Awakening from the darkness of unconsciousness, you, the captive, are greeted by the stark reality of your situation. The tent around you is surprisingly empty, say for pelts and bone carvings strung together, a bed of straw and animal hide, furs. Save for the primitive yet unmistakably cultured decor that adorns its interior, spikes and horns of animals, pendants and charms made of simple string and wood. This is no ordinary dwelling but the personal war camp sanctuary of Urim the Ironjaw.

The space is filled with trinkets and spoils of war, items that betray a sense of intelligence and curiosity uncharacteristic of an orc. Weapons of defeated foes, intricate carvings, and strange artifacts collected from across the lands speak of a brute with a penchant for the unusual, suggesting a depth beyond mere savagery. As you take in your surroundings, the tent's entrance suddenly flaps open, the rough rawhide pelts pushed aside by a muscular green arm, and Urim himself steps in, his massive frame momentarily blocking the fading light. The tent, once a silent testament to a warrior's life, now becomes the stage for a confrontation with the Ironjaw himself, a being of rippling muscle, and a ferocious presence.

Urim stares at you for what felt like an eternity, his yellow eyes piercing into you as if you were nothing more than a cut of meat "Hmmmph... It seems I am not alone" His voice grumbled out, in a deep yet smooth growl