--Ravi plummeted to the ground resembling a rag doll, his blood spraying the Ork. One of the other peasants started shrieking. The rest of the Orks all grabbed weapons, both males and females. Ravi’s killer pointed at the avengers and snarked something foul. The rest of the Orks replied with a savage war cry and began sprinting madly at the now terrified group of peasants. The peasants were felled left and right, as Howell was doing his best to fend off 3 attackers at once. Styx managed to get a few arrows off and even kill one Ork before he himself was sliced open by a jagged blade some brute wielded with both of his gnarly hands. He did not believe in any of the gods, but he sure hoped in that final moment that he would meet his son now. Zarak, though… He skilfully dispatched the two Orks that went after him and was suddenly left alone, while the others were buried in greenskins. So the “legend” began attacking them from behind, slicing another one. And another one. Another one! Payment time.

--Howell fell. He couldn’t get a single one before their weapons impaled his armour, and blood seeped out, drizzling down them. It ran as clearly as red wine. With his final moments, he uttered voicelessly “My love, forgive me…” One of his three killers was slain by the peasants. The other Orks got wounded, but with a few swings of their heavy clubs, the peasant’s bones could be heard crackling as sugar canes, and they fell into the dirt. All of the remaining peasants were clumped together, hitting shoulders against shoulders, stepping on the bodies of the fallen, trying not to lose balance while dodging and blocking blows. Even a successful block resulted in the peasant’s farm tools getting smashed like toys, leaving them unarmed against the green giants. The pinkskins were losing hard, as the greenskins had all but annihilated them.

--Zarak was still standing though. He had just accidentally stepped on the face of the Ork that killed Ravi. The Ork was flat on his back with one of the dead peasants over his chest. The yokel’s battered and bleeding hand held a pitchfork that stuck out of the Ork’s chest. Zarak held on to it, to keep himself from slipping on all the blood and falling. He looked around, his other hand flailing his blade about him in a bit of a daze, in case anyone was there. He saw only two humans still perpendicular to the ground, other than himself. Some young man with a sharpened shovel was still swinging hard. Three Orks lay dead at his feet, with wounds that seemed to have been made by his tool, while four more surrounded him. They were circling him with grins on their faces and backing off when he attacked, as if playing with fire. The other living human was far from the fighting. He was running across the plateau in some random direction. Zarak pulled the pitchfork out of the dead Ork and angrily threw it at the mob toying with the shovel lad, trying to get their attention, or even kill one of them. Alas, Zarak’s weary and wounded arm had flung it into thin air, missing the Orks by a long shot. The shovel lad was now getting his guts spilled by the savage Orks, as they ravaged him with their weapons. Zarak felt desperation as he watched this man die. This man… He fought so heroically, and yet it was all over for him. And Zarak couldn’t stop it. Is this how it’ll be? Is this how it’ll end for him as well? He warned Ravi about this… He ran up to the Orks and slew another one in an instant. The others tried to take him out as they did the shovel lad, by going all in together, but Zarak’s masterful footwork got him through their attacks with just two shallow wounds. He was now behind them and dispatched another two in quick succession. Almost every blow he made in this battle was a flat out lethal one; he felt he was on a roll. The last one, upon seeing this, seemed to have frozen with fear in his eyes. Zarak wasn’t sure, and didn’t take the time to examine him. Instead, he used the Ork’s moment of indecision to slice his throat open from afar, with the tip of his trusty two hander.

--Zarak was alone now. Standing on top of the bodies of some fifteen orks and eight humans, bathed in blood. Well, not as alone as he might have originally thought… He wasn’t sure why, but about two hundred meters from him, a crowd of Orks had gathered. It seems they’d been there for a while; they weren’t huffing and puffing as if they’d just ran here. Instead, they sported curious looks, all pointed at Zarak. They seemed to be talking amongst themselves, and some were laughing. He must have been so absorbed in the battle that he’d completely failed to notice their approach. So much for his plan to storm the wagon that was apparently chock full of weapons and take it by surprise. One rotten egg was all it took to set things hurtling towards doom. And here he was, staring at a crowd of countless Orks, while the crowd stared right back at him. His wounds were cooling, and he could now feel multiple, aching cuts and bruises. He didn’t notice those either, until just now… So, where does he go from here?

--In their midst, Zarak spotted something. An Ork with tattooes on his face, shorter than the others, clad in heavy, onyx coloured armour covered in runes, and sporting an agitated look in his eye. On his belt was a red banner with Orkish markings, a gold halo on his shoulders, and he was resting his hands in front of himself on what was probably a two hander. He was surrounded by a retinue of Orks in heavy armour, carrying more red banners and huge weapons. And behind them was a crowd of Orks who had nothing but pikes with heads impaled upon them. The Orks on the sides seemed like beggars in comparison, with their stone weapons and animal skins. Yes, Zarak was sure about it… This must be Kord, king of all Orks. And it was hate at first sight.

Kord, in fluent Fanelian -- What’s this? My precious wagon abducted by a dog, and its escort killed? Well I can’t have any of that…. Right?

--Kord turned towards the crowd, spreading his hands and waving up, signalling for the crowd which apparently didn’t understand a word of what he said that it was time to respond. They happily obliged with cheers, screams and war shouts, while the older Orks around Kord seemed disapproving.

Kord, turning back and scratching his chin -- Well, how do I handle this then?

--Zarak was wondering the same thing. He spat out blood, but not his own. It was the blood of the last two Orks who stood in his way. He knew it was insane, but somehow, he felt that nothing is stopping him. There was to be no “good enough”. He’s getting that Ork’s head.

-You know dog – Kord continued -- you remind me of a ludicrous story I heard some two weeks ago. It was back when we had stomped out some puny village in the borderlands. A scout reported back to me that he’d seen a single pinkskin slay four of my Orks single-handedly. Four. Can you imagine that? Naturally, I slew him on the spot for lying to me. That’s his head over there.

--Kord pointed towards one of the heads on the pikes behind him. But what does Zarak care? This monologue was getting tiresome.

Pouting, Kord droned on -- Some of the Orks here seem to want to share his fate, telling me they just saw proof the scout was right… But it doesn’t count until I’ve seen it with my own two eyes! So, how about you repeat that little feat of yours? Just for me? Surely, you could do it again if it were true, couldn’t you, dog?

--His face skewed into a taunting, condescending, perverse smile; anticipating bloodshed. After the many years Kord has spilled blood with his hands, teeth, sword, feet, skull, fork, toothpick…. he grew tired of it. Thus, he was forced to come up with new, more creative ways of spicing things up. So perhaps, it might have seemed logical that he would simply dispose of Zarak quickly and move on with his busy day of doing nothing and remaining unchallenged by it. But knowing these subtle details, one might notice the tedium of such a path. This was all unknown to Zarak though, so he was at a loss as to why Kord seemed to be playing games with him. Kord was supposedly so powerful that he could smite anyone with little effort, and yet here he was, hiding behind a random mob of Orks. Zarak couldn’t understand why, but he didn’t really care. He was just glad the pointless talking was over, he thought, as he wiped the blood off of his sword, so it would cut Ork flesh more crisply.

--Some eight Orks approached him slowly. Isn’t that a bit more than what he faced back at the village? Kind of unfair. Zarak intended to kill them all, regardless. He held his sword up in front of his face and inhaled deeply. He focused. The Orks encircled him, but they seemed reluctant to attack. Zarak’s eyes were closed, but he knew exactly where they were. His eyes were closed so he wouldn’t get distracted by what he saw. He could hear them. As soon as one moved even a step closer, he’d know which way to turn, regardless of their body language. And there was no threat of a ranged attack, as they all carried melee weapons. Why were they not making a move though? Annoyed, Zarak opened his eyes to glance about himself. Were they scared? No, it was something else… The Orks were arguing amongst themselves, and they carried dismissive looks in their eyes. At this point, Zarak realized it wasn’t fear that held them back. It was shame. Their faces clearly showed it. They were ashamed of ganging up on Zarak, as though he actually stood a chance of killing them. They appeared to be goading each other as if saying “Come on, you go first. You’ve always been the biggest wimp in our possy.” Unforgivable. In the blink of an eye, Zarak lashed out. He made three long, fast steps towards the closest one, and he lunged with his entire body. His blade came bearing down in a vertical arc, as he spun about his axis in mid leap, cleaving the distracted Ork in twain.

--Some of the others laughed, while two appear to have been provoked by Zarak’s attack. They charged him. He intercepted them with a single swipe, so brutal that it shattered their weapons made of wood and stone, and sliced their flesh open. That was three. Now shocked and perhaps frightened, two of the remaining Orks froze up. The other three cried out as they charged Zarak once more.

--Good. It was about time he had their full attention. Zarak wasn’t kidding around. Four! Five! Six! Zarak’s blade could be heard singing as it spun through the air, the wind brushing up against it. The Orks dropped around him like flies. He was no longer human. He was a weapon, with only one purpose. And two more Orks stood between him and that purpose. The Orks, now panicking, tried running away. Zarak caught up with them effortlessly, and he cut them down from behind. This wasn’t about honour. And Zarak was no knight. Kord seemed to be pleased with the outcome of this fight, as he smiled with bloodlust. Zarak was now making quick work of the distance that separated them, when Kord excitedly shouted out:

-Kha’Zan, my brother! Dispatch this mangy cur.

--Zarak did not understand these words, as this time, Kord grunted, growled and squealed in Orkish. Another Ork stepped out of the crowd, different from the eight that Zarak just felled. This one was clad in heavy armour, much like Kord, albeit a deep azure and much less impressive. His face was scarred, and he seemed older than Kord. His skin was pale and he had jet black, braided hair. The Ork, Kha’Zan, slowly drew his blade. It was a two hander, just like Zarak’s. He took an offensive stance as Zarak came within two steps of him. But it was too late, as Zarak’s blade unerringly swung into his neck!

--Zarak was flung back, landing upon his arse. In his hands, where there once was a sword, he now held merely a hilt with a broken blade barely jutting out. On the ground before him, he could see the blade of his sword, sticking out of the sand. Also, beneath him, Zarak saw Kha’Zan’s shadow as the Ork raised his blade to cut him down. Zarak rolled to the side dodging the blow. This one was on a whole new level… Zarak's attack did not connect at all, not even a scratch on Kha'Zan's throat. But, “the ones left standing are seldom the best” he told Myzrael. Time to stand behind those words.

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