For the most part, being lord of the keep was uneventful. It wasn’t often that Vrikdarok was able to leave and go on his own adventures. The orc was too valuable and indispensable to Vish’Kar’s daily operation. He oversaw every department. Decisions about sanitary concerns and steadily increasing population and need for expansion of the mountain keep were required of him at every corner he rounded in the halls of the keep. It was exhausting and made the orc almost wish he had never slain his father to gain the position. These were the musings that currently ran through the enormous warrior’s head as he sat on his throne, one armored hand curled into a fist, on which his jaw rested lazily. He yawned. More of a grunt and growl, the air forced its way free of his throat and echoed throughout the large throne room. 

The band of orcs had returned, half of what he had sent with a quarter of the suspected spoils. The roads were being guarded better and misinformation was being spread like wild fire. The damned Necromancer, as the orcs referred to it as, was causing Vrikdarok trouble. The raids from the under keep grew steadily in number and ferocity, causing the orc lord to waste more and more soldiers to defeat the humans and take their provisions. Suddenly enraged at the thought of orc lives being wasted at the hands of insignificant roaches like the humans, Vrikdarok stood and trampled the ground beneath his heavily armored feet, lashing out with his right hand at one of the iron ornamental torch holders that garnished the edge of the worn carpet leading to the throne. He snatched it into his hand, candles and all, and flung it at the wall in front of him. It clattered off , bent slightly. He wasn’t done. Chasing the candle holder down, he took it back to his form and beat it off the wall until it was nothing more than a folded mass of iron. He kicked the wall, roaring in his rage. Turning, he whipped the folded wreckage of iron and wax at the opposite wall. It clanked to the floor. Crossing across the carpet to the wall he knew well, the orc punched it and kicked the opening door, causing it fling open in front of him. He glared at the statue of Dúv, the crimson pools of sight dancing with the flames of fury that burnt within him. His digits of his right hand stung, bleeding into the spiked gauntlet from where he had punched the grey stone. “ANSWERS!” the orc roared at the statue, approaching it. “I want them!” His anger did not wane, “and you will give them to me! My forces do as you suggest we should and STILL, my kind are the ones dying!” 

Black wisps of smoke emerged from the altar, swimming around it before solidifying into a hazy form, one that supposedly represented a servant of Dúv. It spoke, the words whispered hisses of air, “And do they not find comfort in death? Is death in battle not what your kind desires?” 

Vrikdarok’s nostrils flared and his arm lifted above his head, dragging the six foot axe over his head. In a fluid motion, using the momentum gained from the downward swipe, the blade passed through the shade and into the ground, chipping the rock and burying a quarter of its edge into the rock. The intangible form regained its form unharmed. The lord huffed and screamed at it, “You know nothing of my people. You know nothing! To die by these insects is an insult to the idea of battle! You whisper things into my head and have never shown yourself! You’re a fucking coward!” The orc roared, spit flinging from his mouth, lips drawn back and pointed teeth and tusks shimmering with mucus as he growled the words. 

Calm still, the shade replied, “I have survived longer than anything you have ever known, orc. Go to the under keep. You know the way. Go alone, though. Speak to this Necromancer… Have your concerns heard.” The orc’s eyes narrowed and his sneer softened. 

“If I do not have answers when I return, tell your master that I will march to Ifreann and claim his head and intestines as my own. And I will make a coin purse from his meager nut sac!” Vrikdarok did not wait for a response. He turned on his heel, ripping the axe from the stone and strode from the room, placing two fingers between his mouth and whistling as he did so. His other hand grabbed the passage’s door and flung it closed behind him. The smashed back into place and the collision echoed through the hall. He continued walking toward the entrance of the throne room, replacing the axe to his back. His footsteps were joined by another’s whose pattered instead of clanged against the floor. The scraping of claws tore through the relative silence that overcame the inner sanctum of the keep. Without looking, Vrikdarok took a hold of the mane of the great mountain wolf and swung over its back and dug his heels into its flanks. “To the mines!” 

The beast took off and the lord ducked his head, the long cape trailing out behind him just as his tail of hair did. They descended down the winding corridor and further down still, pushing several guards out of the way as they went. They were going to the deepest of the chambers recently opened in the mountain. Vrikdarok readied his mammoth axe yet again. 

At precisely the right moment he struck out, shattering the boards that stretched across the mouth of the chamber, breaking it open in a single swing that crossed in front of the wolf’s path. He did not sheath it again. The two charged into the darkness, fearless though both could feel the coldness of what they would soon face. 

Time lost its meaning in the darkness that engulfed them. They exploded through the mouth of the cavern, looking over the Necromancer’s keep from above it. A winding path that was carved naturally into the face of the cliff, led down to the eastern side of the fortress. Knowing nothing of caution at this point, the orc charged forward, altering his course so that he could approach directly, heading for bridge, across which a gate lay. Vish’Kar, Vrikdarok soon realized, was nothing compared to the size of The Fang. 

While the wolf started to slow as grew near to the heavy, massive doors that barred entrance to The Fang, Vrikdarok sped up. He leapt from the back of the beast and raised his foot as he did, slamming it into center of the doors. They did not budge but the impact rang through the cavern and the main hall of the Necromancer’s lair. From the other side, the intensity of the orc’s anger did not decrease, “Open these doors before I cut them down!” Knowing that it was a futile effort, the orc still swung the axe, which was showing signs of wear from striking so many objects of equal or greater strength than it, at the doors. The clanging rang out, showing that he meant what he had said. He kicked it again, not knowing that he was literally knocking on the door of the most evil creature that had been born under the signs of the Nine. 

---

The dragon had felt something. It was a fierce churning in her stomach that Sariloth originally attributed to the number of sheep she’d eaten. However, that meal had been passed from her rear several hours before and still the uneasiness persisted. As she flew, seemingly without direction, the upset inside of her grew. It was a sense that had never presented itself to the dragon before. The closest resemblance of similarity was when a mage had tried to capture her, several hundred years before. Magic! The thought crossed her mind, which, as feral as it was, reeled with attempts to find the intent behind this feeling. 

That had to be it. There was no better explanation. The great beast almost altered her course, but continued inland. The peaks of the Olc Cairn rose before her on the horizon and her wings shifted her slightly. She was teetering, drawn in both directions at once. The further she went toward the Plains of Origin, the stronger the feeling her stomach grew. However, a separate beckoning of power begged for her to redirect herself toward the mountain chain. No, she ordered herself. First this, then that. 

The dragon flew just above the cloud cover, avoiding detection.