The air was thick with the heat of the southern lands as the young orcs gathered around the bonfire. The night was alive with the sounds of insects and the distant calls of night time creatures, the warmth of the flames competing with the humid air that clung to their skin. Around them, the trees stood tall and ancient, their leaves rustling softly in the warm breeze.

  At the center of the gathering stood the old shaman, his robes soaked with the sweat of the night, his weathered face glowing by the flickering firelight. His voice was deep, as ancient as the lands themselves, but there was power in it, a strength drawn from the very earth beneath their feet.

  “Listen well, young ones,” the shaman rumbled, his eyes burning with the intensity of the flames. “Tonight, you hear the story of our beginning. This is Nokh’tar — the place where the Ironfangs were born, and where you too shall begin your journey.”

  The young orcs shifted on the warm ground, their eyes wide, feeling the weight of the moment. The fire crackled louder as the shaman raised his hand toward the sky, where the stars burned like embers in the night.

  “This is the place where Ur’khan, the first of us, stood in the shadow of the mountains, looking out over the land where the tribes would unite. He carved our path with fire and blood, and so shall you, now that you’ve come of age.”

  His voice dropped low, drawing them in closer. “Tonight, you are no longer children. Tonight, you become Ironfangs. Just as the first of us gathered here, you will now carry the strength of our people in your blood, just as Nokh’tar stands as the foundation of our clan.”

  And so, as the heat of the fire mingled with the warmth of the earth beneath them, the shaman began the tale of Ur’khan — of the orc who united them all, who forged a clan through the unyielding rule of strength.

  “In the long-ago days, in the Age of Ash, when the sun scorched the earth and the mountains wept fire, the orc tribes of the north wandered like hunted beasts. Men named them monsters. Elves spoke of them as errors of the world. Among their own kind, there was no bond, no brotherhood — only the red ways of fire, blood, and fear.

  Into the time of fear and broken tribes came the dwarves. Tribe upon tribe they struck, driving the orcs into chains of servitude. A pact was forged — one hundred and fifty winters of labor, with wages and freedom spoken as promises. Generation after generation bent their backs to the will of the dwarves. The strongest were taken south, to build what men now call Spanriver — the city of the bridge.

  In the days of the binding, a young orc rose among his people — Ur’khan Ironfang, born in the wastelands of the Black Crags. His tusks were black as obsidian, sharp as the spears of the deep earth. Chained to labor since his fifteenth winter, he toiled for ten more, counting the days when freedom and silver would be his.

  As night fell before the final week of servitude, the orcs laid their heads in restless sleep. But Ur’khan remained awake, his heart pounding with the nearness of freedom, the call of home.

  In the stillness, he heard the guards speak — laughing, boasting that a choice had been made: the orcs would not return to their tribes, but be driven north into the mines of the East Hills, to dig and die beneath the stone.

  Then, for the first time, the fire of rage awoke within Ur’khan. He vowed he would not see another dawn in chains. Better to die free than live one more day under the yoke of the stone demons called dwarves

  When the sun rose, the word passed swift among the orcs — the dwarves would betray them. For seven days, Ur’khan moved among his kin, whispering of rebellion. They would strike by night, when all lay in sleep. Tools were hidden, sharpened, made ready for war. There would be no surrender — only death or freedom, as they fought their way from the bridge.

  At midnight of the final day, the rebellion was born. The guards, fat with pride and blind to danger, fell with little sound, slain from behind. Highspire — heart of the bridge — was the first to fall, its towers burning like a beacon against the dark. Sleeping dwarves were taken by fire as the orcs carved their path toward Windmere. Stone hammers and chisels gave way to dwarven axes and swords, torn from the hands of the fallen.

  As each span of the bridge fell, a tower was set aflame. Like great torches, they lit the darkened sky, their smoke rising to swallow the stars. Across the stone, the hunting cries of the orcs mingled with the wails of dwarf overseers and craftsmen, fleeing in vain toward Windmere.

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  The council of Windmere was roused as the orcs drew near to the gates of the city. They gathered in hurried counsel, their voices low with the weight of decision. Three paths lay before them: they could stand with the orcs, aiding them to capture and crush the dwarves; they could side with the dwarves, offering shelter from the orcish wrath; or they could seal the city, cutting off both sides, to shield the people of Windmere from the coming storm.

  In the end, it was the dwarves’ cruelty that sealed their doom — the way they had treated the orcs as slaves. A word was sent to seal the city, to arm the gates and prepare for the coming battle. The guards stood watch as each tower fell, the flames drawing ever nearer, creeping closer to Windmere with every passing moment.

  At sunset, the fleeing dwarves reached the western gate of Windmere, only to find the gates already shut tight. Some took the northern road along the wall, running from the orcs, but two hundred dwarves clawed at the gate, screaming for their lives. None lived to see the dawn. It is said that the slaughter at the western gate was so fierce, so brutal, that even the guards turned their backs, unable to bear witness to the madness.

  The orcs left the bridge and Windmere behind, hunting those dwarves who had fled. Eighty-seven towers fell to fire, and the bridge itself groaned, threatening to collapse. From the Blackmouth side, the western dwarves moved swiftly to save the bridge, to protect the legacy of one hundred and fifty years of toil. In the shadows of some towers, the embers still glowed as they worked, the heat of the past still alive in the stone.

  The orcs camped twenty miles east of Windmere, resting for a week beyond the shadow of the bridge. We call this place Nokh’tar today.

  Of the seven hundred slaves who had labored there, it is said that four hundred and fifty found their way to freedom. During this time, Ur’khan Ironfang rose as their leader. He guided them north, not only to reunite them with their tribes but to unite the tribes themselves, forging them into one unstoppable force.

  Ur’khan believed the orcs must be harder than the mountains, sharper than the finest steel, and willing to bite down on the world until it bled. He led his people on a brutal campaign of unification — not with politics, but through the simple, unyielding rule of strength. Tribe after tribe fell before him, either joining his cause or dying beneath the weight of his iron war-fangs. He unified them all, saying, “Steel breaks, stone cracks. But a fang — if it’s strong — can tear through anything.”

  After three years, Ur’khan had brought them all together. The orcs gathered in the eastern Black Crags, their eyes ever fixed on the western slopes of the Eastern Hills. They patrolled the Valley of Ash, watching the dwarves from the shadows. They hunted great bison and elk, trading with the human outposts to the south, always for weapons — for war.

  The war began with swift raids on dwarven trading caravans. The orcs struck with precision, always careful, with another raiding party waiting in the shadows, never allowing themselves to be outnumbered. They took what they needed, and left nothing but ash and ruin in their wake.

  The dwarves could not allow it to go on, and soon they began searching for the orcs. But the orcs watched from the shadows, as the dwarves, lacking stealth, marched upon the Black Crag hills. One by one, they picked them off at night, as the dwarves stood guard, the last in their patrols falling to an arrow. Ur’khan never met them head-on — no, he moved like a wolf, nipping at the heels of a great bison, striking again and again until it finally fell.

  Seeking to end the orcs once and for all, the dwarves of Khadrum Keep marched out. They struck with cold cruelty, catching an encampment of women and children by surprise, wiping them out without mercy.

  Ur’khan grieved, his heart heavy with loss, and he knew it was time to end it all. He skirmished with the dwarves, always retreating, drawing them deeper into the Black Crags, his people fleeing further into the shadows.

  At last, Ur’khan baited them into the narrow passes of the north and shattered them there. He cut their army off from retreat with a mighty avalanche. From above, the orcs rained down arrows and spears, relentless and merciless. There was no escape — thousands of dwarves fell, buried beneath the stones, their cries silenced by the crushing weight.

  The dwarves retreated into their caves, too broken to challenge the orcs for the Black Crags ever again. It was after that bloodbath that Ur’khan’s warriors began to call themselves Ironfangs — not just for him alone, but for what he had taught them. Strength, unity, and the unyielding will to conquer.

  And so, from the blood and the fury, the Ironfang clan was born.

  Every year, young ones, we gather here, beneath the watchful eyes of our ancestors, to honor their tales—tales carved in blood and fire. And it is here, in the shadow of Nokh’tar, that those of age are forged into warriors, to walk the path that was first blazed by our forebears.”

  A young orc, eager and wide-eyed, spoke up, his voice breaking through the crackle of the fire. “What of The Blade of Gor’guun, wise one?”

  The old shaman’s gaze flickered, a faint, knowing smile curling at the corners of his lips. He looked to the sky, as though seeking the right words from the stars themselves.

  “Ah, The Blade of Gor’guun,” the shaman murmured, his voice turned hard, filled with warning. “A tale for another night, young one. It is not one for the weak-hearted, nor one for those who are not yet ready to hear its full weight. But in time… perhaps. In time, you’ll learn about the blade forged in darkness.”

  The fire crackled again, and the young orc’s eager expression slowly softened with a mixture of disappointment and anticipation.

  “Now, rest. The journey ahead is long, and many more fires must be lit before you can hear that tale.”

  The young orc, though disappointed, nodded, the spark of curiosity still burning bright in his eyes. And as the night stretched on, the whispers of ancient stories began to fade into the stillness, leaving only the flickering glow of the bonfire and the promise of more legends to come.