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Zamarra is a chaotic land. Since the scattering of the grand army of Ostragoth the
Grim three years ago, his former followers have been forced to make their way in
life as best they can. You, like many orcs who fought for Ostragoth, have found
your calling as a sellsword to the highest bidder. Sometimes you have been hired
to protect caravans or to raid them, to serve wizards or to slay them. Sometimes
you have fought alongside your fellow orcs in these endeavours and sometimes
against them. It is all the same to you so long as it pays well and gives you an
excuse for some bloodshed.
You are camped in the Iron Hills, recovering after a recent battle with some
dwarfs when you spy a gryphawk winging its way towards you. The bird drops
a rolled-up parchment at your feet then departs with a loud screech. Unfurling
the scroll, you see it is an invitation written in Orcish. It addresses you by name,
stating that your abilities are well known to the wizard Morgrek. Morgrek has a
task of utmost secrecy for you and several other notorious orcs. The invitation
asks that you come to a cave in the Lesser Ilkhans in four days’ time where
Morgrek will tell you more of what he wishes from you. You scrunch the
parchment into a ball and smile. You have heard of this Morgrek though last you
knew he was a servant of good so why he wishes to avail of some orcish brutality
is a mystery to you. Still, he would not be the first good wizard to turn over a
new leaf and the invitation spoke of great rewards if you were to accept. Eager to
put your sword arm to devastating effect once more, you gather your things and
head out of the hills, heading west to the distant mountains.
Your journey is largely uneventful, bar a tangle with a hill giant and a run-in
with an out-of-luck human adventurer. You manage to supplement your
provisions by hunting various creatures, devouring them raw and feeling their
warm blood slide down your throat. On the fourth day of your journey, you
come to the foothills of the imposing mountains, their peaks bathed in the amber
light of the setting sun. It does not take you long to find the cave described in the
invitation, a great gouge in the mountainside. A rope dangles from an
overhanging rock above the tunnel entrance, with an inscription carved in Orcish
next to it: ‘Ring the bell.’ Shrugging, you pull on the rope and a clanging noise
reverberates from somewhere far down the tunnel. When the echoes have faded,
you hear the tread of footsteps coming out of the darkness towards you.
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