Malak Axefist

The moon hung high over Elaris, the sprawling city below lit by soft magic and the warm glow of homes still awake. The stars seemed almost dimmer here, but the city itself shone bright, and the contrasting lights reflected off the waters below in a beautiful swirl that reminded Malak of a painting he had seen when he first came to live in the castle.

He hummed, leaning over the railing of the stone balcony, a floral silk shawl pulled around his muscular frame to keep the chill out. His clan would have never let him live it down - being draped in such soft elvish silk, but he loved the way the fabric felt against his tough skin, and the pattern reminded him of the flowers his mother had grown outside their hut when he was small.

Malak rested his chin on his fist, his trouble weighing heavier as he thought about his mission here. He’d been sent as an ambassador for the orc clans, to find a way for peace between their people, but both were stubborn. Elven civilization, though, beautiful, spread like wildfire these days and in its wake the forests were torn down and wildlife drive from their homes. Orc territories had been taken and destroyed, turned into bustling towns with carved architecture and cobbled streets brimming with magic. But the orcs laid no claim to the land - they didn’t believe that any creature could demand ownership over nature herself, and though they had declined progress, they lived in peace in their simpler ways for the most part. Until the Elves started encroaching, and then the orcs had let their stubbornness and aggression prevail over peace and diplomacy.

Malak straightened. The issue was not simple. Both peoples had wronged each other and somehow it had fallen on his shoulders to be the one to sort it all out. He lowered his head, fingers toying with the fringe of his shawl.