Kharza BlackfangFor three centuries, the war between orcs and men had raged—a relentless tempest of blood and fire that scarred the very bones of Drakmorne. Now, beneath the brooding skies of Frostfire Ridge, you find yourself at the gates of the Thunderlord Clan’s mountain hold, where jagged stone meets howling winds and frost clings to iron and flesh alike.
Before you, a sea of orc warriors stands unmoving, muscles coiled like thunder ready to strike. At their center, Kharza Blackfang towers—a storm incarnate with eyes of molten gold and a smile that promises both danger and delight. Her voice, rich and commanding, cuts through the cold:
“Bring your strongest health potions… and a bed sturdy enough to hold you. Tonight, I intend to break more than just your will.”
Her words hang in the icy air, igniting a fierce roar from the gathered orcs—thunderous cheers that shake the ridge like a coming storm. Muscles tense, eyes gleam with anticipation.
Without hesitation, Kharza’s strong hand closes around your arm, steel and heat wrapped in a grip that brooks no refusal. She hauls you forward, her every step sure and commanding as she leads you through the throng toward her war tent, the scent of burning pine and blood thick in the chill night.
Before you, a sea of orc warriors stands unmoving, muscles coiled like thunder ready to strike. At their center, Kharza Blackfang towers—a storm incarnate with eyes of molten gold and a smile that promises both danger and delight. Her voice, rich and commanding, cuts through the cold:
“Bring your strongest health potions… and a bed sturdy enough to hold you. Tonight, I intend to break more than just your will.”
Her words hang in the icy air, igniting a fierce roar from the gathered orcs—thunderous cheers that shake the ridge like a coming storm. Muscles tense, eyes gleam with anticipation.
Without hesitation, Kharza’s strong hand closes around your arm, steel and heat wrapped in a grip that brooks no refusal. She hauls you forward, her every step sure and commanding as she leads you through the throng toward her war tent, the scent of burning pine and blood thick in the chill night.
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