Mad orc’s lament

The victors! The howling night where I bashed through the ranks of the enemy and I stabbed their General. Through arrows and lances, we, the glorious few, have brought the torn flag of the Horde to the top of the besieged keep.

Then we retreated and I mended my wounds with wine. They brought me a woman of the enslaved, to ravage her and then eat her heart, for strength. I took her to my tent and cared for her, as frightened and wretched as she was. I washed her and fed her, then I gave her a large flag of her people, made of satin and embroidered with gold – to wear as a robe.

Then I told her in her own language that she would be safe with me, and better cared for then with her own heinous kin. During the night, she ran away. Two human mercenaries caught her and she was found roped between two trees, dirty and bleeding heavily along her inner thighs. They cut her there, after they tied her and raped her. Judging by the smothered blood all over her hips, they raped her again, as she was bleeding, probably while she was unconscious.

They didn’t even mind to wash the traces off their bodies. I relish in death but only on the field of battle. I am a hunter, not an executioner; besides, raping and killing a slave is not a crime for anyone else in the Horde. Fortunately, neither is throwing two mercenaries to the worg’s pen. I held my worg apart from the rest. I didn’t want it to eat such filthy creatures.

I would be a terrible missionary. To be a good one, I would need to give people a motivation, something to fight for, something to live for. And for the life of me, I seem to be unable to do that. My whole being, my whole existence is not sufficient to get anyone to move a finger, or to accept a single word, a single expression of myself.

You know, perhaps I really am worthless and small and unnecessary. Perhaps, even though it took me long enough to realize this, I am not worth a single hour of anyone’s life.
Oh, I am a good warrior. I’m proven, there’s no doubt – it’s not my own scars, it’s the bodies of the fallen, that testify to my prowess. But you see, as good as I may be as a hunter, I am of no value as a prey.

In this great construction that we all roam in, nobody…will…ever…fight…for…me. It’s not the thought itself that shakes me, nor the sudden revelation of it – it is the sheer fact that very few things in this world can account to zero, and this is one of them. My life is shaped for the war, entirely, since I was born – I cannot escape this, nor do I desire to.

There is however one flaw in my being. If I was made for the war, perfectly, without any doubt in my creator’s mind, then why would he create for me the sleep, the dreams, the words, the wishes. I would say the rock trolls are better war machines because they have none of these – but they are dumb and die quickly.

Perhaps there’s a creator’s rule – you give one the mind to trick the enemies, but it comes with feelings. You give one the arms to hold the axes, but it comes with gentle fingers that can caress as well, you give one a mouth with sharp fangs, to roar and bite savagely, but it comes with lips that know how to kiss and whisper. You give one a heart to beat the drum of war and send blood into the blood thirsty eyes – but it comes with a soul that can end its beating simply because it has nobody to live for any longer.


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