The wind had a sharpness to it out this far—like it had forgotten how to be gentle, its edge honed by the vast, unyielding expanse of the western frontier. It sliced through the air, tugging at cloaks and stinging exposed skin with a dry, biting chill that carried the faint grit of ash. That ash drifted in slow, spiraling currents over the cracked terrain, settling into the fissures of parched earth and dusting the jagged stone spires that thrust upward like the weathered bones of some ancient, fallen beast. The land here stretched drier than even the northern bluffs, its surface a patchwork of brittle dirt and rock beds glinting with flecks of quartz, bleached pale under a sun filtered through a thin, gray haze. No birds sang—no rustle of wings or distant calls broke the stillness. The wind itself made no sound beyond a low, hollow whistle, threading between the rocks as if the land were still holding its breath, suspended in a timeless, desolate hush.
It was here, near the base of a ravine where dust swirled in lazy eddies and silence reigned, that the Dominion's fifth exploration team came to a halt, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cracked ground.
Corren Hale raised a gloved hand, the leather creaking faintly as his fingers flexed.
The scouts stopped at once—five men clad in layered leathers and ash-stained cloaks, the fabric frayed at the hems and heavy with the scent of sweat and campfire smoke. Their boots, worn smooth by weeks of cautious travel, crunched softly on the brittle earth, kicking up faint clouds of dust that hung in the air. Behind them, two pack horses shifted restlessly, their hooves scuffing the ground, snorting as they caught some faint, musky scent on the wind that their riders couldn't yet detect, their breath fogging briefly in the cool air.
Across the ravine, shapes emerged from the haze—broad, heavy-set silhouettes with long, sinewy limbs and wide shoulders that loomed against the ashen backdrop. Even from this distance, their skin stood out, a strange green-gray hue smeared with streaks of red ochre that glistened faintly, as if freshly painted. Their eyes were narrow slits, watchful and glinting like polished stone, their movements slow but deliberate, each step a measured press into the cracked earth. The wind tugged at their coarse, matted hair, revealing glimpses of bone ornaments woven into braids.
"They're not raiders," Corren said, his voice low and steady, barely rising above the wind's whistle, "but they're ready."
There were eight of them visible, their forms stark against the gray stone. Likely more lurked behind the ridgelines, half-hidden by the spires' jagged shadows. A few crouched behind rock formations, their outlines blurred by hides stretched taut on spear shafts, the leather weathered and stained with dirt. All were armed—crude but deadly weapons gleamed in their grip: axes fashioned from scrap metal, edges jagged and rusted; clubs with polished stone hafts wrapped in sinew that creaked as they shifted; spears tipped with sharpened bone, their points honed to a wicked gleam.
"They've seen us," one scout muttered, his hand twitching toward his sheathed blade, voice taut with unease.
Corren nodded, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood, his weathered face carved with lines of calm resolve. "Don't draw. Don't move. Let them feel our caution."
The orcs stood in silence, their breath visible in faint puffs against the chill. A breath passed. Two. Then a bark—a short, sharp call, harsh as a raven's cry, cut through the stillness. Another orc answered from the ridge, a guttural echo, and two began to move, flanking along the high ground, their footsteps crunching faintly on loose shale.
One stepped forward slightly, spear angled toward the humans—not thrown, but held in a steady, warning grip, its shaft scarred with notches.
Corren held his ground, his cloak fluttering faintly in the wind, ash clinging to its hem.
Then he slowly dropped his pack to the earth, the thud muffled by the dust, and knelt, his knees pressing into the cracked soil as he began to open it with deliberate care.
"They're not sure what we are," he murmured, his voice a low thread beneath the wind. "Let's give them a reason to guess better."
He pulled free a folded canvas—one of the spare expedition tents, still rolled tight in its bindings, the fabric stiff with disuse and faintly scented with mildew. With calm, deliberate motion, he unfastened the leather tie, its knot giving way with a soft snap, and unfurled the bundle, the canvas rustling as it spread. He laid it carefully on the ground between them, the coarse weave catching the faint light, then rose and stepped back, palms open, the wind tugging at his outstretched fingers.
The orcs murmured, a low rumble like distant thunder rolling through their ranks.
One younger orc, his hair braided with bone beads and chest streaked with ochre, moved closer, his bare feet silent on the dust. He crouched, his sinewy frame taut with curiosity, and inspected the bundle, gingerly pulling the fabric open with calloused hands. The tent's corners unfolded into a draping triangle, its seams taut and weathered. He ran his fingers across the stitching, tugging at the canvas, testing its strength, his nails scraping faintly against the weave.
A grunt followed—short, guttural. Then a bark. More murmurs rippled through the group.
Corren held his breath, his chest tight, eyes locked on the scene.
The young orc turned to the others and gave a sharp, clipped call, his voice cutting through the wind's hollow tune.
After a few tense moments, several orcs lowered their weapons—not fully relaxed, their grips still firm, but no longer poised to strike, the spears dipping toward the earth.
One pointed at the scouts with a thick, scarred finger, then at himself, then westward, toward the jagged skyline cloaked in drifting haze, where the ash swirled thicker against the fading light.
"Invitation?" one scout asked, his voice still taut, shoulders rigid beneath his cloak.
Corren exhaled slowly, a faint fog escaping his lips. "That's what it looks like."
---
The orc camp lay just over a ridge that dipped into a dry hollow—a basin cradled by wind-scoured stone, scattered with fire pits where embers glowed faintly beneath thin trails of smoke. Hide tents dotted the ground, their leather weathered and patched, reinforced with bark ribs and woven ash grass that rustled in the breeze, exuding a faint, earthy scent. Stone shelves rose like natural windbreaks, their surfaces pocked and smoothed by time, littered with drying strips of meat and bone tools glinting in the dim light. It wasn't large—perhaps sixty souls, Corren guessed, his eyes tracing the shapes moving in the haze—but it bore the weight of permanence, a stubborn foothold in the desolation. Children peeked from beneath hide flaps, their wide, wary eyes catching the firelight, while sentries stood at the edges, armed and silent, their shadows long against the stone.
The scouts moved carefully under escort, hands visible, weapons sheathed, their boots crunching on the basin's gravelly floor. The orcs didn't smile, their broad faces painted with stark ochre and ash, mouths curling downward at rest, but neither did they growl. Their deep-set eyes followed every step, alien yet piercingly aware. One orc with a torn ear and a scarred back carried a massive hammer of stone and scrap iron, its haft wrapped in leather, slung across his shoulders like a felled log, the weight bowing his frame slightly as he shifted.
At the camp's center stood a larger tent, wider than the rest, its hides stitched with dyed patterns—swirls of red and black faded by sun and wind, a mark of seniority. Before it loomed an old orc, bowed but unyielding, leaning on a gnarled walking staff carved with worn rings, its wood dark with age and polished by use. One eye stared milky-white and blind, clouded like the haze above; the other gleamed sharp and wary, cutting through the dusk. His skin sagged in weathered folds, but his arms remained thick with old muscle, sinew taut beneath the gray wolf fur cloak draped over his shoulders, its edges frayed and matted with dust.
He said nothing as the humans approached, his gaze long and hard, the staff tapping the earth once with a dull thud—until, finally, he spoke.
"You… cross. From east."
The accent was thick, gravelly, each word a slow grind, but clear enough, rolling from his chest like stones tumbling down a slope.
Corren's brow rose, a faint crease in his weathered face. "You speak Common?"
The orc gave a single grunt, a puff of breath stirring the air. "Not well. Long ago. Traders. Men… came here. Sometimes. Sold sharp things. Took meat. Hides."
Corren stepped forward, his cloak brushing the dust, voice steady. "Your name?"
"Rhaznakh," the orc said, tapping his chest with one heavy knuckle, the sound a dull thump against his leather vest. "I lead… this fire."
"Your tribe?"
"Exile. Not tribe. Not home." He looked westward, his good eye narrowing, the horizon swallowed by swirling ash. "Hunted wrong prey. Broke oath. Banished. We… not welcome."
He said it plainly, his voice flat, no trace of shame, yet a tension threaded the words—pain buried deep beneath the simplicity, etched in the lines of his sagging face.
Corren hesitated, the wind tugging at his hood. "We didn't know anyone lived this far west."
"Not many," Rhaznakh said, his staff shifting slightly, scraping the dirt. "Few. Scattered. Like dry leaves. But far…" He raised a thick hand, pointing toward the horizon, fingers gnarled and stained with ochre. "Past the bone stones. Past the dead valleys. Many tribes. Real tribes. Old ones. Strong."
Corren glanced at his team, their cloaks fluttering faintly, then back to Rhaznakh. "How far?"
"Walk. Long. Many suns. Weeks. No rest. Then… you see smoke."
He said it like a warning, like a promise, his voice dropping low, resonating with the wind's hollow tune.
Corren nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. "We'll return tomorrow. If you're willing… tell us more."
Rhaznakh looked at him long, his blind eye a ghostly void, the other piercing through the haze, then gave a slow nod, his staff tapping once more. "I speak. If you listen."
Behind him, the younger orcs still prodded the gifted canvas—unrolling it across the dirt, tugging its edges, one already fashioning it into a crude lean-to against a stone shelf, its shadow flickering in the firelight.
The gift had been received.
And something had been exchanged in that act—trust, perhaps, or the seed of it, fragile as the ash swirling around them.
Corren didn't smile. He just stared westward, where the wind howled harder, and the ash danced in wild swirls against the dusk sky, a veil over secrets yet unseen.
Whatever lay beyond, it would not stay hidden forever.