This chapter introduces Maggnak! Enjoy!

Location: Orisinium, High Rock

Stronghold of Luzsharzol

Date: 4E 110, Turdas, 26th of Sun's Dawn

Time: 5:00 AM - Sunrise

"You are weak, Maggnak! You are the son of a Chief and you cannot even best me!" A mid-aged Chief Brokkus Galmog said to his son; he had punishingly struck his boy's cheek minutes earlier, and he was now writhing in agony over a simple left-hand hook. Any Orc would have come back standing on their feet, unmoved and awaiting further blows. Maggnak, here, was different. Twenty years ago, the stronghold's denizens were appalled and disgusted by this uncharacteristic racial display of weakness at Maggnak's young age. Any stronghold could and should either kill said weakling on the spot or at least spare him the trouble of dying a pathetic death due to making it easy and simply exile him. However, Brokkus had insisted to all of Luzsharzol that his five year old son, when the first display of weakness showed itself, would break out of this "curse" of weakness in time. Twenty years Brokkus spent torturing himself and his stronghold, he could have saved himself and the others all the anguish by not favoring his firstborn and listened to reason.

The Chief looked at his cowering and quivering son, faced with a tough decision: He would either have to kill or banish his son. A sacrifice to Malacath for pardoning such poor offspring or a second chance to live and prove this to be a mistake. Either choice would break Brokkus' heart, he cherished Maggnak and truly believed that he might surpass his younger and stronger brothers – whose influence was maddening to him, all they wanted was to kill each other for the title of Chief rather than more important things, as they had not matured fully to challenge Brokkus and they would prefer to Maggnak on the ground, lifeless. They held no honor whatsoever. Such greed is NOT tolerated. Brokkus sighed heavily and said,

"I'm giving you one more chance, Maggnak. You have three days to prove to me you are not weak. You will train outside of the Stronghold. Go as far out as you wish but you must be back here when the moon is high in the heavens. If you cannot back by then, you will have forfeit your second chance. If you manage to return and have not grown any stronger, I will have to slay you where you stand. And believe me, son, I do not wish to do so." Brokkus looked in the eyes of his firstborn, whose fear struck him deeper than any blade, nearly bringing him to tears. Orcs aren't known for showing emotion but they are as emotional as the next person. He breathe deeply and sighed, looking at the three younger Orcs standing idly by, watching this go on. The three were chortling to themselves, placing bets, no doubt, on how much blood it would take for Maggnak to succumb to death. Brokkus broke their attention by saying, "Shukul, Bazuak, and Uzuug, if your eldest brother is unfit to surpass me, you three, then, will have your chance to spar among yourselves. For now, all three of you will also have to train during that time your brother is away – this proposition does not necessarily have to be strictly for Maggnak." Brokkus said narrowing his eyebrows. The three understood this; if they are out of practice and weak, none of them would even live to see the possibility of being Chief. At least being equal of strength meant they all would have functioning eyes to see the results of their eldest brother lying dead. "Go, my son," Brokkus motioned to Maggnak. "Leave Luzsharzol, you have three days. Show me you're worth it."

Passing the Outpost at the entrance of Luzsharzol, Ghommok, watched Maggnak exit the Stronghold and disappear into the forest ahead. Ghommok was one of two Lookouts of the Outpost, alongside his closest friend Gulob, brother of the Chief. Gulob had the privilege of sitting on the chair that was nestled in the corner by the railing every other day. Ghommok had to stand watch at the railing, overseeing any travelers that could be a threat to the stronghold; after all, the Orcs shared this land with Bretons. Days like today were fortunate for them; Ghommok didn't have to inform of his sitting superior of a passerby and await orders on whether or not to inform the Chief of a visitor or to all-out attack against Luzsharzol. On the flip side, instead, they had to stand guard for three days in case the son of the Chief comes back early; in which case, depending on how you look at it, early could mean bad for Maggnak or good if he built up strength in that short of time. Either way, both Lookouts weren't looking forward to spending time out away from their warm Longhouse, even if the Orcs were hardier than the Nords and could stand the cold nights, three days without any real training didn't sound too pleasing. Ghommok scoffed, mostly out of the thought of spending three days at the Outpost doing nothing worthwhile, but also at the sight of the repulsive whelp struggle through the foliage some yards away from the Stronghold. Ghommok shifted his weight on the other foot as he continued to lean on one of the four of the tallest beams supporting the Outpost.

"There goes the whelp." Ghommok stated.

"Think he'll return, Ghommok?" Gulob asked his friend with a glint of challenge in his eyes.

"I'll be surprised if he survives out there at all." He replied.

"I think he'll show up; but any strength that has yet to be seen being gained while he's out there? I can't say. He could get lucky and finally rival his brothers. Or he'll come back looking like something a Saber Cat dragged in." Golub said.

"His profession is huntsman, Golub, if anything, he'll manage to down a few Elks and if he can catch a meal at all by himself, he could ward off a few predators but not for long. He won't last a day; day and a half out there, at the most."

Golub stood up, went over to the barrel on Ghommok's left set his battleaxe onto the top of it. "I'll bet you three swings of my axe that he'll show up - injured!"

"Alright. I'll bet one blow of my Warhammer that Brokkus will ask us to find his body when his sons are fighting for the title Chief!"

The two shook hands and went back to their posts.

Maggnak had never ran so fast in his life; the burst of agility was like that of a Peregrine Falcon – passing by every tree trunk in his way without skipping a beat. The trees whizzed past him faster than he could make out, his adrenaline was on high – and it wasn't Bezerker rage, either. It was the realization that this was do or die. Maggnak was not running away from the only thing he knew in his life to escape cruelty; though he wanted to, thought he should, but would not – no, he was running into the unknown to better himself. Nothing does the Orsimer bones good more than hunting, if not sparring. He left only with a bow with a nearly empty quiver and a couple of axes. To earn strength and survive, hunting was perfect. Though he knew the others thought he could only manage lesser game due to them constantly helping him most of the time to take down bigger game, he knew that fighting bears and saber cats and trolls and possibly an ogre could provide him with challenges in all aspects; physically, the most important of all, to pass this test of strength. Mentally, to push past the fear; after all, if he has slain many of the fearsome wildlife in his spare time, he could crush his brothers and his father with just his fingers alone. Perhaps this thought was overly-zealous but if it would prove his worth, no matter. And lastly, hunting would sharpen him spiritually, as somewhere deep down, he was a hunter and other than standard Orc traditions, he much preferred being the huntsman; even to glorify Malacath.

The lone young Maggnak had been running for hours across the plains of Orsinium, building up tension in his muscles and quickening his hunger with the intense exercise – hunting on an empty stomach and pushing beyond one's limitations is more beneficial than losing your prey to a chase. He'd been weeding in and out of the countless trees for so long, he'd almost forgotten what he was doing. Hunting was second nature to him by now. He blinked several times, he had spent so much thinking about everything that he nearly missed the trail of dead Spriggans that were protecting the area, all of which died by his hand. Shockingly, he'd never laid eyes on a Spriggan before yet during the daydreaming episode, he slew them mindlessly. There seemed to be minimal damage upon his person, nothing but minor scratches. Had he maneuvered through their attacks during the mental blackout, also? Contemplating on the skill he hadn't known was there, he stood by a large boulder and inhaled the breeze coming in from the west. Blood and fresh meat. Westward was where his feet ought to tread.

It was almost noon in the forest and now fixed in his low, quiet crouching posture, Maggnak was determined to catch something, anything, worth eating. The problem is, the animals worth skinning, eating, and cooking are the most active during this time of the day – this sounds like the perfect time to hunt but in fact all game are on high alert, always on the move. Even the predators have competition with feeding themselves when the sun is over the sky. This means more predators to fend off either to fight or to hunt. Maggnak was so famished he could eat an entire Sabre Cat – hell, he'd go for some cooked Frostbite spider right now!

Stooping and leisurely skulking through a denser part of the forest, Maggnak allowed the trees to cloak him from whatever may be available to hunt on this day. Reaching an edge of the forest was a road. Still crouching, the young Orc debated on whether he ought to take it and find a different route to hunt on. He hadn't been too far from home before so the irritating thought of him losing himself in the wilderness not only frightened him but angered him as well. He was sick of being weak. He stood up, pressing on, not looking back and following the path to where ever it led. He was sure that if he was to come back to the Stronghold, he'd find his way back before sunset in a few days.

Maggnak hardly admired his surroundings of the forest, as his growling stomach rivaled that of a growling wolf, and the Orc focused primarily on feeding himself. Along the way, a Breton thief stopped him from continuing, armed with a sword.

"Give me all your valuables or I'll gut you like a fish!" The thief warned Maggnak. His Orcish blood boiled within his veins. He was not about to take rudeness from an outsider, let alone a Breton!

"Out of my way, I'm not here to be threatened and robbed, I'm out here to hunt. Leave me be." Maggnak's warning went south as soon as he tried to take a step forward.

"I don't care, give me something good and I'll consider killing you quickly! This is your last warning!" The masked marauder told Maggnak.

"Not much of a last warning if you're just going to kill me anyway." Maggnak replied.

"A wise-guy, huh? Let's see how much you laugh after I spill your blood!" The thief immediately went for the kill but Maggnak blocked his sword with his arms. Even with as much hunting as he did, he didn't gather enough experience to gain a rather thick hide to sustain himself from ordinary attacks. He bled easily and it flowed fast. "Ha! You bleed just fine! Some Orc you are!" Taunted the thief as he went for another attack – this time, Maggnak caught the axe's blade, letting himself bleed from his palm to his arm.

"What did you say?" The Orc asked calmly to his opponent, fighting the force of the blade and its owner.

"You're…no…Orc." The thief said angrily in a low voice. Flashbacks of Maggnak's father's famous words, "You're not an Orc, you're a whelp!" triggered something buried in his mind – the Berzerker Rage. All Maggnak could see was red; adrenaline circled his body like a wheel spinning thousands upon thousands of times. With the war axes he snagged before leaving home, he furiously swung at the thief, causing him to bleed some; the thief had little room to evade the rampaging Orc. "I yield, I yield!" The fool cried out in terror. The more redness Maggnak saw and the more he smelled of it, the thirstier for blood he becam. He roared a mighty Orcish roar, bare-handedly snapped the thief's neck, and looked upon the corpse, proud of this small endeavor he made. Having pushed himself to do what he never had before, for the first time in his life, Maggnak felt strong. He felt like a true Orc. He felt alive.

So, readers…what do you think will happen? Will he starve to death? Or will luck find favor in him? Or somewhere in between? Find out in chapter 2!