To some, Bolecawn was a horrendously hot and dry place, the activity of volcanoes having scorched and destroyed much of the natural foliage that grew there. To others, particularly those that not only endured but flourished in the heat, the island was a blissful place to exist. 

Lava ran over the edges of the mouth of the volcano that Sariloth used as her nest while magma pushed up from beneath the surface, running along underground chambers and, finding cracks in the rock, lazily melted its way through. 

and evaporated, burned from existence by the heat that surrounded her. Talons rustled and wings stretched, returning to rest against her back as she moved, never waking. She dreamt of flying, soaring above the clouds and feeling the wind whistle past her head; the brilliance of the night’s stars stretching above her head and all around her, she flew until her wings ached, still flying more. 

It was nothing for Sariloth to sleep for days at a clip, her breathing slowing until her chest seemed to not rise at all. 

Above her, the morning sun tried to breathe life into her slumber, but fell short, as its nurturing rays did on most of the island. The dragon found comfort in its rest, and continued to do so. 
---

Vish’Kar, the Black Mountain Keep, was a terrifying place to all that were not borne from its innards. The orcs kept no prisoners and, instead, drove their heads into place atop the wooden fence, which was laden with iron cross braces that bundled long stretches of it together, fortifying it against attack. This wasn’t simply to ward off unwanted company: as the heads rotted, their disease spread and infected each of the skin piercing spikes, causing rot to infest an intruder whose steps were not carefully chosen. 

The keep’s outer wall, which spanned three sides of the fort, separated the orcs from the outside world. Inside of its embrace, families dwelled in huts and stone homes. Smoke rose from chimneys and shingled roofs. Fires raged and the smell of searing meat mingled with that of molten metal. A stronger wall, twelve feet in height, protected the fourth side of the encampment, a steep cliff that disappeared into the smog and clouds above. 

Travelling inside, one found two paths to take, both seemingly the same. If one was taken, it led down into the mines; the other led up to the spire of the keep, where the barrack s and armories lay, along with the stronghold’s main feasting hall. Connected to the left of the hall was the throne room. To the right lived the war room. Vrikdarok was in the latter. 

His hands, hidden behind spiked gauntlets, traced trade routes through Enduwin, highlighting the ones that the troops had recently hit, ones that were fortified, and others that had been left to ripen through assumed safety. His hand stopped, resting on one that drew his attention. He tapped it and one of the commanders nodded, needing no verbal explanation of his duties. The orc, smaller and less formidable looking, though terrifying to most humans, snapped to attention and his armored hand came across his chest, pounding it twice before trotting out to gather provisions and soldiers. 

Some may have referred to taking trade routes as cowardice or unbecoming of an armed force, but Vrikdarok knew better. To survive, one must eat. To eat, one must hunt. And what better way to keep the forges burning, the women producing offspring, and the men content, than to pluck it from the hands of the undeserving? 

The orc’s hand reached to the left of the maps he had been looking at, grabbing a leg of what could be assumed to be some sort of animal and thrust it to his mouth, tearing through the flesh and muscle with powerful tusks and razor sharp teeth, chewing it with a slightly open maw and swallowing the rest whole. He followed it with a drink from a tankard, and set both back to the table. He strode across the long, undecorated room and through the feast hall, whose great table lay barren of all but candelabras metal plates, empty before next meal time. He moved through a gap in the table, his pony tail swaying in rhythm with the sway of the wolf pelt cape, which mimicked the footsteps of the large statured orc. 

He did not take movement to sit on the steel and iron adorned throne, but to move to the right of the room, careful to check his surroundings before moving anymore. With the palm of his clawed hand, he thrust one of the bricks into a hollow recess behind the wall, which triggered a switch and caused the wall to hang loose, easily opened. The orc lord slipped through, closing it behind him.

An altar stood, stoic and well preserved, in the center of the room hidden beside the throne room: A perfect sculpture of Dúv, or what the ancients had carved the god to look like. Vrikdarok came to stand before it, bowing his head and taking a knee, his chest breathing heavily, as if each breath was labored and hard to find in the presence of this relic. He did not speak, but obviously he was praying; perhaps for those that he sent to meet harm, but more likely for a swift return of bountiful goods so that the existence of his people could continue for generations to come. The orc stayed like this for a great while, his head hung low and his left hand pressed hard into the ground, the right resting on a bent knee, the spikes of the gauntlets drawing lines across his rough skin: spots where they dug in and crimson life force ran free in rivulets that became drops that splattered the floor of the prayer chamber. 

When vermillion pools greeted the darkness of the room again, Vrikdarok rose immediately and paced the length of the room, leaving through yet another passage, never looking back to the way he had come.

---

Rupert grazed on the luscious grass that covered much of the Plains of Origin, his hooves softly ‘[i]clomping[/i]’ against the soil of Enduwin’s alpha land. As dusk was falling, Oscar was nearby stirring a fire from what kindling and dried brush he could find. It was only moments before the imposing dark burst into sparks and oranges and reds and yellows as flames spat back at the man’s equally bright hair. “Aha!” the man exclaimed and clapped the air, and broke into a small dance. “I told you Rupert. I bloody told you!” The horse snorted. 

Pointing an accusing finger that jutted out in Rupert’s direction, the leather bound swordsman jabbed at the horse’s direction once, then twice before huffing and waving the equestrian creature away with a portrayal of disgust. “Like you know what it’s like to have to create fire in these damned plains.” Oscar kicked the ground but immediately regretted it. 

The voice boomed, hard and angry, from absolutely nowhere. [i]You dare to damn the lands that the gods have given to you, mortal?[/i] Oscar, unlike the storyteller, stumbled and fell away from… well, nothing. If you believe Rupert’s account of the story, he pissed and shat himself, though Oscar denies it firmly. 

Rupert was not so much taken aback by the voice as he was by the calming that it produced inside of him. As a being born close to the gods, one not separated by knowledge or belief in self, he knew to whom he listened. Tintrayach’s voice was soft and merely a spoken word to the horse. “W-w-what th-…” Oscar began, but was abruptly silenced by the god’s voice. 

“I have others to visit and I do not have time for your rambling. If you weren’t birthed on my isle, another would be here to greet you. So silence yourself and listen to my words.” Oscar nodded, the wafting scent of feces and urine surrounding him. “Good. Since you are already here, you do not need to travel far. He will find you as I have found you, but you are looking for your guide. You are needed. For what, I can only tell you this: a dangerous task that falls on the shoulders of you and several others like you. When you see this guide, you will know. Now go with haste. Forget your pitiful fire-…” Rupert neighed with a sound that almost sounded like laughter, “and go. Clean your drawers first, though. You stink.” A firm gust of wind blew across the plain and killed Oscar’s fire with its breath and then there was absolute silence for a moment. Rupert’s feet kicked at the ground, rutting it up impatiently. 

The man hurried to his feet, brushing his backside off. He cleaned himself the best he could and washed away most of the stink with several canteens he kept after almost dying of dehydration in the desert of Trayig’s Soul. When he was suitable to ride on Rupert’s back, the horse tilted his head forward and let the red haired warrior into the saddle that was strapped to his back. “Where to buddy?” 

Rupert neighed again and charged off into the darkness that encompassed them, his hooves slamming against the ground and guiding them on a path that only he knew. Oscar trusted in his steed, and let the animal guide him. Unbeknownst to the man, Rupert followed a path marked in his brain by the god Tintrayach.