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The view of the valley was breath-taking. Had he the words to describe it, the huge man would have used breath-taking, marvelous, sublime. The forests were all visible this high in the mountains, Sundren city a gray blot at the heart... But the man did not have the words, nor capacity, to truly appreciate the beauty. He saw only what was due to be his in time.
The gigantic half-orc was sitting cross-legged on the bare stone of the mountain ledge, staring out at the world that was his by right. His world. Sundren, the valley, and everything beyond. He knew this to be true. He was the Invincible One. He was the son of Grokush, Chief of the Bloodclaw Orcs, who ruled a swathe of the Nether Mountains. Dwarves feared the name, elves pissed their pants at the thought of the Bloodclaw might, and humans wailed in terror. Hrogash knew these to be truths. As he knew that the entire world would be his one day. For he was Hrogash. Son of a chief...but more important, he knew, he was Hrogash, son of the son of the son of the many sons of The Great Red Death.
The elf - the one elf in all of Faerun that would be spared when Hrogash claimed his birthright - had explained to him what being a bearer of the Ancient Blood meant. He had explained the truth that had eluded the Bloodclaw Orcs for over three hundred years - The Great Red Death was a dragon with scales of blood and flame. And that dragon's blood flowed through Hrogash's veins.
The huge half-breed took a deep breath of the cold mountain air. He had always enjoyed looking down at the world from above - and now he knew why. He knew why he had always, as a boy, hoarded the shiniest of shinies, keeping the little pile of trinkets safe from all others.
And it explained the dreams... Ever since he had been a boy, he had dreamt of the world far below, of his flight within the clouds and the sky. He had dreamed of flying so high that the sun blotted all else, until there was only the blaze of the sun and himself, his body, melting into the warmth.
Yes. It was the blood of the dragon that was in him. And as he had been raised, he knew it was his birthright, this world, that he had seen below him in his dreams of flight.
He was Hrogash the Mighty.
He was Hrogash the Invincible.
He was Hrogash of the Bloodclaw.
He was Hrogash of the Ancient Blood.
He was Hrogash Dragonblood.
He was the chosen warrior of Gruumsh, Mighty god of all orcs. Gruumsh chose him, a half-breed, to be the vessel. To be the avatar of Gruumsh's Might upon the face of Faerun. Hrogash knew the truth of this. He would lead all of the orcs of the world under a single banner - and he would conquer all. All elves but one would be slaughtered. His people would feast on the flesh of dwarves, would ravage the land, and take what they wished. Hrogash knew that he was destined to lead his people. To lead his people into a new age. From the age of men, there would be the Age of Orc...
The Age...of Hrogash.
The gigantic half-orc was sitting cross-legged on the bare stone of the mountain ledge, staring out at the world that was his by right. His world. Sundren, the valley, and everything beyond. He knew this to be true. He was the Invincible One. He was the son of Grokush, Chief of the Bloodclaw Orcs, who ruled a swathe of the Nether Mountains. Dwarves feared the name, elves pissed their pants at the thought of the Bloodclaw might, and humans wailed in terror. Hrogash knew these to be truths. As he knew that the entire world would be his one day. For he was Hrogash. Son of a chief...but more important, he knew, he was Hrogash, son of the son of the son of the many sons of The Great Red Death.
The elf - the one elf in all of Faerun that would be spared when Hrogash claimed his birthright - had explained to him what being a bearer of the Ancient Blood meant. He had explained the truth that had eluded the Bloodclaw Orcs for over three hundred years - The Great Red Death was a dragon with scales of blood and flame. And that dragon's blood flowed through Hrogash's veins.
The huge half-breed took a deep breath of the cold mountain air. He had always enjoyed looking down at the world from above - and now he knew why. He knew why he had always, as a boy, hoarded the shiniest of shinies, keeping the little pile of trinkets safe from all others.
And it explained the dreams... Ever since he had been a boy, he had dreamt of the world far below, of his flight within the clouds and the sky. He had dreamed of flying so high that the sun blotted all else, until there was only the blaze of the sun and himself, his body, melting into the warmth.
Yes. It was the blood of the dragon that was in him. And as he had been raised, he knew it was his birthright, this world, that he had seen below him in his dreams of flight.
He was Hrogash the Mighty.
He was Hrogash the Invincible.
He was Hrogash of the Bloodclaw.
He was Hrogash of the Ancient Blood.
He was Hrogash Dragonblood.
He was the chosen warrior of Gruumsh, Mighty god of all orcs. Gruumsh chose him, a half-breed, to be the vessel. To be the avatar of Gruumsh's Might upon the face of Faerun. Hrogash knew the truth of this. He would lead all of the orcs of the world under a single banner - and he would conquer all. All elves but one would be slaughtered. His people would feast on the flesh of dwarves, would ravage the land, and take what they wished. Hrogash knew that he was destined to lead his people. To lead his people into a new age. From the age of men, there would be the Age of Orc...
The Age...of Hrogash.