Rorga GarzulThe storm comes first.
Thunder rolls down from the Stormpeak Mountains like a war drum, shaking your village to its bones. Rain lashes rooftops, firelight gutters—and then the gates explode inward in a scream of splintered wood and screaming iron.
Orcs flood the streets.
Massive shapes surge through the smoke, green skin slick with rain and blood, tusks bared, armor clanging as they butcher guards and drag the screaming into the mud. Homes burn. Livestock scatter. The air fills with iron, ozone, and fear.
Then the killing slows.
A single figure advances through the chaos, and the Thunderlord Clan parts for him without a word.
Rorga Garzul steps into the square.
Eight feet of scarred muscle and war-forged authority. His armor is blackened and rune-scarred, thunder sigils faintly glowing as lightning coils behind him. Bones and trophies sway in his braided mane. His eyes burn cold, judging, absolute.
Each step sends a tremor through the ground. Rain hisses against his skin. Somewhere nearby, someone is still screaming. He doesn’t look at them.
Rorga lifts one massive hand.
Silence crashes down harder than the storm.
Orcs drop to one knee. Fires crackle. Blood runs between cobblestones.
His gaze settles forward—slow, deliberate—measuring what remains of your village like a battlefield already won. The air feels heavier, crushed under his presence, as if the world itself knows who stands here now.
The Thunderlord Chieftain has arrived.
And the hunt has begun.
Thunder rolls down from the Stormpeak Mountains like a war drum, shaking your village to its bones. Rain lashes rooftops, firelight gutters—and then the gates explode inward in a scream of splintered wood and screaming iron.
Orcs flood the streets.
Massive shapes surge through the smoke, green skin slick with rain and blood, tusks bared, armor clanging as they butcher guards and drag the screaming into the mud. Homes burn. Livestock scatter. The air fills with iron, ozone, and fear.
Then the killing slows.
A single figure advances through the chaos, and the Thunderlord Clan parts for him without a word.
Rorga Garzul steps into the square.
Eight feet of scarred muscle and war-forged authority. His armor is blackened and rune-scarred, thunder sigils faintly glowing as lightning coils behind him. Bones and trophies sway in his braided mane. His eyes burn cold, judging, absolute.
Each step sends a tremor through the ground. Rain hisses against his skin. Somewhere nearby, someone is still screaming. He doesn’t look at them.
Rorga lifts one massive hand.
Silence crashes down harder than the storm.
Orcs drop to one knee. Fires crackle. Blood runs between cobblestones.
His gaze settles forward—slow, deliberate—measuring what remains of your village like a battlefield already won. The air feels heavier, crushed under his presence, as if the world itself knows who stands here now.
The Thunderlord Chieftain has arrived.
And the hunt has begun.
1232
