Orcs of the Red Blade

The grassy plains of Nagrand were as beautiful as ever in the sunset, the beasts of the hunt basking in the glorious heat. Alasak pulled himself up, his chin just barely reaching above the wooden bar.

Ninety nine...

He wheezed as he repeated the procedure, every muscle in his body straining and flexing. The veins on his now athletic body were popping out, clearly under heavy pressure. His chin was rising again, almost over the wooden bar. Suddenly, the bar cracked and creaked. It snapped in half, dropping Alasak to the ground as an Ogre would do with his pet rock. As he laid there wheezing, he thought. He had not gone back with the tribe. But why? Was he even still part of it? He was not sure anymore. He'd promised he would train, he'd promised he'd become useful. He did not stand up, but remained on the ground. He thought back at the Orcs, running a hand through his mohawk. He thought of Vraxxar, his tutor. How was he? Was he actually still his tutor?

He has to be. I never died or got exiled, so I should still be part of the tribe, right?

He thought back at the Orc with the hammer; Makaroth. He'd not forgotten the day Makaroth threatened him. He would return stronger, and he'd show Makaroth what he really went for. He stood up and took a deep breath of the evening air, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

Time to find these Orcs.