Two months ago in a valley east of Chilton:

April 24, 5319 A.A.

Deep in the range of hills jutting out into the vale, there was a beautiful valley. This valley had once been a green and lush grassland. One among a thousand just like it. The hillsides around it were covered with noble pines, a vibrant green backdrop to the great peaceful meadow of the valley. A calm, river flowed through the valley, its pure waters flowed down from the mountains, a mix of spring water and snow melt. The air was fresh, and the valley was alive with the sounds of nature. Birds tweeted and chirped, bees buzzed, and wolves howled. Wild animals and beasts of all kind called the valley home. Deer, goats, wolves, bears, rabbits, and kobolds all shared this beautiful landscape. It was a picturesque valley, something everyone born after 2060 could only imagine. And now, it was all gone. Orcs had come to the valley.

The grass was trampled, the wildlife slaughtered, the trees felled, the air full of smoke and stench, and the waterways polluted and choked with ash. The orc horde ate everything they could find. There was nothing living left in the valley that wasn't an orc. They piled their fires high to char their food, they had no concept of moderation. Countless forests and ecosystems had fallen by their hands. An orc never wandered more than 10 feet from wherever they were standing to relieve themselves. There were no pit latrines, no order, they just went wherever they were. The entire valley was choked full of bodies. Most orcs slept on the ground, a pile of furs their bed and blanket. A few made crude shelters from the trees nearby, but only the smartest tried, and only the strongest could scare off their neighbors from tearing it apart for firewood. The ground in the valley was completely covered in furs, refuse, and excrement. To walk from one side to the other, your foot would land in something each and every step. The horde had only arrived two weeks ago, this valley was pristine by their standards.

In the midst of this filth and chaos, was the most beautiful tent in the world. It was a crude and misshapen excuse for a yurt. It leaned heavily to one side, and on the other the tent wall didn't quite reach the ground, but the magnificent material wouldn't allow your eyes to notice. It glimmered like emeralds in the ash filtered sunlight, as if someone had wound threads from the very essence of the green jewel. The tent walls would seem fragile, yet they were made from the strongest leather in the world. It was the hide of an emerald dragon. The most coveted leather in the world, the finest material for armor, and this orc had made it into a tent. Of course, he had a good reason. He had already taken black dragon leather armor from the corpse of a rival chief, what else could he do with all that leather. It was lightweight, and sturdy and the dragon bones made good lightweight poles. Any other race would have sold the leather, or had it made into armor for their subordinates, but not an orc. Orcs do not share.

The owner of the extravagant yurt was Gruthuk Dragoncrusher, warlord of a mighty orc horde. He was a giant, even for an orc. When he stood he towered at a full nine feet in height, and his colossal form was the essence of power and gluttony. His brutally scarred and burned flesh hung loosely over obscenely bulging muscles. Two hundred years of constant warfare had honed his body into the ultimate weapon, but that only enabled his gluttonous nature. No beast could outrun him, and no orc would dare refuse his demands for tribute. As he grew in strength and girth, the shackles on his mind were slowly released. An orc was born stupid, but the longer they lived and he stronger they grew, the smarted they would become. His strength was only matched by his cunning and cruelty. He sat upon a rough throne hewn from the trunk of a bloodgrove keeper. Even decades after he felled the guardian of the sacred grove, the rich dark wood wept a red bloody sap which slowly pooled around his feet. His throne sat on a raised platform in front of his tent overlooking a large clearing in the center of the nomadic horde. It was the only clear space in the valley, kept that way only though his threats and brutality.

The clearing was surrounded by countless orcs, all shouting and jeering at the lone naked orc standing before their warlord. All noise ceased the moment the warlord raised his meaty fist. Then the great orc released a fierce guttural roar, his jowls shaking with fury. "Burbuk! Where are my sons?" Burbuk could only cower and whimper. This proud orc, who had traded blows with the mightiest human in the vale, was now reduced to the semblance of a cowering child. "Speak!" Gruthuk roared, impossibly louder and more menacing than before.

"Dead boss." The terrified orc spluttered. "They dead."

"How dare you!" The warlord continued his tirade as Burbuk shuddered with every syllable. "You had no Obols when you left! You must have killed another orc to gain it. My sons are dead, and you are reborn!"

"No boss! No!" Burbuk sobbed. "They was humans!"

"Don't you dare deceive me! There are no humans in the vale!"

"No boss! No lie! The river! They a clan at the great river!"

"You dare continue to lie to me, you decrepit swine? You were to hunt in the mountains. You expect me to believe a few adventurous humans were enough to bring down you and a war party of my sons?"

"No boss! We caught some. Chased them. They had a trap! They was lead by a giant! They had walls and horses!"

"Led by a giant? They had walls?" The warlord mumbled, as if to himself. He was furious at Burbuk. Burbuk was a weak orc. He might be strong, but his mind was weak. No cunning, and far too servile. But he couldn't allow a human settlement in his territory. "Burbuk." Gruthuk spoke, his voice quiet, but no less menacing.

"Yes boss?" Burbuk blurted, shocked but hopeful at the change.

"Could you lead a warband to this settlement?"

"Yes boss!"

"Good. Torgar!" Another mighty orc stepped forwards, armored in sturdy but misfit and worn plate, he strode forwards to the center, and stood in front of the pathetic mess that was Burbuk. "Take a warband of unblooded. Give half to that meat sack behind you. Test them against the wilds. When they prove ready, destroy this village. Leave nothing behind."

"Yes, warlord!" Torgar shouted as he stood at attention. Burbuk's first born son was a fine orc, if a bit thin. His stomach barely sagged at all. Torgar turned, off to gather the young unproven orcs.

"Torgar!" The great orc atop the bleeding throne shouted once more. "If the meat sack fails again, or tries to flee, tear him apart." Torgar turned to the limp mass of flesh on the ground that was Burbuk. And as their eyes met, he smiled, all of his jagged teeth displayed. Burbuk could only muster a a fearful whimper, before he lowered his head.

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An excerpt from Hormund's Bestiary, Book two: The gray warriors

A proud warrior, the Orc is characterized by its brutish strength, ferocity in battle, passions for violence, and stubborn determination. If not for their crippling stupidity and limitless greed, the orc would dominate the world of Valheim. From sparse tundra to lush jungles overflowing with life, the Orc thrives in the wilds of the world. While purely carnivorous and possessing a monstrous appetite, a strong orc is never hungry. They kill anything they find, and anything that can bleed can and will be eaten. Their nomadic tribes constantly thrust themselves into the heat of battle, roaming the world, chasing herds of monsters fierce enough to terrify any sane man, ever seeking more powerful foes to prove their strength. Every day, countless orcs fall in battle against the monsters of the wilds, in skirmishes and wars, but just as many are murdered by their jealous brothers, or slain in conflicts of honor or rage.

The horrific mortality rate of these exotic people is supported only by their even more prolific birth rates. The fertility of the Orc female is impossibly efficient. As long as there is food, she may bear children and the more a female eats, the faster the unborn children grow, and the larger her litter becomes. The vast majority of infant orcs are male, however by adulthood the females will outnumber the surviving males. This characteristic has defined the orc culture, as there must be constant warfare. Whether it be against monsters or armies, or amongst themselves for the affections of the limited number of women, the male orcs must always grow and fight. Rather than curtailing the orc population, this is their greatest strength. An orc's only desire is glory in battle, and to grow in strength, there can be nothing else. While tens of thousands of his brothers may die, each orc who survives grows only stronger.

Most races have the freedom to pursue any profession that strikes their fancy, and the system rewards the toils of the hard working and dedicated with Obols. Though each race has specialties, and penalties, even a goblin farmer could receive one, assuming he lived long enough and had some meager skill at tending his crops. The orcs ore one of very few exceptions to this. An orc may be granted an obol only for killing 10 sentient beings, and devouring their hearts. While barbaric, it suits them. There is one final limitation placed upon them, and that is that they may not give or receive these precious tokens, not that an orc would ever give one away. These limitations only serve to further drive the selfish and brutal nature of the orc.

The flesh of the common orc is an ashen gray, however color variations dependent on their environment are common. A strongly prominent brow and an oversized lower jaw unevenly populated with jagged teeth leaves the the orc with one of the ugliest faces seen in Valheim. Over time, the tribes have embraced the grotesque as beauty, orcs are known to intentionally allow their faces to be mauled while fighting, as scars are both honored and attractive. Chronic laziness and gluttony often leaves unnatural bulges of extra flesh, swollen stomachs and meaty limbs. Any that mistake their slovenly appearance as weakness would be sorely mistaken. A thirst for blood and constant battles leave no room for weakness amongst the tribes. An orc can only grow fat if he is strong enough to catch his prey quickly, or take it from another.

Orcs are amongst the oldest races of Valheim, they were the second sentient race after humans, and Aesir's first attempt at corrupting the human soul to mold it to their purposes. The first true orcs were felons sentenced to die. When approached by the Valkyries, thousands of inmates accepted without a second thought. The same cruelty which had landed them in prison was not only allowed in this new world, but as Orcs it was encouraged. They were soon followed by men facing a life sentence. Some who longed to return to their cruel ways, and many others who simply wished to see the sun again and be free to walk the earth. All were thrust into the cruel crucible of battle in the wilds of the world, until those who remained were more beast than man.

Then the creators cursed this tribe with the simplest minds. Each generation after the founding had their intellectual capacity decreased until they reached the most basic level of sentience. A wise orc is identified by one without a mess of scars on his palm, for he always picks up his axe by the handle. The only way for an orc to surpass this crippling stupidity, is to grow stronger. As an orc grows in strength, the limits on its intelligence are slowly broken, but only the most venerable orc is incapable of using magic. This does nothing to deter orc shamans who swear by their rituals and the truth of their power, but even without true power, shamans are revered and respected by the highly superstitious people, often with entire tribes bowing to the whims of a simple deranged or manipulative orc.

The orc is a truly magnificent creature despite it's flaws. Should the hordes ever unite, all civilization would be doomed.

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Author's note:

To my readers, I am truly sorry for the delay. Life has not been kind, but this story is not a fickle fancy. It will not be dropped.