A day crawled by in the heart of the orc village. Azrael found himself in a bizarre and deeply uncomfortable position.
He wasn't locked in the cage anymore, the rough wooden bars were replaced by the stifling proximity of the Orc Queen herself.
He was treated almost like royalty, or perhaps more accurately like a particularly exotic and slightly fragile pet.
He sat on thick, scratchy furs piled beside Groka's imposing throne, offered chunks of barely cooked, blood-dripping meat and forced himself to watch the brutal daily life of the orc clan unfold.
The Queen – Groka, as he'd heard from the guttural barks of her guards.
she was a force of nature packed into a hulking green frame. She ruled with an iron fist, a terrifyingly short temper, and decisions made solely on instinct and dominance.
He watched her handle clan affairs, which mostly seemed to involve orcs shouting at each other until Groka roared louder.
