Night had settled over the basin like a heavy blanket, its weight pressing down on the cracked earth and muffling the faint whispers of the wind. The fires of the orc camp burned higher than usual, their flames leaping in hungry tongues of orange and amber, throwing flickering shadows against the jagged stone walls that ringed the hollow. The painted hides of the tents rippled in the firelight, their ochre and soot patterns dancing in hues of red and gold, as if alive with the pulse of the night. The air hung thick with the sharp tang of burning wood, laced with the earthy musk of roasted meat and the faint, acrid bite of herbs smoldering in the pits. The ground beneath was hard and cold, strewn with gravel that crunched softly underfoot, reflecting the glow in fleeting glints.
The Dominion scouts sat near the edge of the fire ring, their ash-stained cloaks drawn tight against the chill, eyes wary but wide with curiosity. They had not been invited here as guests at first—yet now they sat shoulder-to-shoulder with warriors clad in sinew-bound leathers, women with braided hair adorned with bone beads, crones whose wrinkled faces glowed in the fire's warmth, and children peering from the shadows, their breath fogging in the crisp air. Corren Hale scribbled into a leather-bound journal by the flickering light, his gloved hand steady despite the tremor of awe in his chest, his weathered face torn between reverence and wariness. This was no ordinary feast. This was ritual, ancient and raw, pulsing through the night like a heartbeat.
An orc warrior stepped into the firelight—bare-chested, his broad frame taut with muscle, his skin patterned in swirling streaks of red ochre and black soot that glistened with sweat. He held a horn carved with twisted symbols, its surface worn smooth by generations of hands, and as he tilted it skyward, the tribe fell into sudden, reverent silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound threading the stillness. He began to chant—low, rhythmic, guttural tones that rolled like distant thunder across the basin, resonating in the stone walls. Other voices joined, rising and falling with each line, a chorus that wove through the air like a living thing. Hands struck against chests and thighs in a steady, primal beat; spears clanged softly together, their bone tips glinting as they caught the light. The flames seemed to answer, flaring higher with each verse, casting wild shadows that danced across the hides.
The scouts said nothing, their breath held, eyes fixed on the scene.
Behind Corren, another explorer—his cloak patched and dusty—muttered under his breath, voice barely a whisper, "Are they singing for us?"
"No," Corren murmured, not looking up, his quill scratching faintly against the leather. "They're calling their ancestors."
The chant swelled, a tide of sound that filled the basin, then stopped abruptly, leaving a silence so deep it pressed against their ears. The warrior took a burning branch from the fire, its tip glowing red, and thrust it into a shallow pit where herbs and bones lay arranged in a spiral, their brittle forms curling in the heat. Smoke bloomed upward, sharp and bitter, stinging the scouts' nostrils with a mix of sage and charred marrow. Children darted forward, their small hands clutching carved wooden animals—wolves with bared teeth, deer with antlers whittled to points, even a crude phoenix, its wings jagged—and tossed them into the flames, the wood popping and hissing as it burned. An orc with graying braids placed a bowl of blackened soil at the fire's edge, its rim cracked, a symbol of their exile perhaps, or a silent vow to one day return.
Corren wrote everything, his quill a blur, ink smudging faintly in the damp air.
By the time the fire died down to a smoldering glow and the camp returned to quiet eating and low, rumbling laughter, the scouts had filled nearly thirty pages between them, their hands cramped from the effort. And though no words were spoken in Common, something had shifted in the atmosphere—a tension eased, a wall lowered, the scent of smoke and shared silence binding them. For the first time, they were not strangers. They were witnesses.
The next morning broke cold and pale, the sky a flat expanse of gray haze that dulled the sun to a faint, watery disc. The scouts gathered with Rhaznakh outside his tent, its hides sagging slightly under the weight of dew, the air crisp with the scent of wet earth and lingering smoke. He sat by a firepit, a clay pot of bitter-smelling broth bubbling over the embers, a curved bone pipe clenched between his teeth, wisps of gray vapor curling from its bowl.
"You return," he said as Corren approached, his gravelly voice rough against the morning's stillness, the pipe shifting as he spoke.
"You said you'd tell us about the others," Corren replied, his cloak brushing the dust, voice steady but edged with anticipation.
The old orc nodded, his milky eye glinting faintly, the other sharp as a blade. "I speak now. But not for free."
Corren blinked, a crease forming on his brow. "What do you want?"
"Black blade," Rhaznakh said simply, tapping his chest with a gnarled knuckle. "The metal that sings. That bites deep. I have seen it. From your kind. Give it."
The scouts hesitated, their breath fogging in the chill. Corren looked to his men, his gaze settling on Brenn—a younger lad with wind-chapped cheeks—who unslung a wrapped bundle from his pack, the leather creaking as he moved. Inside lay a Tenebrium shortblade, its dark surface shimmering faintly with an oily sheen, forged for utility but sharper and stronger than any steel the tribe knew, its edge honed to a whisper.
Corren unwrapped it, the leather falling away with a soft rustle, and set it carefully before the fire, the blade catching the pale light in a cold gleam.
Rhaznakh stared at it for a long time, his good eye narrowing, then reached forward, his thick fingers brushing the hilt before lifting it, testing its balance with a slow, deliberate heft.
He gave a low grunt of approval, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.
"I speak," he said, settling the blade across his lap.
The scouts leaned in, their cloaks rustling faintly, the air thick with expectation.
"There are clans, many clans," Rhaznakh began, his voice slow and heavy, each word grinding like stone on stone. "Each rules valley or ridge. Some build walls of stone, tall and gray. Some ride beasts with long teeth. Some dig deep into earth. Each has banner and bond. A High Chief rules the bonds—when they agree to give him title. Not always same. Sometimes strongest. Sometimes one with most food."
Corren scribbled as fast as his hand allowed, ink staining his gloves, the quill's scratch a faint counterpoint to Rhaznakh's words. "They have diplomacy?"
"Yes," Rhaznakh said, puffing on his pipe, the smoke curling upward in thin tendrils. "They trade, they fight, they marry. They hold meetings under open sky. Some trade hides, stone, beasts. Others—metal. One clan, high in Black Hollow, knows copper, red and soft. Another, near drowned lake, knows silver, bright and cold. Sometimes war. Sometimes trade. Depends on moon… and blood."
"What about outsiders?" Corren asked, his quill pausing, eyes sharp.
"Rare," Rhaznakh said, his staff tapping the dirt once. "Few humans go that far. Some do, to sell or steal. But only few return. Most die. Some taken… but not eaten." He gave a toothy grin, his jagged teeth glinting. "Not anymore."
The scouts shifted uncomfortably, their boots scuffing the gravel.
"Are they ruled by law?" Corren asked, his voice steady despite the unease rippling through his team.
Rhaznakh tapped his temple, his ochre-streaked skin creasing. "Each clan makes own. But elders speak, warriors obey. Oaths sacred. Breaking oath is exile, like us."
"And what of exile tribes?" Corren pressed, his quill hovering.
"Many," Rhaznakh said quietly, his voice softening, gaze drifting westward. "We not alone. Some hide in shadows. Some roam dust plains. Some become bandits, take what they can. But we stay together. We wait. Until sky changes."
Corren lowered his quill, a faint crease in his brow. "Sky changes?"
Rhaznakh did not answer that, his good eye narrowing, the pipe's smoke veiling his face.
Instead, he leaned forward, his wolf-fur cloak rustling, voice dropping low. "Your people… build. You mine. You walk deeper into stone. The others… they will see your smoke. They will ask what you want. Some listen. Some burn your bones."
He stood slowly, his staff scraping the earth, his frame casting a long shadow in the pale light.
"You must choose what you are. Not just men… but people. If you want peace… speak soon. Before war does."
There was a silence after that, heavy and cold, the wind's faint whistle threading through the basin.
That night, the scouts packed camp, their movements brisk, the clink of gear muffled by the dust. Corren spent the final hour copying everything into an official Dominion field ledger, his lantern casting a soft glow over the pages, double-checked by two others with cramped hands and bleary eyes. They sealed it in oilskin, the leather creaking as they tucked it at the bottom of their supplies, its weight a silent promise.
By dawn, they were mounted and moving east, the horses' hooves kicking up faint clouds of ash, leaving behind the basin and its fading firelight, the scent of smoke lingering on their cloaks.
They had come to map the land.
But they were returning with the outline of a civilization.
And warnings carved into every word.