Book One – Chapter 14

Now, where most peoples’ intuitive reaction to grabbing for something that turns out quite alive and stinging would be to let go and pull back, the common ork is inclined to do the exact opposite. Where generations of Haraak had survived in the harshest of environments, every sparce trace of sustenance could mean life or death for the horde. Those who could capture and hold onto their prey survived, be it a planned or unprepared encounter. So if you grabbed for a stick that turned out to be somewhat of a mountain snake, a thing that slithered and stung, you better squeezed and shook until it was still.

That said, with Nagrak, this impulse was somewhat slower than average. These ingrained survival instincts stood quite contrary to his runaway nature. Torn between these two conflicting impulses and the overwhelming demand for destiny, he simply stood and stared as the staff spread further up his arm. Yes, he had expected his destiny to unfold before him, but not literally, not like this thing did now.

The pain was fleeting, a shiver that vanished before it could manifest into anything substantial. It barely registered before it gave way to something far more profound. Warmth. It was not the dull heat of exertion or the searing bite of a wound. This was alien, a warmth foreign to an ork born into the relentless chill of the Albweiss, where even the rare embrace of sunlight was fleeting, stolen almost instantly by cruel, howling winds. This warmth carried a stillness that defied the chaos of his world, a sensation so soft and consuming it felt impossible. It was like the whispered memory of the rarest of sunlit days that the most fortunate of orks may hope to experience once in their lifetime, where no storms tore through the sky and the pale glow of Sey was not scattered by frost and gale.