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The screams and ripping sound of flesh formed an orchestra of satisfaction. His sense worked twice as hard and his muscles worked twice as hard. The tiny faces of the goblins split in half at his will. The fury, the ekstasy, the bloodlust. It all looked endless. It is almost like back then...
On the snow-covered mountain. The night had fallen but the blizzard didn't stop. He marched through the knee-high snow. His fury didn't stop just yet. He spotted the two shadows in the distance. The effort doubled and the speed increased. The length between him and the pair shrinked by the second. He lifted his hunting axe, in which his name was carved and the metal met flesh. Blood insulted the beauty of the pure white but, for him it just increased the value.
Three figures left the caves, one returned. And in that very moment, the new Orc who had returned, blood spilled all over him, his smile like thousand demons and his laughter so foul and so scoffing, it could only belong to a tyrant. The women and children trembled in fear of the unthinkable thing he had done: He had killed his own kin. Not only they were members of the tribe but one was his wife and the other, the village's shaman. And to give his blasphemy the crown: He had tasted their blood and enjoyed all of his actions. And there he stood: The Blackblood
He sits at the campfire. Rubbing his hands. He looks calm, he looks peaceful. But the vision is tricking. Inside he hasn't finished the anger, the fury, the battles. He is never gonna stop until he ends up in Gruumsh's dark pit. And no pointy-ear, no Milky face, no long-beard, no Stone-nose, no tiny folk and especially not this One-Eyed Demon woman will bring him there all too soon.
On the snow-covered mountain. The night had fallen but the blizzard didn't stop. He marched through the knee-high snow. His fury didn't stop just yet. He spotted the two shadows in the distance. The effort doubled and the speed increased. The length between him and the pair shrinked by the second. He lifted his hunting axe, in which his name was carved and the metal met flesh. Blood insulted the beauty of the pure white but, for him it just increased the value.
Three figures left the caves, one returned. And in that very moment, the new Orc who had returned, blood spilled all over him, his smile like thousand demons and his laughter so foul and so scoffing, it could only belong to a tyrant. The women and children trembled in fear of the unthinkable thing he had done: He had killed his own kin. Not only they were members of the tribe but one was his wife and the other, the village's shaman. And to give his blasphemy the crown: He had tasted their blood and enjoyed all of his actions. And there he stood: The Blackblood
He sits at the campfire. Rubbing his hands. He looks calm, he looks peaceful. But the vision is tricking. Inside he hasn't finished the anger, the fury, the battles. He is never gonna stop until he ends up in Gruumsh's dark pit. And no pointy-ear, no Milky face, no long-beard, no Stone-nose, no tiny folk and especially not this One-Eyed Demon woman will bring him there all too soon.