The orc shaman stood before me with his staff in hand. Greenish-gray skin etched with runes, and bones jingling on his necklace like some ancient clock ticking away to judgment. His eyes blazed neither in anger, but suspicion.
"You do not belong here," he asserted in a broken but commanding speech. "Your magic… forbidden weave. Not created here, magic. What are you human?"
I could feel the pressure emanating off him. It was strength. It was age, wisdom, and wild nature. His power overwhelmed my core right off the bat, and my strands of Magical Energy risked shattering if I dared to keep fighting. So I didn't. I lied.
"I was sent by a god," I declared, as stern as stone. "Not your gods. One from beyond. One who saw your suffering and decided it was time to intervene."
The shaman tilted his head. "Which god sends a boy… with a shattered center?"
"One who enjoys wolves in sheep's clothing." I laughed harshly. "He said… I would recognize once I'd arrived among the orcs."
It was a dangerous gamble. But better than being torn apart or burned alive in some ritual sacrifice. And the best lies are always stitched with just enough truth to ring like the voice of god.
"You're dying," I added. "This village. your people. your ways. they're shattering. The god I believe in sent me to stop it from occurring. To bring you back again."
The shaman regarded me for a long time.
Then, to their surprise, he didn't laugh. Not a roar. But a dry, rattle-laugh, like wind scraping bone.
"Half-elf child, your tongue is as slick as a king's scribe." His eyes tightened. "But I appreciate mendacity. As much as veracity. So tell me, little godchild. How do you propose to revive Dhurn-Grak from death?"
Dhurn-Grak.
So this was the title of this orc village on the verge of death. There were barely several dozen huts scattered like broken teeth around a central mound, where ritual bones had long disintegrated into dust. Skies above the place were paint-stained rust-red with magical rot, and even the animals avoided the woods surrounding.
I pretended to ponder, really holding up. Then I flashed a quick smile. "Knowledge is the wealth of a god. First, I must discover what ails you. What happened to this place?"
He snarled. "Plague. No, rot of flesh. No, rot of spirit."
And he told me.
Reminded me of the past. Of when orcs weren't monsters like goblins. They are a little more intelligent as I guessed.
Still, they were scattered tribes huddled by polluted springs, fighting over bones of yesterday.
"What do you want, shaman?" I asked, advancing with the posture of an imposter prophet. "A revenge? A power? A restoration?"
His eyes glowed. "To remind the gods. That orcs are not beasts." That was sufficient.
I nodded slowly. "Then let me be your reminder. Tell your warriors that a god's shadow travels with them again. Let me burn your spirits to life."
"How?" he whispered.
"I will take you into war," I said to him. "But not as brutes. As reclaimers. First, we repair your core."
He blinked.
"Core?" he repeated.
I pointed towards the ritual site. "Your village has no flow. No mana vein. Your totems are broken. Your dead do not speak. You've lost your spiritual center."
He stared, confused.
I went on, "I'll fix it. One ritual at a time."
Of course, I had no idea how to restore orc customs.
But I had Magus knowledge, and I had imagination. That would have to do. In the short term.
The shaman stepped back.
"Then walk with me, god-child. Let us see if your lies can bleed the truth."
And like that, the gate of Dhurn-Grak opened not only in wood, but in trust.
I had bought time.
Now all I had to do was play divine… long enough to become a devil.