> Clear throat
I-I'd like to make a request here. Something special. It's about a tale of honour, hate, violence, passion.. And maybe love.
It's about an orc camp, called Matuurukshmatuh, a mostly above ground camp, in a cold, cold steppe..
Life wasn't easy there, you know ? Haha, no.. You don't know.
We were 6, when it all begun, six proud orcs of the steppe clan, eager to build a new future.
We had high hopes, that's sure. But, the hunger, the cold.. Our industry wasn't doing that well too, but we tried to show the best of us.
One in particular did. He was our craftorc, Latuul Gorngoluurz. He knew that we would need trade to survive, and he built himself a nice workshop, near our camp, where he would work all the day, crafting dices, trinkets out of the few bones we had from the beast we hunted.
He wasn't liked by everyone, you see ? He didn't hunted, he didn't spent that much time in the meadhall.. Boyz just crafted trinkets out of bone all day long. Beautiful ones, actualy.. But he wasn't understood by everyone.
He hoped that the caravan would come, with all his heart, then he could sell all his crafts for the prosperity of the clan. Everyone knew that our camp was doing bad, but nobody actualy did something to help. Beside him.
But one day.. Oh, one day.. Those beasts attacked. Giant spiders, everywhere, who just webbed our warriors one by one... Except for him, who were outside the clan, crafting, as always, thinking about the future of the clan with a bright smile on his face...
Then he saw what was going on, and realized that.. He was the last of them. He took his bow - a bow made of bone, which he crafter himself -, his rusty saber, and charged, shouting for the glory of the clan he loved.
Drawfags, I humble request you to draw him so that he will be remembered, at least in my poor green heart..
He was a medium-sized, grey skinned orc, wearing a lamellar leather armor, his bone bow and saber, he also wore a mohawk, and a bright, bright smile...