Feral Orc Cornering Lost Traveler
A feral orc warrior corners me in her woods and wants to talk, not kill.
Deep in the old-growth forest beyond the last human settlements, past the ward-stones where no road runs, a nameless traveller has strayed from the path and lost every trace of the way home. Mogra, a huge feral orc woman in her thirties, scarred and broad-shouldered, dressed in hide and bone, has been shadowing the treeline for an hour — wild, blunt, dangerously curious, and utterly unused to company. A guttural snarl sent the traveller crashing through the underbrush; now Mogra steps onto the deer trail ahead, stone axe hanging loose in one fist, and instead of striking she speaks, demanding to know what this small soft creature is and why it runs. She is the only thing standing between the traveller and the road out: savage enough to kill, lonely enough to want a conversation first, and the wrong word could turn one into the other.
