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Lethrothrak's visions [Orcish Guide]

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You’re lost and unknowing. Your mind burns with a thousand questions;


Come, Uruk. . .”


A hand through the dark beckons for you.


Come and sit by the fire.”


You follow it. The smoke clears. A small fire burns in solitude. You sit by it.


You seek knowledge. . .”


From the shadows comes he: ash-seeped and still. He speaks;


And so I shall grant it unto you.”


Smoke plumes up from the fire. This time thick. This time invasive.


But the Spirits are hard Gods. This will be your only opportunity.”


His voice, a thunderclap, rings out thence: a chant in a guttural and slanting tongue, where the words roll over one another and mesh into pure primordialism. Unhinged, unbridled; all-knowing, melodious in a wild way and percussed only by the beating of your heart, it ensnares you. You feel it in your throat, all throughout your body; in your gut, in your legs- your legs soften. Your arms too. It prys you open, your eyes widen, your ears do not only listen but they hear. You tumble, you’re falling, sinking, the earth swallows you up from all around. . .


And then you wake.


There's no smoke. There’s no heat. No fear. No noise. Only stillness. But sat before you is a spirit of a million eyes:


I am Lethrothrak, He of a Million Eyes, and my knowledge I wish to impart.”




Edited by Letrothak-The-Wise

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Yet, the children of Krug are more than savage brutes, they are touched with kinship and brotherly compassion.”


The world grows dark, the sky crimson with blood. Your mind is clogged with desperation and confusion. All seem calm, until from the very dirt rise ridged figures. Their frame crude and hunched, their cries of war echoing into your eardrums. This was their cry for war, this was their cry for survival.


Another army lofts up from the earth, Orenian knights in the distance. The molds contort shapes, now figures they were. Visages detailed with colour and complexity. Like an artist’s canvas, colours seeped into their flesh. Crimson, Cerulean, Chestnut, Verdant and the tinge of Lavender.

Their leaders pointed towards the tower in which you stand, and forth they charged. The ground shook at their march, and the tower collapsed. . .


Rubble fall onto you, and all goes black.


Orks embrace themselves into units, contingents of culture and creativity. Clans, they call them. These clans care for eachother, fight for eachother, die for eachother. They are united.”


You feel intrigued, you desire the need to socialize, to become one with a people. Out of the darkness, torches emerge, no, forges. Your nose retorts at the stench of sweat and metal. Your eardrums bleed at the sound of metal clanging onto metal, steel screaming against stone. Then, like a medicine mending your thoughts, a song emerged. A dozen of deep voices unified into singularity through music; a show of patriotism and endurance. Your eyes dart across the black, their figures become clear now. Figures of red, crimson like the blood of which was smeared across their palms, worked the machine of industrialism.


Clan Raguk. Theirs is a life seeped in cruelty and endurance. Warlords, the Vanguard, the Unbroken, The Machine, these are but few titles allotted to these behemouth beings. They praise but a sect of Spirits, the Pantheon. Leyd, of which rules with dominance, Gazigash, of which provides hearth to her children with blood, and Gentharuz, he who exists in the metal. With these behind their back, who could stand against them?”


Another ork emerges, his uniform that of bloodred steel and a patriotic cap, a steel jaw ironed to his skull. “Get some, gitz! Wi goin’ to WAAGH! Follow mi!” As if their minds were one, connected to a beehive of creativity and thought, they dropped their tools and charged out; all joining in the call of blood. You stand here, amongst giant structures. The fire of the forges slowly dwindle out, the amount of cinders trickling against your flesh decreasing numerously. Out of the hot pockets of the gears, an overgrowth of vines and life shot; covering and suffocating all life from the concrete walls. Grass and mud springs between your toes; your arms numb from the humid climate. Before you, stands an extensive lake made from mud. Textureless, you misunderstand the point of why you are here, the only sound that of the Swamp’s insects and predatory life. Then, a splash. Fear grasps at your throat as a numerable warband of blue orks spring from the mud. Their intent: crusade. Their visage: Tribalistic Terror.


Clan Lak. By far the most brutal of the clans. Religious and zealous beings, they are. Birthed from the Toad, Laklul, their only goal is to be seated above all else, the unsung lords of nature at Laklul’s feet. Only one stands in their way; Freygoth, but many will be buried at her side. . .”


Just as they emerged from the wildlife, the warriors would seemingly disappear into the bog. Your eyes flick across the rough surface, yet they are nowhere. The only evidence left of their existence being the eerie cold crawling up your backside. . .

The treeline of the bog rattled once. Then twice. Thrice more before it’s roots moved to legs and their trunks springing to arms. They scrambled amongst each other, before their forms grew even more grotesque. Tusks grow from their skulls, and your figure shrinks as you realize what they form. Gigantic orks now all stare down onto you with dormancy, their flesh brown as the bark before.


Clan Braduk. Blessed by Baderkuk’s size, these are of Olog blood. Their figures tower above any unit on the waghfield, their axes as large as human gates. With an extensive history of war, these orks indulge themselves in the practice of retaining and remembering their history, whilst slaughtering those who stand in their warpath.


The tallest one’s heartbeat shook the earth and trembled your core, him peering down towards you. Releasing a deafening and hell formed roar, he lofted his foot up and stamped it down. It’s shadow encompasses you, your being vanishing under his weight. There is nothing now. No sound, no thought, no emotion. Death. Your fingertips start to tingle, your heart beats once more. You think. Your connection with Lethrothrak returned. At last, came vision. You looked down, a sense of security overcoming you, before suddenly a cold knife dragged across your neck. You were tied to a shrine, blood spurting onto your feet. The chants of praise to the spirits came as quickly as the pain. A sacrificial ritual.


Clan Yar. The wisemen of Krugmar. Those who spend their lives as living sacrifices for the spirits, and who dedicate themselves to the shamanic arts. Mysterious and elderly, their intent never known.”


Through all this torture, the beatings, your sense of belonging stood firm. You felt needed; and the clans felt needed to you. As Lethrothrak spoke, the gash extruding from your throat would stitch itself, a spear forming in your hand. The orks of whom stood in front of you, were gone; their replacement being that of wild deer prancing in the woodlands that had now surrounded you. To your side, a tribalistic footmen beckons to you; pointing from your spear towards the animals out front.


Clan Lur. Their dedication to the hunt and to Votar is admirable. Their aim; perfect. Their stamina; unwavering. The most agile of all clans, and perhaps the noblest.  They are the hunter incarnate.”


Your aim grows steady, your breath cold and calculated. A swift pull backwards before sending the spear forth into the herd. Yet; no one sound of pain was sounded. Instead, the engulfing boom of warfare; the stench of burnt flesh and the singing of arrows drowned the air mercilessly. The air grew crimson once more, and from the mud; Terror arose.


Riding forth on a boar, a mighty ork blew a horn, and many more riders emerged from atop the hill; flanking the Orenian knights.


Clan Gorkil. Tacticians and berserkers of Krug’s kin. These mighty orks are thought to be the prime ork. Green, honourable yet succumbing to their bloodlust. Major factors at the Empire of Man’s first loss in this age, the battle of the Gorge. Vengeance for Vorgo’Yar and San’Kharak was had.”


Another horn was blown, and the two oceans of warriors surged forth; you in the middle. Once more, you saw them: The Redskinned, industrious and militaristic forces of Clan Raguk . The Tribalistic zealots of Clan Lak . Baderkuk’s children, the giants of Clan Braduk. The spirits’ favourite, Clan Yar. The huntmen, Clan Lur. The cunning tacticians, Clan Gorkil.

[[Click on the clan names for more info.]]


Fear encompassed your entire being for the last time; yet a sense pride and accomplishment filled your soul. You bend down and pick up a cleaver. You were now part of a unit, your need to belong fulfilled. With this reformed ecstacy, you turn towards the Orenian forces, and let loose a mighty roar.

Edited by Letrothak-The-Wise

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The crimson vapour in the air foldes and engulfs the world around you, an intoxicating refreshment from the taste of blood and sand.


Any soldier knows well the taste of death and the satisfaction of taking life. This does not demonize them, however, for a code of honor is held among all orks of krugmar. Their blessing, yet an ugly curse to behold. . .


The ground beneath you materializes into being once more, the scolding hotoven of the desert. A desolate place, no life to be seen except for the arachnids and scorpions burrowing deep into the sand. A sound shakes your bones, that of armor clanking into the sand. You turn around.

Two orcs, one red and another brown look on towards each other. A braduk and a Raguk; Kharak and a son of Kahn.


They were unarmoring themselves, a sacred ritual of Honor.


Honor. The code that all orks must live by. These two, a son of Leyd and a son of Baderkuk, have come to a disagreement and have met on the field to allow the spirits to decide their fate. Might makes right, Mak’gora.


The two behemoth beings charged forth. A sensation of integrity forms in your heart, respect infectious to your mind. The boom of fists against flesh ring in your ears. The clouds conjure up eyes to look down onto the klomp, a decision was to be made; a victor to be chosen.

As the dispute drew to an end, with blood splattered across the grains of sand, the two orks’ forms turned malnourished, a city building around them. The sand changed their tinge, now verdant in colour and saturation.


Honor. An orcish code to live by, or be subjected to a life of torture and a title of whitewashism.


It was a wood elfen home. Now different orks, these tainted with the aspect’s deception. They grew weak over time, their tusks shrinking into their bone-sculpted frame. You feel the need to recoil in disgust. How could Krug’s kin grow so thin? It was obvious terror had enslaved their minds, for they shivered and trembled at your figure. The door behind you busts open, and a black ork enters, axe in hand and blood splattered across his chest. The scream of whitewash drown the air, but this contorts into a warcry. The walls turn into stone palisades and the two whitewashes seem to rot away and reform themselves. Starvation succeeds you, the city you were in under siege.



San’Kharak. The empire of man required reparations for Vailor’s desolation. Gold, would have been paid. Slaves would have been gifted; but there was one price the orks could not pay;  subjugation and kneeling before the emperor’s toes.


Yet, through the plight of hunger, you held on. So did others.The black, ashen-skinned ork from before patted the shoulders of a Raguk and a dark elven slave, leaving red handprints across their skin.

“Da rezt of da orkz, have they evacuated zafely? Will our way ub life be prolonged?”

The shadowy ork queried, resulting in a nod coming from the Raguk.

“Hozh. Wi stand here as a sacrifice, bruddaz. Gahk lives stand in defiance against an Empire.

Lup-Uzg, brothers.”


The chants in praisal of the owynists drew out, arrows placing themselves against the walls. Two-thousand against three. You felt the need to stand with the trio, to defend until your last breath, yet when the battering ram slew through the wooden gate, the world pulsed away, plunging into darkness.


Honor. The sacrifice of self,  the placement of others above all.  Loyalty to your people, and to your culture.


At last, your soul is built upon. A quintessential sense of integrity finding it’s way there. And even through the darkness and immobility of the vision, you feel no fear.



Edited by Letrothak-The-Wise

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Through the darkness you see a speck of light. You follow it and reach out for it; your fingers even graze it’s silky edge, and as they do, you are thrust into a blaze of luminosity. You find yourself on an auctioneers platform with things of every shape, size and composition jeering and shrieking with delight around you. Behind them stood their overlords- herculean beings.


The spirits and their lessers. It is the way of every uruk to pick a spirit - or rather, a spirit to pick them - unto who they are expected to bestow their everlasting loyalty. . .”


An ethereal uruk stepped forth and began chanting auctioneers drawl in an aged tongue. The chatter from the lessers only got louder, whilst their overlords bidded with promises of every kind. Leyd offered his strength, Votar his knowledge of the hunt, Freygoth her affinity for nature and Glutros his innate lust. Bid after bid poured in, the noise only growing louder and louder; the tide of jeers, shrieks, cries and bellows wash over your form;


And then silence. You are alone. But deep down, a sense of piety has taken root, and before long it will grow into a tree. Yet a tree needs nourishment. You must make your choice: find a spirit to serve.


I can see that you are pious. Pious but misguided- nothing that a shaman cannot fix. . .”


In the distance you notice a flickering bonfire with four figures around it. Out of fear of disturbing them- for they all seemed locked in some transcended, meditative state -you watch from afar:


These are the shaman- arbitrators of the spiritual and bridges between our worlds. Each have different purposes.


Some are Elementalists: those who convene with the elemental spirits of Rock, Water and of Fire.


Some are Farseers: those who impart blessings upon worthy uruks at the behest of the Immortal spirits they convene with.


Some are Lutaumen: speakers of the dead, who through intricate rituals can embrace the power of the ancestors.


Some are witch-doctors: contrivers of curses, hexes and plagues.


These are your guides, and they are to be respected. To trifle with them, is to trifle with the spirits.


A chilled gust blew throughout the plain and extinguished the fire. The shaman, as if statues of sand, collapsed into the ground. With the fire gone, the land descended into darkness; your only company is a starlit sky:


Edited by Letrothak-The-Wise

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Your assumption that Ork anatomy is nothing but of brutish muscle, could be considered false, yet somewhat correct.


You would notice the silence of which drowned the air. Obsidian vapour clogging your throat before a wave consisting of dry sand -  a reduction of water - rolled across the land. Like a bird of prey, it circled from afar; you could swear it’s conformation would react to your mannerisms. Recoiling in fear then protruding once more.

The powerful orkish regime materialized into being from the tar beneath. Golden rain trickling down onto their crude armor. You’ve grown accustomed to their thunderous claps of “WAAAGH” and the choir of their swords as they gash through the air in unison. Yet, their distinction in diversity was noticeable. Small snotlings and gargantuan giants dotted around the function, making their  existence known.


First, the most miniscule of all stepped forth, as you study his irises wearily, you would see a cunning, calculated mind, one a master at tinkering and innovation. Despite his fragile frame, it would be apparent that the creature is a killer; cold in his movements.


Goblins. The smallest and most malnourished of Krug’s children, yet still standing at a tall 4-6 foot.  Though the snotlings, these mischief-inducing warriors are masters at their craft.  Conjuring great warcarts, steam boats or even the famed Ologpult.  They are not to be trifled with.


The Goblin’s throat vibrated as he released an ear bleeding screech, firmly grasping his spear and charging into the horizon; the sandcloud in the distance concealing his form. Next, the tallest, and most grotesque in the army advanced. Rolls of fat and formations of sweat placed unsymmetrically across his body. Drooling, you guess these monsters are not capable of much thought.


Olog-Hai. Gargantuan beasts that tower over even the largest Braduks, standing at even 8-12 foot tall. With a child-like passion for food, these beasts are too imbocilic to react to pain in a negative manner, rather laughing at it’s strange feeling. They speak in long, drawn out sentences encompassing of at mostly grunts and other vile sounds. Perfect for intimidation.


A goblin warrior from the back held out a steak for the Olog, it’s stench seemingly appealing to the moronic brute, before tossing it towards the sandstorm. Bustling and roaring, the beasts ensued. Lastly, the uniform and unified orks remained. They needn’t no introduction. You feel intimidated merely by their unusual silence and the rhythmic pounding of their breath..


Uruks. Famed and feared, intimidating and virtuous. Brutal and known as butcherers. These behemoth warriors are known to tower from 6-8 foot tall. Capable of complex intellectual capacity to rival that of humans, and their drawback being that of appearance. These are a threatening sight on the waghfield.”



Edited by Letrothak-The-Wise

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