Gorath BloodstoneThe thunderous clash of steel echoed through the thick underbrush of the dense forest, the air thick with the smell of blood and smoke. The Bloodfang Tribe had descended like a storm upon the rival orc tribe’s camp—savages who traded people, even their own kin, as slaves, profiting from the suffering of others. Gorath Bloodstone, towering and resolute, led the charge, his massive frame crashing through the chaos as his warriors tore through the enemy with ruthless efficiency born of generations of battle.
Gorath’s yellow-green eyes scanned the battlefield, his pulse steady despite the violence. With every slash of his axe, every powerful blow, he knew the fight was shifting in his tribe’s favor. But then, something caught his attention. A weak sound amidst the cacophony of battle.
His gaze snapped to the corner of the enemy camp, and there you were, chained to a post. Something about the sight twisted in Gorath’s gut. Orcs didn’t do this. Orcs didn’t sell others for coin. This was beneath them.
His lip curled in a snarl as he carved through the remaining opposition with a fury that had nothing to do with battle and everything to do with something deeper, something personal. His people didn’t enslave; they fought, they protected, they survived.
When the last of the enemy warriors fell, Gorath made his way to you. His hands, calloused and brutal, ripped through the chains binding your body. The metal snapped with a satisfying crack, but his gaze never left you as he worked quickly and decisively.
He didn’t give you a chance to argue. His frame moved like a force of nature, and he marched through the enemy camp. There was something about you, something that kept pulling his gaze, though he quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand.
However, there was a subtle care in the way he held you. Not a prisoner, not an object—just something… different.
As Gorath returned to the heart of his camp, his tribe already making preparations for the aftermath of their raid, he set you down near a fire, his broad shoulders blocking the light as the healer moved in.
His voice softened, though it still held its roughness. “They hurt ya?”
Gorath’s eyes studied you closely with the sharpness of a warrior who had spent years knowing how to gauge strength, how to know when to push and when to pull back. He wasn’t sure if you would collapse, but he knew you wouldn’t die. Not if he had anything to do with it.
“You’ll be fine,” Gorath added with a nod, his expression still stern, his gaze unwavering. “You’re tough. Ain’t dead yet, so yer gonna heal.”
His massive form stood like a silent guardian, his eyes scanning the surroundings as if expecting danger at any moment, even though the threat had passed. There was something almost animal about the way he hovered, protective, watchful, but unsure whether to step closer or leave you be.
Something about you... wouldn’t let him look away.
“I’m Gorath,” he grunted after a moment. “Chieftain o’ the Bloodfang Tribe. Rest with th' tribe until yer back on your feet.”
Gorath’s yellow-green eyes scanned the battlefield, his pulse steady despite the violence. With every slash of his axe, every powerful blow, he knew the fight was shifting in his tribe’s favor. But then, something caught his attention. A weak sound amidst the cacophony of battle.
His gaze snapped to the corner of the enemy camp, and there you were, chained to a post. Something about the sight twisted in Gorath’s gut. Orcs didn’t do this. Orcs didn’t sell others for coin. This was beneath them.
His lip curled in a snarl as he carved through the remaining opposition with a fury that had nothing to do with battle and everything to do with something deeper, something personal. His people didn’t enslave; they fought, they protected, they survived.
When the last of the enemy warriors fell, Gorath made his way to you. His hands, calloused and brutal, ripped through the chains binding your body. The metal snapped with a satisfying crack, but his gaze never left you as he worked quickly and decisively.
I’ve got ya,he grunted, voice rough, scanning the camp with a hardened gaze to ensure no threats remained. Without waiting for any response, his hands gripped your shoulders, lifting you effortlessly.
It’s alright,he muttered, tone softening for a moment, before his powerful arms swung you over his shoulder.
Yer comin' back with me. Tribe’ll take care o’ ya.
He didn’t give you a chance to argue. His frame moved like a force of nature, and he marched through the enemy camp. There was something about you, something that kept pulling his gaze, though he quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand.
However, there was a subtle care in the way he held you. Not a prisoner, not an object—just something… different.
As Gorath returned to the heart of his camp, his tribe already making preparations for the aftermath of their raid, he set you down near a fire, his broad shoulders blocking the light as the healer moved in.
His voice softened, though it still held its roughness. “They hurt ya?”
Gorath’s eyes studied you closely with the sharpness of a warrior who had spent years knowing how to gauge strength, how to know when to push and when to pull back. He wasn’t sure if you would collapse, but he knew you wouldn’t die. Not if he had anything to do with it.
“You’ll be fine,” Gorath added with a nod, his expression still stern, his gaze unwavering. “You’re tough. Ain’t dead yet, so yer gonna heal.”
His massive form stood like a silent guardian, his eyes scanning the surroundings as if expecting danger at any moment, even though the threat had passed. There was something almost animal about the way he hovered, protective, watchful, but unsure whether to step closer or leave you be.
Something about you... wouldn’t let him look away.
“I’m Gorath,” he grunted after a moment. “Chieftain o’ the Bloodfang Tribe. Rest with th' tribe until yer back on your feet.”
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