Mog, the Thorork Horde Leader, sat on his throne built from the ribcage and six tusks of the first Handorso he ever slew—a creature so massive and feared that his victory alone was what earned him his crown. His hulking form was draped in the beast's armored hide, blood-worn and fire-scorched. Scars danced across his torso like war paint—some fresh, others ancient.
The goblins entered his tent, trembling, keeping their heads low. Behind them stood ogre guards, silent and heavy-breathing.
"Speak," Mog growled, his voice like grinding stone.
One goblin piped up, his voice cracking, "M-my lord… we saw them… at the edge of the Forest of Loryndor… the elves."
Mog's nostrils flared.
"What of them?"
Another goblin squeaked, "They were doing something strange. A ritual. There was golden light. They… they were calling on something, a god maybe. And… and we saw it."
Mog's eyes narrowed. "Saw what?"
"Something came, my lord. A being… too bright to look at. We think… their god showed up."
Mog leaned back into his throne, unbothered. "Hmph. Let them play with their spirits. A Thorork fears no glow." He raised a hand and barked a command.
"Send a hunting party. Hra'Zhul will lead it. Goblins, ogres, take the dark path—into the Ash Vein Forest. I want eyes on everything."
HRA'ZHUL AND THE DARKWOOD PROWL
The female Thorork selected by Mog was no ordinary warrior—Hra'Zhul was a walking nightmare with battle scars scorched into her flesh from dragonfire and molten arrows. Her axe was taller than most ogres and stained with the blood of elves, giants, and beasts alike. She barely spoke. Her actions were commands.
The hunting party—dozens of goblins, six ogres—marched under her lead into the Dark Forest, the cursed blackened woodland between the Loryndor border and the deeper abyssal rifts. This forest was the wildlands, the place where even elves refused to tread. It was also the lifeline of the Thorork horde—where beasts thrived, and food was plentiful if you survived.
As they pushed deeper through twisted roots and moss-choked stones, the goblins stopped suddenly.
"We hear something," one hissed.
Faintly… whispering. Chanting.
"Go," Hra'Zhul ordered, her voice like dry thunder.
The three goblins crept ahead, stepping over knotted vines and half-devoured carcasses. Eventually, they reached the edge of a clearing, wide-eyed.
What they saw made them freeze.
THE CLEANSING RITUAL
Two cloaked figures stood near a massive Handorso corpse, its blood soaked into the forest floor like a cursed river. Between them stood a third—a woman wrapped in a grander, blackened cloak, silent and unmoving.
"Wh-what… what the hell killed it?" whispered one goblin.
"The elves can't kill a Handorso… not this clean… not without casualties."
"This is no elf magic…"
As they watched, the woman in the cloak slowly tilted her head—as if sensing them.
The goblins shrieked and scrambled back toward the party, breathless, eyes wide and dripping with fear. They reported everything to Hra'Zhul, panting and near tears.
"T-three cloaked ones… one standing over a Handorso, still warm… there was chanting, and—and she saw us…"
Hra'Zhul narrowed her eyes, spit on the ground, and tore her axe from the skull of a six-legged stinger beast she had killed earlier for rations. She rested it over her shoulder and barked at the hunting party.
"Move out. Goblins—guide me."
They hesitated. She snarled. They moved.
THE CLEARING — BLOOD, WHISPERS, AND POWER
As the party reached the clearing, they were all struck silent. Not one—three Handorso corpses lay butchered across the ground. And one still alive… collared and bound by a woman the size of an ogre, slender, graceful, but deadly.
"You fools," Hra'Zhul snapped at the goblins. "You didn't say there were three. You didn't say one was tamed."
"W-we swear, there was only one!" they shrieked.
Then the chanting stopped.
And the cloaked woman passed the reins to one of her companions—revealed now as a lesser demon noble, silent and watching.
The female Thorork stepped forward and growled, "Tell me your name."
The woman did not move, only said with cold amusement: "You are not worthy of knowing it."
That broke her. Hra'Zhul charged—fast, powerful, swinging her axe with enough force to cut down a mountain beast. But the woman—calm, unimpressed—raised one finger and blocked the blow with her nail. A sonic shock rattled the forest. Hra'Zhul dropped her axe and fell to her knees from the backlash.
"Who… are you…?" she choked.
The cloaked woman stepped forward and carved a tiny slash on her cheek, a mark not of defeat—but of shame.
"I am Luna."
Hra'Zhul froze. Her jaw clenched. No… not the Luna. Not the War Goddess of legend…?
The goblins and ogres prepared to fight. But before they could charge, the demon noble appeared before them in a flash.
"Still your blades," he said in an ancient tongue that echoed across the trees. "One more move, and you die."
Hra'Zhul barked, regaining composure.
"Hold your weapons. You shame me further with foolishness!"
She rose, dusting herself off, then stepped forward.
"Come with us. As guest of the horde. You have my honor."
Luna tilted her head, considering, then nodded.
"Fine. But the condition is simple—your party will carry my kills."
Hra'Zhul didn't hesitate.
"You heard her! Load the Handorso onto the carts!"
Goblins and ogres scrambled into motion. When all was ready, Seratha—Luna—mounted the still-living beast and took the reins.
In her mind… this was more than a victory. Korrak would be pleased. Greatly pleased.
And so the demon envoy entered the world of the Thororks—under the guise of a war goddess, with corpses of apex beasts in tow, and a forest of blood whispering her arrival.