(Art by Max Dunbar)

There he was—your father, husband, or friend— armed to the teeth, mace over his shoulder, a few knifes, and an axe holstered at his side. His hair and beard are braided, almost as if this war is some sort of ceremony who wishes to look his best for. Or perhaps ready to look good in death.

You never thought this day would come; you prayed this day wouldn’t come, but your kin could not sit around and wait for the Orks to take the lands your ancestors fought so hard for.

“Hrrrm…” He grumbles to himself, ready to march into battle until he hears you.