01-10-2014, 04:26 AM
This is the tale of how Grazmot Windseeker, the slave who never was, became a free Orc thanks to the one who had saved his life by purchasing his liberty.
Sea salt was something novel to the younger one of the pair. It made his face sticky, as if it were a spider web he had run into. And yet, the fragrance that emanate from the great body of water, which extended far beyond what his amber eyes could see, was fresh, invigorating. Behind, the swamp stunk, a scent very different from the one he had just experienced. It was tyrannical and uninviting, inciting him to plunge into the depthless sea.
Unfortunately, the swamp’s smell was not the only thing to stir his desire of diving. Amidst the trees they had run through were many bloodthirsty warriors; warriors that would force them into the pits of hell, that is to say, into war. A war neither one of the pair desired, for it served only to feed the demonic corruption that raged in the hearts of the afflicted.
The number of those who hungered for blood was staggering. They had annihilated an entire race in their old world in the name of the ancestors, claiming that they were plotting to destroy the Orcs, when the Orcs were the ones to strike first, unprovoked. It was depressing, nay, despairing, to see a race of once noble and proud warriors take such a titanic fall. How the fate of the Orcish race had become thus, no one knew for sure, but the older Orc that had brought the youth with him had no doubt that it had been the work of the warlocks and their demonic masters.
It is ironic, he thought, for me to scold their doings when I am just as foolish as them. The timeworn warlock shook his head, finishing his line of thought with a sigh.