Brohmir crept along the dark corridor, staying out of sight of the orcs that delighted in a celebratory feast. Hours before, Brohmir witnessed the carnage brought on by the Orcs as they ravaged the small village his parents had raised him in. His father had raised him never to back down from a fight, and only the memory of his fathers teaching allowed him to move closer to the band of wild creatures. His hands trembled, fearing that at any moment, he would be spotted, and his primary weapon of staying alive, stealth, would be smashed into oblivion. If the orcs spotted him, they would surely take his head, as they had done to his mother.
He gritted his teeth as the memory of his mother's decapitated body flooded his thoughts. Tears welled up, and he stifled a sob as he noted that he would never receive another reassuring hug from her again. These foul brutes had taken that from him.. He was alone.. Wrapped in darkness and despair.
Only the silent spectre of revenge had moved him from his family home. Brohmir had been hunting when the raid occurred. Shock and horror assaulted him as he came upon the grisly scene. He stood in the middle his home for hours, just staring in disbelief. With no other direction, he saw a trail of blood that ran along the road from his house. He began to follow the trail. It was cold this time of year in the tundra of the Northern Spire, like the cold that crept into Brohmir's soul as he stalked his parents' murderers.
Along the trail, he came upon the body of a dead orc. It's thigh and side were gashed open, blood just starting to dry around the wounds. The blood trail stopped there, but the tracks were quite obvious. Brohmir continued without stopping. The tracks led into a mountain pass. At the mouth of a cave, he smelled their stench, and stepped inside.
He could almost smell the meade on their breaths. He slid back into a shadow and watched, waiting for an opening.. Waiting for revenge.