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A PEACEFUL SLEEP


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[!] Thraaluk’Gorkil, the child of eight kakti-weeks from the notorious Gorkil clan returns home from a successful raid upon the Aaunite, Minitzers. His face stained red from ritualistic runes he painted upon his face from the blood of his very first kill. [!]

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A calm night. Not like the ever heating days that the sun gives out to the empty dunes of the desert, and yet not too cold like the blowing winds of the north. Thraaluk’Gorkil rested from his second raid, another success within his military and orcish career. A good sign this had meant to him, a sign showing that he had not lost his war-culture; he had not lost the culture of his clan for being too long from their hall. 

 

And yet, the young cub of the Gorkil clan could not rest his eyes for fear of his own mind. There were many tales he had heard, mostly from the soldiers his people had captured. The tales of how horrible the nights are after each kill, the first being the most vile. 

 

Thraaluk, however, felt indifferent. He had not felt guilt or regret for killing the man. Instead, he felt relief and release from the chains of his bloodthirsty curse that bound him to an ever need to kill. 

 

He was confused. He sat in bed, his Gorkil boar curled up to his side, and thought about his ancestors. He thought about how they dealt with the curse; he thought of the possibilities and the improvements he could make to his own rage and anger that grew and grew within him. 

 

Nevertheless, Thraaluk was still only eight. His mind could not think as well as much as he wanted to. His brain gave out, and the child rested his eyes.


 

With him free’d from the clutches of Iblees, the Uruk had rested the best sleep of his life.


 

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