[TT]He started as the lowliest of warriors. Describe the rise of Urikh'Gah, the bloodiest orc khan in history.

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In the looming shadow of the distant Blackened Spire that watched over the Westernlands, the Orcish horde of the dreaded wastes headed South as they traveled atop black sands and rocky hills, their route barren of even the faintest signs of life.

Beneath countless feet, dirt and sand lifted in clouds and scatterings, the likes of which rose as if steam from the boiling river of bodies which passed under. Teeth and weapons, armor and skin that held thick as any leather hide, the Orcs made way across the terrain in a flood of blood-lust. Their orders had finally arrived, and they ran with the high of approaching combat; bellows of those who passed under their pleasant and dusty shade filled with excitement.

Brought on the dying words of wounded scouts, long since abandoned to their fates in the miles passed: Tonight, the Northern horde would feast on the bones of men.

"HUUUURRRRRRAAAAAAAH!" Urikh'Gah let out his greatest roar. A long a primal shout, forming together on the cresting rise and crude magics of strength possessed by the tide of flesh that made up his following stampede. "ONWARD!"

As the Northern Khan and Chief of the many tribes, it was his honor alone to lead the charge of war. Already he could feel the rush, cresting over the coming hill with a thrill that rose up in his lungs and chest. Battle approached, the smell of human fear and sweat lingering in the traces of wind at their snouts. To take first blood in the coming combat would be Urikh'Gah's privilege, and the longing to crush a foe's skull beneath his mace of thick iron and rust had long since turned to lust: A hunger that ate at his mind as surely as the burn of liquor in his belly.

How long he had been waiting for this glorious day, Urikh'Gah knew not for years and seasons were not measured by Orcs in the Western Lands. In a place where the seasons hardly reached, and the landscape never changed, instead those roving bands and tribes tracked the passage of time by battles and conquests. Of wars and skirmishes, and tales of glory on the field of combat. Be those among the hordes, the tribes, the villages or the radis beyond the great white walls of the human lands, Urikh'Gah knew only that this was a day in which Orcish clans might speak of for generations to come.

War was almost upon them. Not just a simple skirmish, or a rivalry of smaller clans: But a great battle that surpassed all but the greatest legends. A Great army of men awaited them, ripe for the harvesting beneath tooth, mace, and claw.

During the last of the great battles, Urikh'Gah had been too young and immature to truly reap the benefits of glorious carnage, but the days of picking through the scraps of other's glory had finally come to an end. He had been chosen by the Dark Lord himself, he had defeated all challengers who envied his title, and he was now Khan. Behind him was the proof: An endless wave of warriors from the midland tribes, to the northern tundras, and they had all come for the same thing.

Glory.

Flooding over the pass and stone, Urikh'Gah threw himself atop the cliff and boulders that blocked his path. His legs threw body and weight skyward unconstrained, following steps sending him rushing over distances and elevation with his mace held high. As the horde followed, he knew such obstacles could not stop them now: Not with the magics of blood and violence seeping into their minds and bodies like rain to the deserts. He alone possessed so much energy, it seemed to pour down upon the earth in the form of heat, screams, and outbursts of rage. To the Khan they were a beautiful melody. A creation of beauty like the stars and ground before them: The ballad of coming conquest.

Then his ascent was complete. Feet passing to a final leap, he hung in the air atop the last stone boulder that had blocked his way, cresting at the peak of the blackened hill of stone and sand. As the weight of descent pulled him downward, fierce eyes overlooked the great plains far below, and the Great Urikh'Gah, Khan of the Northern Horde let his gaze fall upon the long-awaited sight of his enemies.

He knew the blood would soon flow, and his chest filled with anticipation; a heady and elated excitement that was as intoxicating as it was addictive.

"FORWARD!" His shout was more guttural howl than understandable word as he began the downhill rush, but the thunderous echo that trailed covered it with bellows of their own. A tsunami of bodies and screams carried down, following his every step as dozens, then hundreds, then thousands poured over-top the craggy peaks and boulders above and behind Urikh'Gah's sprint. He could see them now, so clearly even from the great but closing distance. The faces of men, of fear, of panic- the scents on the wind of fear and terror mixing together with steel and iron, horses, blood and piss.

There were many of them, tens of thousands at least, perhaps more- and in their center even a blind Orc might spot the mighty Dragon that held within their ranks, but to the far south Urikh'Gah could see that the Horde of his kin had already engaged. Slivers of dark shadow flocked the air: The sight of arrows skyward and away, carried on winds with shouts and screams of damned and dying. The clamor of armor and weapons was drawing the army's ranks and attention, and Urikh'Gah knew there could be no better time.

Unprepared, the enemy army closest to the oncoming horde stood all but unaware, completely unprepared with their guards and formations in disarray. His path forward was clear, the time was ripe.

Their victory approaching with every rushing step forward, Urikh'Gah leading with his mace raised high, screaming for victory as the tiny figures of armored men cowered before him. Shields raised, flags waved, and men on horseback hollered orders as they ran along the lines: but it was already too late.

Fifty paces away, Urikh'Gah could see the widening whites of their eyes fitting in beneath misfitted helms, the loose bucklers and shaking spears. At twenty paces he could taste their horror, feel their inexperience and weakness like radiating heat. At five paces he felt the trembling of earth beneath his feet, and at one he felt his mace savor the long awaited taste of the horde's first blood, and Urikh'Gah of the Northern tribes knew beyond any doubt:

Tonight, they would feast.