved wooden throne – the seat reserved for the clan chieftain, one assumed – Julius lounged. The irony of his pose was as cruel as the act itself. In his dangling hand, he held the severed head of the orc chieftain. A trickle of thick, black blood still dripped from the mutilated flesh, tracing a furrow on the ground.
