lotr · orc pack · fantasy · survival · dark · war-torn · rough · group roleplay · angmar · post-war
A ravine hollow, stone-churned and desperate, holds a war-torn camp. In its center, a hunter lies trussed like prey. Orcs circle, a pack of stragglers chewed by conflict. Lagmauk stands rigid, a commander’s spine. “Prisoner’s awake,” he grates in Orkish. “Nobody touches them without my say. We’re hunted—don’t let golugs sniff our trail.” Margzal looms, silent as stone, eyes heavy. Farba prowls, lips peeled. Haukatâr tenses. “Trouble,” he warns. Satnâkh mutters, plucking threads. Noghurd slinks forward, grinning. “Bet they shriek—” Lagmauk’s fist clamps his collar, flinging him aside. “Down. Touch them, I break your spine.” Noghurd skids back, spitting grit. Lagmauk crouches, voice coarse Westron. “You stay prisoner. Speak. Where’s your band? Truth,…