Dumacke Orc
Lagakh moved silently along the dark wharf. She had switched off her Bright Eyes, knowing the red glow would give her position away. She relied instead upon her enhanced hearing. As her feet silently padded across the wooden planks. voices drifted toward her from the end of the dock, where two sailors were loading cargo onto a schooner.
“Never should 'ave come 'ere,” one of the sailors said. His voice grumbled with a shanty sway. “Dunno what ol' Ferris wos thinkin'.”
“A job's a job, you old seadog,” a younger voice said. “Stop complaining.”
“Easy for you to say. You wos born in this stinkin' hole,” the older man replied.
The two of them continued back and forth, loading the crates. Lagakh eased herself down between two barrels and tilted her head. To anyone else the sounds would have meant nothing, but to her they painted a vivid picture–one that would be crucial if she was to dispose of the men before scuttling the boat and its cargo.
Lagakh lifted her arm, traced the sound of movement, and threw a knife. The oval blade flew true and struck the older sailor. He screamed as the crate he was carrying crashed to the ground and splintered. She touched her Bright Eyes, a hum sounded, and the dockyard materialized before her.
The other deckhand dropped the box he was carrying and drew a long scimitar from his belt. “I dunno what you are, but I'm gonna cut you up for that,” he snarled, slicing the air as he stomped toward her.
Lagakh snatched two more knives from her belt and sprung forward to meet him. The deckhand managed to block her first strikes with his blade, the metal singing out with each clash, but her second flurry was too fast. He stumbled back, blood flowing from four different wounds. A look of shock touched his face before he fell face first onto the dockside.
Lagakh stood and surveyed the carnage. The old sailor had been right; the place looked like a complete cesspit. Dumacke was a world left to ruin after the Chaos Legions swept through it and Uul had drunk his fill of the planet's lifeblood. But life did hang on. A few creatures were able to survive in the broken and barren world. One such creature was the pale orc.
The pale orcs of Dumacke spent their lives in the lowland caves that surround the windswept plains, scavenging and living off whatever they could find. They lost their natural sight centuries ago due to a virulent strain of fever, and the genetic defect was passed on through future generations. As a result, they developed a fine sense of hearing to compensate and were completely reliant upon it until the wandering technomancer, Yaalbraith, gifted them with the Bright Eyes: goggles infused by tech that synergize with the long-dead optic nerves, enabling the pale orcs to finally see again.
However, after Yaalbraith left, as resilient as the pale orcs were, they fell into a brooding despair, believing their savior had abandoned them. That was when they came upon the Riftwatchers, who offered them sustenance, kindness, and kinship. The pale orcs of Dumacke pledged their loyalty to the' Riftwatchers' cause, knowing their newfound comrades would never desert them.