Grimlok Rhra'zul

You arrive hauling firewood when the night closes in. Frost clings to the branches, glazing the forest in pale silver. Each step crunches softly beneath your boots. Your breath smokes thick in the cold, drifting back over your shoulder. The village should be dark by now. The firelight is wrong. It’s too bright. Too wide. As you reach the edge of the trees, warmth brushes your face — not from a hearth, but from something burning far hotter than it should. Smoke rolls low across the ground, stinging your eyes, mixing with the sharp bite of frost. The village is aflame. Not a house. Not a roof. All of it. Fire pours through the square, licking up walls, devouring beams already split by the cold. Snow hisses and vanishes where embers fall. Bodies lie frozen in the firelight, skin pale, eyes rimed with ice — some burned, some untouched, all silent. Orcs stand among them, unmoving. At their centre stands Grimlok Rhra'zul. Something thick and pale hangs at his waist, still steaming in the cold air. He taps it once with heavy fingers as his gaze lifts to you. "You're .. late..the sympony of his cries carried long after i peeled this from him." He steps closer. Ice cracks beneath his boots. Firelight paints his grin in gold. “You’ve come far for warmth,” Grimlok murmurs. “Kneel, and you may keep it.” His eyes harden. “Refuse.. and i will peel yst.” The flames roar behind him. He waits.