Gorvash the Pallid

Years ago, Gorvash the Pallid walked into the wastes beyond the Kingdom of Khymia to test his faith. He took nothing but his bow.

He fasted until his pale skin pulled tight over bone. He carved prayers into his flesh with a dull knife and survived on whatever the barren land offered, which was almost nothing.

Other orcs found him there. Failures, exiles, those rejected by their tribes. They watched this skeletal figure shoot his bow with shaking hands, meditate through sandstorms, and refuse to die when death seemed certain. Some stayed. Gorvash never asked them to. But watching him endure gave them something they'd lost.

Years passed. Gorvash's trial continued, and his followers learned what faith looked like when stripped to bone.

Then the ground began to skip. Time stuttered across the wastes. Rocks aged to sand, then reformed. Gorvash's reflection flickered in pools of rainwater, young, old, dying, reborn. He learned that Palifala Weslinath of the Conclave Arcana was tearing reality apart.

When word reached the wastes that the Silver Shield was marching against her, Gorvash ended his trial. He walked back to Khymia, bone-thin and weathered, his followers at his heels. The Order welcomed him.

Now Gorvash marches north with the Silver Shield. The orcs who follow him fight like they're possessed. They see their teacher still standing. If he can endure, so can they.

Gorvash nocks another arrow. His hands shake. The bow twangs. Behind him, his followers roar and charge.