In the beginning was evil…
Ogruth the orc was a young horde leader. His power, his intelligence, his ferocity were recognized by all his people. For a long time now, he had watched men, frail, greedy, roam the territory of his ancestors to come and dig the sacred mountains and extract the precious iron ore from them. The Ancients were mostly content with raids on their facilities, carrying prisoners and loads of metal. This life overflowing with monotony, he rejected it. The hatred of men boiled in him and he seemed to be degraded by accepting the passage of these beings so weak in his eyes.
But those days were over. He had come to power recently, and as a horde leader, his will was obvious to all. He felt it in him, he was going to drive the humans from the orc lands, to gather the tribes, including the wildest on the borders of the desolations of the South, and to launch a huge wave of warriors against the territories of men.
As he watched from the top of a hill an increasing army of humans, weighed down by their ore wagons, hatred and violence filled his heart.
At a sign, the Grunts break on the long column of men. The surprise attack destabilizes the front defenders, but under orders shouted by the Duke of Edarath they quickly regain their spirits and stand against the attackers. But the wild, muscular and rabid creatures strike their adversaries with violence, forcing the men to retreat.
The men are busy trying to form a homogeneous line of combat, but the Grunts are everywhere and strike everything that moves with violence. At the back of the column, the Duke's fighters still resist, the vanguard of mercenaries has been destroyed, in the center, the howls order the militiamen to hold the line.
Alas, the Grunts are already looting the first wagons. The exhilaration of the next victory seems to have taken hold of them, to the point that Ogruth must grow a low and powerful growl to reframe his young warriors. Men retreat everywhere, but do not collapse. It is even surprising for the horde leader who despises them so much.
The horde separated the units from the men, they are weaker now. Ogruth urges his warriors to end it. The Duke does not back down, we must fight relentlessly, and save what can still be.
A young warrior felled her ax on the Duke who could not parry… the Duke is touched !! A shiver of fear runs through the men. The Orcs sense fear in the opponent and redouble their efforts.
The green warriors fall back on the Duke surrounded by his men. It's the priest, the heads fly and in a last jolt the group of men tries to oppose the green hand which comes to crush him.
Returning to the camp of the horde, Ogruth is celebrated as the victor, and when he brandishes the Duke's head in the air, a murmur of admiration runs through his people. The booty is enormous, soon the iron is melted, hammered, harnessed ... His young warriors have become seasoned, they have shed the impure blood of the enemy and many of them have proven their ferocity. Now they rise before him, his new "black orcs", equipped with imposing armor, vociferating their admiration for their leader. It's time to unify the tribes!
He was embodied in various forms…
Radghar, a young clan chief since the death of his father, was to strengthen his power and show all those in his tribe how strong he was. For some time now, he had felt a special, dark and terrible power rising within him, but which intoxicated him. He had to impose himself on the other clans of the north, like the heir of the great Olart, the scourge of the gods. But for that, he first had to win the favor of a witch.
In the south, a village of the men of the Empire lived in peace; none suspected, but there was a woman called to be a powerful witch: Wicca, "the one who will become".
Radghar gathered the warriors of his clan to melt on the village.
Radghar launches his troops to the assault. The race of his frost wolves triggers the alert. His auxiliaries seize the villager near the river, then sweep over the village. To the south his warriors advance to block the road. At the heart of the alleys, the prisoners are already numerous.
But the alert warned the militia advancing on the road to the aid of the villagers. The latter, frightened run in all directions to flee the black horde. The militiamen on guard have left the tower and are trying to intervene between the fleeing civilians and the looters.
The warriors of Radghar rush on the soldiers of the Empire, the shooting of the hunters does not cause any losses, on the other hand, the peasants who are armed and regrouped repel the black auxiliaries. For a while, the farmers stood up. But the axes rain, forcing the soldiers of the Empire to retreat under the accumulation of losses. Radghar kills the village defenders in numbers, and his warriors to the east already almost completely surround him.
The militiamen are overwhelmed, they still hold and repel the wolves, but most of the civilians have fallen into the clutches of the barbarian leader.
This raid was well prepared, Radghar seized almost the entire village; the priest took refuge in his church while the armed peasants can no longer stand against the mighty warriors.
The Militia tries to stop the black wave, but it is distraught by this lightning attack.
All the civilians are captured, the village is burned down and the barbarians ensure their rear in front of the militiamen who gather to make front. They are so few now.
It's a total victory!
After a long walk, Radghar finally returned to his camp. He gathers the prisoners and examines them closely. He brings out a woman captured during the attack ... The old clan seize her, and after having undressed her forcefully drink a decoction which only they have the secret ... For hours she s waved, went into a trance, shouted, carried by the songs and the dances, the moon was full that evening. Suddenly, the young woman straightens up… All are silent, and the powerful warrior advances towards her, raising his sword, he shouts in a low voice: “Wicca! "... the whole clan then takes up their fist with the name:" Wicca! Wicca! Wicca! ... She came, the witch he was waiting for.
And seemed to have always existed ...
Life was fairly calm in the territories south of the Empire border. The climate, close to the continent's icy zone, reduced human action much of the year, due to the heavy snow and recurrent storms during the winter. The men were fishermen above all, and farmers when they were not at sea. The south coast was dotted with a multitude of small fishing villages, composing the independent Principalities, where the inhabitants were strong and proud, the beautiful souls and courageous. There, we were far from the hectic life of the great imperial cities and the tumult of the borders of north and east.
Cradled by a sweet monotony that had been going on for a very long time, memory had forgotten the calamities of long ago, an ancient time, when creatures coming from beyond the grave had made the Empire falter, and life. We no longer knew, if not in a few folk tales told by the fireside, the terror that inspired the name of Alach Zhur and the "twice born". Life was going well, death hoped, in the shadows ..., some had not forgotten.
With a gesture, the living dead who waited at the edge of the wood, set off towards the village, death is on the move.
The alert was given from the tower, the villagers understood that this approaching mass was a threat. They gather around the Church and their Pastor to protect the holy place and the man in whom their only hope lies.
Barricaded in their houses, they resist the putrefying corpses which infiltrate everywhere, the tiles fuse, the bodies fall.
But the darkness falls continuously on them at the same time as the disease on their soldiers. The first humans collapse, and despite accurate fire, losses accumulate.
The dead advance through the village, flooding the streets, taking away the houses and their inhabitants. Their procession seems like a tide that nothing could stop, constantly they fall on everything that lives, everything that moves ...
The dark army soon reached the walls of the church. The sorcerer is there, in front of the pastor's house, his master calls him ...
The dead break down the wooden walls of the frail building, the defenders are torn apart and dismembered by the number of undead who seems to engulf them. Pierced by the sorcerer's sword, the pastor falls into a pool of blood still conscious. As he dies, he sees a bluish glow, the altar stone shatters and rises in a whirlwind of magic, the floor spreads revealing a tomb.
There he is, the one everyone had forgotten, whose name was no longer spoken out of ignorance. From his prison, his voice still whispered in the ears of a few damned who had done everything to find him. The blood of the victims waters his rebirth, he drinks life and rises in front of his servants whose whispers intone his name: Alach Zhur!
But against him stood the Empire, every day, whenever he could ...
Prince Ethan was the pride of his father, Emperor Albreth II. Young and handsome, his military ardor was matched only by his military intelligence. Protector of the Empire designated, future successor of his father, he learned to reign since his 18 years. His training had been meticulous, under the wing of the best tutors and fencing masters. Surrounded by the love of his mother and the admiration of his brothers and sisters, his destiny was marked out.
At 21, he was now old enough to assume his future responsibilities. Prince Ethan had therefore received a first mission from his father: to liberate the peasants taken prisoner by a recent goblin incursion. This demon's green spawn regularly attacked human villages in small raids as fast as they were stealthy; burning, looting, and collecting loot seemed to be the only vocation of these wild beings. At the head of a troop of militiamen, supported by a body of knights of the Empire, the Prince had been tracking the little horde for several days already. She had set up camp in a vast clearing near a sloping hill, the captives were gathered in the center, and as day broke, Ethan and his men were preparing to storm.
Prince Ethan immediately launched the attack, seeking to take advantage of the element of surprise. The first guard tower was quickly destroyed and the imperial line. The panic-stricken Goblins try to oppose the men and protect their encampment. Goblin defensive fire repels a few cavalrymen and Ethan, but nothing that stops the humans from advancing.
The charge of the knights overturned the first green-skinned lines. On the right the goblins resist with more determination, but in the center, the death of the clan leader causes the stampede.
Warriors fight for their goods, they kill as much as they can, rushing at the Prince's archers. But the camp is already hit, the huts are burning, the first prisoners are released and brought back to a safe place.
The men are nearing their goal, the enemy resistance is collapsing and is only sporadic, violence is unleashed in reaction to the raid carried out in the Empire a few days ago. For the Goblins, it is the save-who-can, each one runs for his life in the greatest panic.
Burning and destroying everything, the imperial knights want to teach these barbarians a lesson. The militiamen are not left behind and kill without distinction under the volley of flaming arrows. "No prisoners! Shout the soldiers, "To death!" To death ! "
On the still smoking ruins of the goblin camp, Prince Ethan has just proved that he lived up to his father's expectations. The latter has never lost sight of it, and while the column is moving towards the capital, an imperial griffin salutes from afar the success of the young warrior. After a few hours of flight he will be able to announce the good news to the emperor and the cheering crowd will gather to celebrate as it should be the valiant heir. Bearing on his steed Ethan is thoughtful. In recent months threats at the borders have multiplied, ever more daring, he intuitively feels that we should not stop there.