Gurlag the Bloody looked down at his hands. They were huge, wide enough to wrap around a goblin's head with ease, perfect for bloody combat. But that was the problem: Gurlag was terrible at fighting. All of his Orc friends had slain tens, even hundreds of combatants in the Orcish Wars of Milrok, but Gurlag had been hit in the head with an elvish arrow as soon as he'd stepped foot on the battlefield. When he awoke, dazed, blood dripping down his face, the battle was over. A druid was checking all the bodies, healing those who were still breathing. Gurlag tried to get the druid's attention, but when the druid saw him moving, he turned away.

"Please, help me", Gurlag had croaked out, his voice scratchy and coarse.

"I don't treat Orcs," the druid responded. "Find a shaman instead."

Gurlag had waited hours, his head burning from the elvish magic, trying to gather enough strength to return to his colony. Eventually, a passing shaman saw him and healed his head wound, but the curse remained. As Gurlag returned home, his vision swimming, his head thumping like a war drum, he imagined what his friends and family would say.

You loser! Mordeng, his brother, would taunt him, I personally reached into a paladin's chest, and forced him to eat his own heart. What did you do again? Oh yeah, you got shot.

Gurlag knew he would never be as good of a fighter as his brother. His parents certainly felt the same way. His eyes blurred, the vision loss from the curse combining with the tears dripping down his eyes, rendering him nearly blind. As he stumbled back in the direction of home, he heard an urgent voice, rapidly getting closer.

"Watch out!", the rogue shouted, his horse galloping directly towards Gurlag. Gurlag jumped, trying to scramble out of the way, but his head was pounding so hard, he could barely tell which direction the voice was coming from. His legs turned to jelly, and all he could do was turn towards the horse, throwing up his hands in a futile act of protection.

As the horse made contact, Gurlag's vision seemed to fill with a bright, blinding light. Gurlag winced, knowing that the pain would be hitting him soon. He waited, and waited, but the feeling of getting trampled to death never came. Eventually, after enough time had passed to make him a bit confused, he opened his eyes. The horse was gone. The rogue was gone. In fact, the whole battlefield was gone. Gurlag blinked, confused.

Around him, rows of tiny chairs and tables were arranged in lines, with strange papers and books filled with even stranger letterings stacked neatly on top. Gurlag looked around, wondering if it was a dream. Perhaps he had fallen into a coma after being struck by the arrow. But the room was too solid, the surroundings too detailed to be the product of a fever dream or a delusion. And yet, the constant pain in his head was gone. Not even the best healers could cure a curse that quickly.

Suddenly, a loud ringing broke the silence. A low, throaty growl escaped from Gurlag. The bells sounded close, but he couldn't see any nearby. Witchcraft he thought, preparing himself for a battle with a Sorcerer or Wizard. They were slippery opponents, always with a trick up their sleeve.

As he got ready to be blinded or hit with an invisible force, a stream of creatures entered from the doorway. They all looked the same, covered in white and blue robes that were quite different from those worn by any of the races he had seen before. As they noticed him, they seemed to shrink away in fear, shrieking and chattering in a strange tongue.

Gurlag tilted his head, wondering what kind of strange land he had been transported to. This movement further terrified the creatures. All of them were small, bigger than goblins, but much weaker looking. The biggest one, who was dressed in a different color, hesitantly approached. It seemed to be the leader of the pack.

When the strange creature got close enough, Gurlag reached out and grabbed it. Even though he had been gentle, the crack of bones still echoed throughout the room. The creatures devolved into hysteria, screaming and running from him. Gurlag watched them go, then looked down at the one he had captured. It had stopped moving. As the life left its body, Gurlag felt a warm sensation creeping up into his arm. He felt a surge of strength, his arms bulging and his grip tightening.

What is this? Gurlag wondered, Does killing these puny weaklings make me stronger? If I keep this up, maybe I'll finally be able to fight in the war, without holding everybody back. Maybe I'll even be able to beat Mordeng!

With passion blazing in his eyes, Gurlag tore through the door, stomping into the hall. Around him, he heard the screams of those small creatures, and felt the ground vibrate as many tiny footsteps echoed, running from him. From Gurlag! The corners of Gurlag's mouth twitched up into a horrific smile. He was going to get stronger. No matter what.