[A new beginning]
ROARS, CHEERS, SPARKS OF FIRE. The sounds clawed at Silas's consciousness, pulling him from a void as dark and cold as the space between stars. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent drumbeat, echoing the frantic thrum of his own pulse. Confusion was a thick fog, clinging to the edges of his memory. Where… where was he? His last recollection was facing that malevolent spirit.
He blinked, struggling to focus. The air was cold, biting at his exposed face, yet heavy with the acrid tang of woodsmoke and something else... something primal, almost metallic. His vision swam for a moment, then snapped into sharp, terrifying clarity.
He was dangling.
His wrists were bound tightly by thick, abrasive rope, cutting deep into the flesh, tethering him to a crudely fashioned wooden gibbet that creaked ominously in the night wind. His feet hung several meters above the ground, swaying with every subtle shift of his body. Below him, a meticulously stacked pile of kindling and dry logs waited, a grim promise of fire.
A fresh wave of sound washed over him – not just roars, but a guttural CHEERING, wild and ecstatic. He forced his head to turn, his neck stiff with a sudden, agonizing jolt.
The sight stole his breath.
A vast, torchlit crowd stretched out before him, their faces illuminated by dancing flames. They were massive, hulking figures, their skin a spectrum of greens and greys, tusks glinting in the firelight. Orcs. Hundreds of them, clad in crude but formidable armor of leather, bone, and riveted steel, wielding axes, spears, and massive cleavers. Each one carried a flickering torch, casting long, monstrous shadows that writhed across the dark, open landscape. Their cheers were a deafening, unified chant, a baying for blood.
Silas looked down at himself. He was dressed in a black tunic with pants and boots, simple yet functional, with a dark, heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders. It offered little comfort against the biting cold, or the sudden, icy dread that settled in his gut.
He was a spectacle. A prisoner. And he was about to be burned alive.
The din of the crowd slowly, reluctantly, dimmed. The Orcs parted, forming a wide, silent lane. Through the gap walked a single, imposing figure. This Orc was different: his skin was covered in vibrant red tribal markings, and he wore a gold helm distinguished by a deep, diagonal slash across its faceplate.
The Orc stopped directly beneath Silas and looked up, his expression unreadable in the shadows. He then turned to face the hushed throng, raising his massive, gauntleted fist.
"TODAY MARKS A NEW ERA!" the leader roared, his voice thick and resonant, shaking the wood of Silas's prison. "A START TO THE EXTINCTION OF WIZARDS AND HUMANITY!"
The crowd erupted in a thunderous wave of cheers, stamping their feet and banging their weapons.
"What?" Silas asked, the word hoarse and confused, catching the Orc's attention.
Silas: Thought we were all at peace.
The Orc leader slowly turned and stared at the crowd. A beat of silence hung heavy in the air, then a sudden, jarring burst of laughter ripped through the ranks of the Orcs, confusing Silas further.
Silas: What's so fucking funny?! (He yelled down, rage coloring his voice.)
The Orc looked up at him, the laughter fading around them. "There was peace," the leader stated, his voice now low and laced with cold venom, "until your kind decided to slaughter seventeen children from one of our tribes. A marked end, a new beginning of a war that shall never end."
Surprise and confusion warred on Silas's face. He knew nothing of this, yet the conviction in the Orc's voice was absolute.
"Bring the torch!" the Orc commanded.
A grunt from the crowd, and an Orc thrust a flaming torch into the leader's outstretched hand. The firelight danced across the leader's grim face. He looked up at Silas one last time, his voice a chilling formality.
"Any last words?"
Silas didn't plead. He closed his eyes, his mind focusing instantly on the only way out. He chanted two ancient, concise words under his breath:
"Reiz-ten; palielin."
In an instant, the festive roar turned into a wet, sickening silence.
The entirety of the orc crowd, along with the chieftain, were crushed into a thin, crimson layer that splattered across the ground. The earth cracked and spiderwebbed beneath the immense, instantaneous pressure, now slick with blood and pulverized bone.
Silas gave a sharp, agonizing gasp, ripping his bound wrists free. The rope snapped, and he fell heavily onto the pile of kindling below.
Silas: Arh, damnit, forgot about that, (he muttered, wincing as he clutched a bruised hip.)
He pulled himself out of the woodpile, dusting off his cloak and tunic, the scent of fresh blood and pulverized bone thick in the night air. He ignored the stinging of his torn wrists, his gaze sweeping the alien, dark landscape.
Silas: Where in the fuck am I?