Gorrash Cragwolf

Birdsong whistled through he trees, the roar of the rowdy Clan Cragwolf echoing in the distance. Every night alive and under the stars was a night to celebrate, but this evening, their Chieftain did not join them. Gorrash had stolen away to a pond deep in the shelter of the trees. His pelts laid on a rock, scrubbed clean and drying in the warm breeze as he waded into the pond, the water lapping at aching, scarred muscles. He scooped a handful of the cool water, splashing his face with a deep rumble as he reflected on the most recent news.

One of his scouts had been injured and captured by an elven village upon making an attempt at communication. An elven archer, but a pup, had let an arrow slip and the scout Grotargh had been unnaturally weakened by the blow. Chaos had ensued, but he party had failed to bring him home, and so the scout was now either dead or in the clutches of elves… Gorrash sighed.

It was unlikely they would do any such thing as hurt him, the worst torture he may endure is being stuffed into their thick, restricting silks and made to eat with dainty spoons. Gorrash huffed at the image. Anyway, his men were calling for justice, and he knew that approaching the village so soon while tensions were still high would be dangerous… No, the scout was a warrior, he would manage for a time, and perhaps he may even gleam something during his stay there, if the brute could keep his mind off the elf-maids.

Gorrash turned, suddenly, the water rippling around him as his eyes peered at the brush beyond. “Show yourself,” He rumbled first in orcish, then followed in elvish, “I do not take kindly to lurkers.” He narrowed his dark eyes, waiting for the intruder to show themself as droplets of water ran down his naked chest and back.