On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 69-70
I’ve got so much campaign prep to get done that if I don’t do it in public, I’ll never get it done in time! A number of interruptions today have left me with only two (rather longish) chapters complete. Since some future chapters have to follow each other very closely, this forces me into a two-chapters-at-a-time pattern for the next couple of installments as well. I’m going to try and get ahead of the curve by writing three chapters at a time, though. After receiving no objections to the more condensed format used last time (and no approvals, either), I’m going to continue using it (with a tweak), because I think it sets these posts apart from the GM-advice articles that I offer on Fridays.
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Clan Wars XV: A Desperate Plan
Goral, the Warblade of the Mailed Fist Clan, was a listener, the type of person who hears more than most and remains silent, the better to hear still more. This quality had been instrumental in his rise to his current position, for he excelled in using the babble he overheard to isolate key objectives, stratagems, and tactical considerations, welding them together into an overall plan. Too many leaders, in his view, stifled useful discussion in order to enforce their own will, or permitted the babble to continue until a consensus was formed – or until the leaders could choose a favorite. The first approach rested the decision on the capabilities and ego of a single mind, the second encouraged the formation of alliances – one or more of which would always oppose whatever decision was made.
When it became clear that no-one else was going to speak, and that everything of value that could be said on the subject had already been said, he put this prodigious talent to work, and soon had the basic outline of a thin hope. The problem, as always, would be to convince the council to follow it; they would not like what he had to say. They never did. “I have a plan, a desperate plan,” he announced. “When two objectives are incompatible, one must give way to the other. Here we have three separate objectives, and it may be just barely be possible to achieve two of those three; if we attempt to achieve all, we will fail at all. If we admit that, then we can use the failure to achieve the abandoned objective as a strategic element to better the chances of success in the remainder.
“The three objectives are the preservation of the city, the preservation of the clan, and the defeat of the enemy. All here have been thinking that the first two are the same thing, but if they are considered separately, possibilities open where before there were none.
“The Ambassador said, earlier, ‘The right move at the wrong time would be disastrous’. This must be true of the enemy as well. If the Elves are right, and everything has been preplanned to an impossible degree, then a disruption in the timetable works for us, and against the enemy. If the Ambassador is right, and our foe is a quick-thinking opportunist, then he becomes better able to respond, but the principle still holds.
“The prophecy says our walls will fall before noon. Very well, forget trying to preserve the city in favor of preserving the clan and defeating the enemy. Part of what the enemy has done has been to prevent those attacking us from succeeding too quickly for his liking; we can make it easy for them. If our defenses fail too soon for his liking, he must either deal with the invading troops burning and looting and getting in the way, or he must accelerate his efforts and risk his ritual going wrong. Either way, we make him start responding to us instead of us responding to what he does. We set the agenda, not him, and that always works in our favor. I do not know what will happen if his ritual is rushed too much, but there might be a way to take advantage of that. First, you say that your elvish spells-weaving is something like a ritual. Can you tell us what would happen if the ritual is done too quickly?”
“A large part of any ritual is ensuring that all the parts work in harmony to support each other and hold the whole together. The more perfect this harmony, the greater the durability and effectiveness of the resulting spellweaving. Elves take so long at our weavings that the results are as near to permanent as anything created by mortals can be. We think the Gods are better at it, and can do it more quickly than we can, and that is how they can achieve effects that are miraculous in comparison with our best efforts. If any part of a weaving is done too quickly, then it is likely that the whole would unravel far more quickly than it would, like a garment woven in haste with a loose thread dangling. And that it will not function as well as it could, like a wagon wheel with a spoke that is far too short. And that not all of the side effects would be properly controlled and contained.”
“So it would be weaker and more flimsy, and not fully in the control of its creator – that’s just what I hoped you would say. Earlier, you said that some rituals being the things summoned to where the caster wants them to go, and other rituals take the caster to the place where the creatures are. But they are both summoning rituals, and they probably aren’t very different. As an elf, you’re used to seeing one person take over the casting from another, because that’s how you elves do it, according to what you said before. So if the enemy isn’t in full control of the spell, maybe you could take it over and finish it the way you want instead of the way he wants – if he’s distracted by something, like the burning of the city as that lot out there get through the walls early. I know, none of you use this ability at home, you aren’t as good at it as the best of your people, and it wouldn’t be as good as if one of them had done it – but you’re the best we’ve got. If you can do that, then we can take the fight to this Hidden Dragon, whoever he is, and make him sorry for meddling in Orcish affairs.”
“Make him VERY sorry,” chuckled the Clan-chief. “I like this plan. If we are going to fall, then let us go down fighting, and if the city is to be lost, then let us punish the one responsible before it is. Let’s work out the details of how to give the Hidden Dragon a good kick in the family jewels. We have a lot of work to do tonight if all is to be ready by morning…”
In an antechamber next to the place where the rituals were being cast, presumably by the invisible hand of the Hidden Dragon from afar, Second closed his eyes and concentrated. “I can sense the strands of weaving… the colors, the shapes… the threads that are still loose, and the picture they will form when it is complete… Yes, if we can make the Hidden Dragon loosen his grip on a few of them, it might be possible to tear them from his grip and reshape them, then complete a very poor rendition of what we seek to achieve. It is most unlikely that he will have anticipated that, and so will not have prepared a magical circle to contain any who traverse the connection-between-places that he is making. And yet, this must be the interference he feared we could achieve, and may be ready – if he is the careful planner, and not the instinctive opportunist.”
“So whoever attacks will be helpless if we face a God, but there is a good chance that we don’t, and who may be able to act,” replied Goral, who had escorted the elf to the tower where the ritual had been prepared.
“Only a few will be able to use the passage, and they may not be able to return – it will be fragile and will fail quickly.”
“All acts in war are do-or-die, Elf. Why should this be any different?”
Three figures dressed in dark, hooded robes, crept through the shadows before the city walls. Around them, some groups wept in despair, others mutilated captured Minotaurs, a few fought amongst themselves, while others had drunk themselves into insensibility. They carried with them a flag of truce, but hoped not to rely on it; the attackers were under no obligation to honor it, even if they were in their right minds and under the control of their commanders, and with the death of Gruumsh at the hands of the unnamed Minotaur God (who had feigned being Hruggek, the God Of The Bugbears, long enough to draw Gruumsh into battle) – or so it had all seemed to the Red Eyes clan of the Orcs.
“Garunch should have his tent somewhere around here. Hopefully he is not too far gone in drink or despair to listen,” whispered Kudja as quietly as his Orcish nature permitted. “Look for a tent which does not display the sign of the one-eyed skull – the Shaman of the Red Eye Clan puts such sigils on the inside, a constant reminder to all who enter that he is the servant of Gruumsh and all acts committed in his presence are also in the presence of the Creator Of The World.”
“You defile his memory every time you speak his name, you filthy deserter,” came a loud voice from behind the trio. “Show your hands, or be killed where you stand!”
Stiffening, the three figures cautiously raised their hands and turned. “I am no deserter,” said one, carefully drawing back his hood.
“A Dark Elf! What are you doing here, meddler?”
“I am an envoy of peace from the Clan Of Mailed Fists,” replied Ambassador Tathzyr, “and I bear a message of conditional surrender to Garunch, Shaman of the Red Eyes.”
“Do you, now? What makes you think we are interested in your surrender, manipulator of lies? What makes you think we would trust a single thing you have to say?”
“Because I testify to his message,” replied another of the cloaked figures, also removing his hood. “I am First, and I am here as a neutral peace broker. My companions are Tathzyr, Ambassador of the Drow, and Kudja, Shaman of the Mailed Fists, and I insist on being taken to Garunch that we may deliver that message.”
“Well, now – Kudja! That is a fine prize to capture! Bind them and take them to Kyrd. Kill any that resist!”
The tent was opulent as such things go, with fabrics and furs of greater number and quality than was generally the case. Wooden chests bound with gold contained the wealth of the clan, such as it was, and a Golden throne on sticks for porters to carry announced clearly that this was the mobile domicile of the clan-chief. But there was something obviously wrong – clothes were piled high on the throne, which had been relegated to the most remote corner of the tent, while a rack of weapons of all shapes and sizes had been placed just inside the door. First gave voice to the confusion that was being experienced by all three.
“This is the tent of the clan-chief, whose name is Zalgan, and who was described as fat, and luxury-minded, and no longer the fighter that he once was. But all the property of an overweight Orc has been thrown haphazardly on the throne of the clan-chief and moved out of the way, and freshly-maintained weapons moved into their place.”
“Worse still – we should either have been taken to Garunch, as we requested, or to Zalgan himself,” replied Kudja. “And while Zalgan would have insisted on being involved in any discussions, he is too pious to stand in the way of a conversation between two Clan Shamans. But the guard said that we were to be taken to Kyrd, the Clan War-blade – and then we were brought here. Kyrd pays as little mind to the Gods and the Shaman as he can get away with, and is utterly ruthless. He will not be inclined to listen. If he has seized authority here, our whole mission lies in jeopardy.”
“You permitted them to speak to each other?” demanded a tall Orc dressed in chainmail, wearing a heavy fur cloak, and carrying a spear, as he swirled into the tent, looking intently at the guards placed around the prisoners.
“Yes, Kyrd. I thought that their words might tell us why they really came here.”
“But if we had interrogated them separately, we could have compared their stories. It was a mistake, but you had some reason for it, and you admitted your error promptly,” replied the powerfully-built Orc, as he carefully placed the spear in the weapons rack. “That shows potential, so I will be merciful. Five public lashes to make the lesson memorable and no reduction in rank.”
“I thank you for the mercy, Clan-Chief,” replied the leader of the guards, bowing.
Seating himself on a simple field seat made of wood and canvas, the self-proclaimed leader of the Red Eyes clan continued, “So, what have we here? An Elf, A Manipulator, and a Clan Shaman. I am sure that you will spin some fable about the reasons for this visit, and the failings of my minion have given you time to prepare a tale in common, if you did not have a lie pre-arranged between you. Since I cannot trust anything you may say, we shall have to learn the truth in a manner more painful to you.”
“Your pardon if I speak out of turn, my clan-chief,” said one of the guards, “but before they knew we were behind them, the Shaman was heard to instruct the other two in how to find the tent of Garunch.” Holding up the flag of truce, he added, “And they travelled with this in their possession.”
Eyebrows raised, Kyrd examined the white cloth. “The long ears of a natural sneak may have spared you much discomfort, Mouse-droppings. A pity, I was looking forward to it. But since you have given the name of Garunch, showing him to be in league with our enemies and a traitor to his clan, I might be minded to be merciful to you, also – especially if you would be so kind as to repeat that name in a more public setting, such as his trial for treason.”
“I will not cooperate in elevating your position above that of the Shaman of your clan, Warblade. You are not the rightful clan-chief here, and you overstep your authority,” replied Kudja. “Where is Zalgan? He commands the Red Eyes. If he wishes to be present when I give my message to Garunch, I will permit it.”
“Our former clan-chief was so besotted with piety that he insisted on going into battle beside Gruumsh, and was slain in the battle,” smirked Kyrd. “As Warblade, in a time of conflict, I act in his place. You will not find me so easy to wrap around your finger, Priest.”
“Going into combat? Zalgan could barely walk unaided,” retorted the Shaman. “I think you had him killed, or did it yourself, and claimed power you are not entitled to.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think, Priest, but I can’t have you spreading such lies. Perhaps I can’t be so merciful after all.”
“That is not your place to decide, Kyrd,” came a new voice from the entrance to the tent. “You have been accused of treason against your clan by a Clan Shaman, and have tried to silence the accuser – an act that suggests guilt – and that gives me the right to examine the truth of the matter.” The newcomer was much older than Kudja, dressed in a red robe beneath a light mail-shirt.
“Stay out of my way, Garunch, and I might let you live to see another sunset. You accepted my right to lead with your silence during the ceremony of empowerment.”
“You mistake yourself, Kyrd. I did not challenge you at the time, but neither did I endorse you. Only the tribal chiefs may choose the Clan-chief; I chose simply to wait, sure that you would overstep your bounds, and now you have. Gruumsh may have fallen, but he is not the only God for whom I speak!”
“Brace yourself, First. I think we have a front-row seat for a confrontation that’s been coming for a very long time…”
Clan Wars XVI: In The Name Of Gruumsh
“I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time, Priest. For too long, you have told us what to think, what to do and what not to do!” roared Kyrd, springing to his feet.
“It is night, and the power of Shargaas, mistress of stealth and darkness is ascendant. In her name, I summon forth the shade of Zalgan to tell us of his death, and of what acts were committed in secret,” answered the shaman, calmly.
Before their eyes, the shimmering outline of an extremely plump Orc materialized, his body pierced by multiple strokes of the blade, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. “For what reason do you disturb the dead?” it asked as Kyrd momentarily recoiled.
“My clan-chief, long did you serve your people well, but they have need of one final service from you before you may rest,” answered the Clan Shaman. “Speak to us of your ending, Chief Zalgan. Tell us who should lead the Red Eyes clan now that we are without you until the clan meets in Moot to choose a lasting successor.”
Kyrd reached into the weapons rack and pulled out his greatspear, obviously his favorite weapon, as a voice emerged from the shimmering outline “When Gruumsh fell, I was in despair, and I called to my Warblade, who stood beside me, and asked ‘What do we do now?’ He replied to me, ‘Now we begin a life of our own choosing without the meddling of the priests and their footstools,’ and then he drew a blade and ran me through. Not satisfied that he had struck a mortal blow, again and again he hacked at my body.”
“You desecrate the dead by putting your words in the mouth of this light show, Priest,” raged Kyrd, a desperate expression on his face, and thrust his spear through it again and again. Finding his weapon useless, he dropped it and grabbed a mace, which he swung with great force, but it passed through the head of the former clan-chief without encountering anything of substance.
“In the tribe of the Hawk’s Claws is a youth of promise, named Kurvath” continued the shade, unperturbed. “Though he knew it not, for I did not wish him to be shown favors, he is my son and heir. It is his place to speak for me until the Moot. And now, I beseech you to let me rest. Let me continue to search for the paradise beyond the sky claimed for us by Gruumsh.”
“Return to your sleep, Great Clan-Chief. You have earned your place beyond the sky. Guards, I mark you as witnesses and order you to take former Warblade Kyrd prisoner. His fate shall be decreed by Kurvath, son of Zalgan.”
“If I can’t kill Zalgan again, I can at least kill you, Priest,” the dethroned Orc leader bellowed.
“How tiresome,” replied the Priest as the mace bounced off an invisible barrier surrounding him. The Guards each seized an arm, and forced Kyrd to drop his weapon, then bound him in chains and dragged him away. “Tie him to the whipping post and send for Kurvath,” instructed the priest as they departed, the ex-leader still spouting threats.
“Now, I was told that you had a message of surrender to give me. I find this surprising, and so I am wary.”
“We should start by telling you that your entire clan has been deceived, Garunch. That was not Gruumsh who was killed, merely an apparition that looked like him,” replied Ambassador Tathzyr.
“You think me a simpleton, to be tricked like a cub?”
“Not at all, Garunch. Whatever tricked you was also good enough to make me think it was Baghtru. I have a way to prove it, but that comes later,” said the Shaman, soothingly.
“We know that you were sent here by what you believed to Gruumsh. You must view what he told you to do as a Holy Quest, and would not attempt to dissuade you from it; while we believe that this war was also a deception, we cannot prove it to you, and do not propose to try,” said First. “What we must know is what exactly you were commanded to do, so that we can learn if there is room for the Mailed Fist clan to surrender to the inevitable.”
“Continue,” instructed Garunch.
“The heart of a Clan is its people. If the people can be spared, we will surrender the city to you at Dawn – on condition that the Red Eyes raze it to the ground.”
As Garunch thought that surprising offer over, Kurvath arrived. Quickly, the young Orc was informed of his lineage and of the fate of Kyrd. For a moment, the fires of revenge burned in his eyes, and then he took in the others who were present in the command pavilion. “There’s more, isn’t there? This Orc wears the colors of a Clan Shaman, but I have never met him before. This is an Elf of some sort, and so is this. Why are they here?”
“They convey an offer from the Mailed Fist clan to negotiate a surrender of the city. But this offer is contingent on the exact instructions given by Gruumsh. I could recite them, but my memory has no authority; you should send for the Keeper Of Memory,” responded the older Clan Shaman.
“All right, let’s do that then. If I’m supposed to lead the clan, I probably should know what we’re here to do, anyway.” He paused, looked around, then leaned in close to his Clan Shaman, and whispered, “What do I do now, Garunch?”
“You give an order, Kurvath,” replied the Shaman in a whisper of his own.
“You should probably know, Clan-Chief Kurvath, that Elven ears are sharp enough to hear your words, even when you whisper,” announced First, calmly.
“Oh well,” replied Kurvath, with a shrug. “Since you know, anyway, there’s no point in hiding it.” Raising his voice, he commanded, “Guards. Bring me the Keeper Of Memory.”
“Repeat for me the words of Gruumsh. What did he demand of us?” the young Orc ordered the Keeper Of Memory, perhaps the oldest Orc that any of them had ever seen. Wizened, stooped, and with a voice that occasionally cracked and wheezed when he spoke.
“Yes Clan-(wheeze, gasp)-Chief. This (croak) is what Our God (gasp, wheeze) said to us (cough, cough, wheeze)”. Suddenly, the old Orc’s voice was as clear as a bell, as he recited, “I burn with shame and anger stirs within me when I think of the way a clan who dares to bear my mark permits another clan of Orcs to live in wasted-lands of stone, and grow crops like a farmer. These are not the ways a true Orc should live, grubbing in the dirt like swine. We are strong, and proud, and take what we need from where we find it. We live! We Hunt! We Fight! We Survive! They are not worthy to be called Orcs, and you are twice as not-worthy as for permitting it. I command you to rouse the Clan of the Red Eye and to march on these sites of corr-up-tion and purity of evil, and to tear the stones from the ground until good clean dirt is all that remains. The stones shall you throw into deep waters, so that they never de-spoil the true Orcish spirit again. I shall return to my palace beyond the sky, but I shall return in one-fist-and-one-hand of days, and if you are not on the march at that time to abate this mons-tros-it-ee, my wrath shall be beyond measure.”
“Thank you, Zuglak. You may rest. You have done well.”
“There were some very un-Orcish turns of phrase in that little epiphany,” suggested Ambassador Tathzyr. “Even the Keeper struggled with some of the words, as though he was reciting the sounds from memory without knowing what they meant.”
“It did not sound like an Orc, it is true, but it is not for us to tell a God how to speak,” replied Garunch. “I don’t know what a mons-tros-it-ee is either, but sounds like a bad thing, and the instructions seem clear enough.”
” ‘A bad thing’ is fairly close to what it means, Clan Shaman. And ‘Corruption’ is the act of ‘making something bad’, like poisoning a well with a dead animal.”
“A dead animal does not make water bad, Elf. Not for an Orc. Water is never bad-to-drink, but Ale tastes better. I do not know how something can be made bad; it is either good or it was always bad. There is nothing in between except those things that are bad until we get used to them, like rotten meat or black mushrooms.”
“Not all creatures are as strong as Orcs, Clan-Chief. Horses will sicken and die if they drink from a well whose water has a dead thing in it, and so will other creatures. Make the water bad, and the creatures you hunt will die, and then there will be nothing to hunt tomorrow.”
“I’m sure that’s very enlightening to the Clan-Chief, First, but not very important right now,” said the Ambassador. “Here is what matters: the Red Eyes were ordered to tear down the city and throw the stones in deep waters. There were no orders to kill the Mailed Fists, only to destroy the city.”
“Yes, I see that,” answered the Clan-Chief. “You want us to let the Mailed Fists go if they will let us break the city and take it away, because Gruumsh did not tell us not to do that, am I right?”
“That is exactly what we propose, Clan-Chief.”
“It sounds alright to me, but the words of the Gods are for the Shamans to tell,” replied Kurvath. “What do you say, Garunch?”
“It is not enough, Clan-Chief. If it is wrong now for Orcs to live in homes of stone, it is wrong always. The Mailed Fists must promise not to make any more cities like this one until the Gods say they can.”
“But Gruumsh is dead. He died in battle. He can never say to stop tearing down cities,” said the Clan-Chief.
“And Baghtru told us to build the city. If Baghtru tells us to make another, we will. If Baghtru tells you to let us, what will you do?” asked the city Clan Shaman.
“That is a bad problem to have, Kudja, but it is not my problem. If you make another city, we will tear it down. If Baghtru tells us not to stop you, we will ask whoever rules in the sky to tell us what to do. But that brings us back to what you said before Clan-Chief Kurvath came to the tent – that you could prove that Gruumsh was not really dead. If you can’t do that, the Red Eyes will stay all broken apart as they are now, and it will not matter what we agree to do.”
“You must agree before I tell you how to prove that Gruumsh lives, not just to yourself but to all the Red Eyes. You are right, we can worry about new cities tomorrow. Let us worry about this one today,” answered Kudja.
“It is our faith to Gruumsh that holds the Red Eyes together, Clan-Chief. If you agree to this, you will be giving them their Clan in return for them giving you yours. If you do not, then in one fist of Winters, two at most, there will be no Clan Red-Eye.”
“Then it is fair. We will let the Mailed Fist clan go if they let us tear down their city and take away the stones, so long as they know that if they make another one we will tear it down, too, until the King Of The Skies tells us to stop,” answered the Clan-Chief. “Bring Zuglak Back and we will speak this deal to the Keeper Of Memory,” he ordered one of the guards at the tent entrance.
“One thing more, Clan-chief: a detail that may seem nothing to you, but that is very important to us all – you must begin at the time of Sunrise tomorrow-day.”
“Why is that important?”
“That is something that you will not believe until you know that Gruumsh lives. Only when you have proof that you were tricked will you be ready to hear our words and listen.”
“That is thee-fingers times tonight that you have made me curious, Kudja. Very well, the night wears on.”
Sidebar: Orcish Numbers
Orcs aren’t great at numbers. They can count to five, no problem. Five fingers is called one ‘hand’. Five Hands is ‘one fist’. In other words, they count in Base 5. “One Fist and One Hand” is “110” in Base-5, which is 30 days. “One Fist Of Years, two at most” is “25 years, 50 at the most”. The highest number they can count to is “444”, which is 124 in Decimal numbers. After this, they need to grasp a broader concept in order to count – instead of days, they count seasons or moons if they need more than 124 days, instead of seasons or moons, they count Winters for years, and so on. Every 124 years marks a new ‘era’ on the Orcish Calendar, which are only named when they end. So “4-in-badger” might refer to 4 years older the end of the era of the “Badger”. No one has actually bothered to learn the order of eras, and only Keepers Of Memory know them all, anyway; to everyone else, more than 124 years ago is simply “Long ago” and it all happened at the same time.I found these sites to be useful:
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The Ongoing Elvish Glossary
I’m going to forego this while our attention is focussed on the Orcish side of the story, as it has no relevance to the narrative.
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Next time: Have you figured out how to prove that Gruumsh lives? The clues are all there. Even if he doesn’t and never has. Chapters 71-72 will tell you how right or wrong you are!
- Inventing and Reinventing Races in DnD: An Introduction to the Orcs and Elves series part 1
- Inventing and Reinventing Races in DnD: An Introduction to the Orcs and Elves series part 2
- Inventing and Reinventing Races in DnD: An Introduction to the Orcs and Elves series part 3
- Inventing and Reinventing Races in DnD: An Introduction to the Orcs and Elves series part 4
- Inventing and Reinventing Races in DnD: An Introduction to the Orcs and Elves series part 5
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 1-4
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 5-10
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 11-14
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 15-17
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 18-20
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 21-23
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 24-26
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 27-28
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 29-31
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 32-36
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 37-40
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 41-43
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 44-46
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 47-51
- Inventing and Reinventing Races in DnD: An Orcish Mythology
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 52-54
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 55-58
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 59-62
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 63-65
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 66-68
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 69-70
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 71-73
- Who Is “The Hidden Dragon”? – Behind the curtain of the Orcs and Elves Series
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapter 74
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 75-77
- On The Origins Of Orcs, Chapters 78-85
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