Orcs

This race is currently considered rare in the lands of Eramere, and must be unlocked by a DM to be playable at this time. Please contact Ast'aera, DM Hrasqueel or DM Faergol if you wish to do so.

Stats

+2 Strength
+1 Wisdom
-2 Intelligence

Darkvision: Orcs can see in the dark up to 60 feet
Scent: Allows you to track creatures, including those that are hiding or invisible.
Long Gait: An orc can move faster than the average humanoid.
Track: Orcs get the Track feat for free.
Weapon Proficiency(Orc): Orcs are proficient with all martial weapons.
Bonus Feat: Great Fortitude

Favored Class: Barbarian

The Orcs

Orcs are large, powerful humanoids who inhabit the swamp known as the Omgi Ztehh -Once Still- a dark, fetid place overrun by undead who spill out of the dark, swirling mists of that dangerous place. Natural warriors by nature, upbringing, belief and tradition, Orcs are violent combatants when taken on face to face. The most threatening of their ranks, known as Imjirz; literally Enders- have been known to sometimes rip their foes in twain bare-handed when they're taken with Tli Gahh; The Call- a furious, destructive red haze of violence. Oddly, though, Orcish attacks, while the stuff of stories and even legends, are often few and far between.

In normal circumstances, individual Orcs are proud, if grim warriors of simple respect, for those who prove themselves worthy of such. Normally reasonable, if simple in pursuits and focuses, unless something should cause him to hear The Call, or, potentially more dangerously, discover an Onim; literally Omen. Little enough is known about the importance of omens to the Orcs, though some accounts that were handed down from survivors, hint that omens are strongly involved with Orcish violence, often heralding a time and need for violence and bloodshed. These Onim are perceived to be a divine call from their patron Overseer, Lethe. It is well known to the natives of Eramere that when the Last Lady makes her call for something, anything, to be ended it will be the Orcs who hear her call and obey.

Orcs are normally divided by clans, which are collections of individuals related by blood, though these families can be extended, who inhabit sturdy but portable structures constructed on the edges of the Omgi Ztehh, and who move along the edge of the swamp, or the foothills and mountains nearby as season and pursuits dictate. The entirety of the Orcish people is called the tribe, and orcs have a strong sense of pride in both their individual families, their collective clans, and especially their tribe, viewing themselves as powerful and honorable warriors who sharpen themselves to be the weapons of the Withering Hand, the Overseer known in other lands as Lethe. Among the other races of Eramere the Orcs are extended a silent respect due to their unwavering honor even in the face of death. To betray an Orc is to seal ones fate, or so it is said.

If nothing else, the ability of the tribe to endure and survive on the edge of some of the most inhospitable environments known, speaks volumes to Orcish physical resilience and spiritual devotion.

Onim Agi; Meglt of Jimeah - Omen Age; Night of Denial

A tale shared by all orcs, the Meglt of Jimeah began suddenly and abruptly. For generations, beyond living memory, the Orcs told tales, handed down by shamen and kin, of the great stirring of the the swamp that gave the ominous mire it's name, but those tales could never have prepared the tribes for what they faced. In the middle of an ominously dark, clouded night, the Omgi Ztehh began to roil and seethe, frothing violently. Never a peaceful place, long ago having abandoned the calm that was only believed to have once been, the mire screamed and roared with the howls of the waking, walking death, the terrible screeching of bones upon bones, the sloshing of mud, murk and flesh, the shaking of deep mangroves and the canopy above. The howling only rose in volume, and the earth shook beneath Orc feet- but Orc voices rose in furious roars to meet the screams of the Omgi Ztehh, war cries to the Withering Hand, and rallying cries mingling in a terrible cacophony as clans around the swamp's edge answered in kind.

Gathering in their masses, warriors of every age arrived prepared for battle, blades and spears in hand, scores and hundreds of warriors flowing around the edge of the swamp, tracking the cacophony and tremors of the very earth under foot, moving with all the speed they could to gather their strength and take the fight to the unseen foe. Shrill screams, chilling cries, and a rumble of groans rolled through the night-mist and gloom, met by more Orcish war cries. Proudest warriors forced their way to the fore, massed upon the bank of the swamp, as shamen moved among them, anointing each with thick pigment, a pair of lines upon the face to mark them should they fall in battle, and rise to face their kin, so that the glory of putting them back down could be claimed. Only once anointed so for battle, could a warrior wade into the waters, and wade they did, up to their thighs in the muck, and murk, weaving through brambles and vines, to take their place, to have their chance at battle.

Out of the mists and gloom, the horde appeared slowly, an indistinct mass taking shape in the night, a dark mass only barely distinguishable for the abrupt shifting of it's form. As the sight came into clarity, eager Orc anticipation presented itself with a silent intensity that could break lesser beings by sheer dint of its presence. From the depths and mists of the Omgi Ztehh arose the walking dead in numbers so incredible, vast and terrible, that the undead walked upon a carpet of still writhing undead that were trampled, their numbers collapsing under their own weight, more still clawing and marching with a horrible determination and inevitability. After a moment of disbelieving shock, a furious roar arose, a single scream of fury, which exploded into a defiant cacophony of war cries, the unknown enemy had arrived and the surprise at their opponents composition quickly faded, replaced by raw, grim challenge.

Breaking into a charge, the Orcs surged forward through the murk and mud, churning the swamp with the force of their approach. The two sides came crashing down upon each other, Orcish weapons and flesh falling upon undead bodies. Warriors, already taken with their battle fury, fell upon the mass, great blades hacking through fetid flesh, yet the losses were only the least drops in the mass of undeath that pushed back against powerful warriors, the sheer weight of bodies all pushing forward. Despite the ferocity of the Orcish charge, the effort broke in the face of the horde, warriors stopped mid-stride as lines collided. Weapons clashed, undead hands and claws meeting Orcish fists and shields, as the two sides pressed in on each other, figures on both sides of the line of conflict struck down, sinking beneath the murk, the fallen becoming a carpet of bodies that both sides fought over, standing upon for position against the other.

Voices rose from the bank of the swamp and brilliant light flashed, radiating out and crashing down from above as priests called upon the powers bestowed upon them to bring divine gifts against the horde. A shudder ran through undead ranks as Orcish fists, blades and voices rose anew, flashes of divine light hammering down from above and tearing into the ranks of the undead. Supplications rose in the terrible din of battle, the sloshing and sucking sounds of much and mud as the undead reached the bank, and warriors dug caked boots and wet, filthy feet into the ground to try to gain footing once more.

Ranks thinned on both sides of the battle as warriors and undead alike flowed towards the edges of the battle, sheer numbers spreading and rushing to envelop, or prevent, to fight, eager warriors falling upon mindless undead. Yet behind the ranks of the battle, more undead flowed Northward, free of harassment, away from the swamp and towards the forest, as Orcs fought viciously to try to break through the line of battle to flow through and engage even more beyond, instead ground to a stalemate of terrible violence, denied the chance to engage the undead that spilled in vast numbers towards the elven forest. This night, would be known as the Night of Denial, though powerful warriors fell and rose, legends made and clan names immortalized for generations to come, by the battle that was joined that night.

The Orcs stopped the dead in their tracks, holding them there through sheer devotion and personal sacrifice to Lethe. No Orc retreated, no Orc shrunk from his duty, and no Orc on the battle lines of the Omgi Ztehh ever will for so long as the tribe lives and breathes as one.

To this very day the battle rages on in the Omgi Ztehh with the Orcs holding the line of endless battle. Though the fighting has lessened in intensity since the Night of Denial it is still as deadly to this day. If the Orcs relent for just one day it is feared that the Undead may envelope the entire North Eastern region of Eramere, swallowing whole the land thereafter. It is due to this that the native races of Eramere say a silent word of thanks when passing nearby Orc held lands, fully knowing that if it was not for those Harbringers of Lethe . . . all could fall.

More information on the Orc Clans, history, and location can be found within the Orc forum, for Orc players.