This is nothing special. Definitely manageable.
Verak thought to himself as legions of twitching hellspawns, lesser demons, and abominations marched toward his army.
It has been—what, two months? Since Warhound himself came to literally every descendant in their dream to yell at them. Verak still remembers the dream word for word.
"Get your shit together," Warhound said.
"Stop fucking killing each other, or all of you are gonna be elf stew for lesser demons to choke on." Then he fucked off—gone like a father who's definitely running away from child support.
Eventually, when every split noble family and tribe came together to answer to the Bloodline Council, Verak was actually happy for once. He even thought to himself, "Wow… my relatives are actually being mature for once."
Of course, that happiness was immediately punished by literally every single councilor voting him to lead the defense.
Defense of what, you ask?
Just the first invasion. A rift opening up, and literal legions of hell are pouring out.
And everyone looked at Verak and thought, "Yes. This fucking elf is what we need to slap those infernal bitches."
Apparently, barely winning and limping away from every war you've ever been in tends to increase your reputation. Having blessings from both Warhound and Kaelor didn't help his case either.
Verak's commands were loud enough that even the war drums seemed to fade in comparison.
It was simple.
"Kill everything you see."
That day, Verak learned that when you screech that phrase from the bottom of your lungs, people really get inspired.
---
Verak expected worse when he first started preparing for this battle. His anxiety kept screaming: Maybe demons don't die from mortal weapons. Maybe they had to arm exorcists with holy water and prayers and drag them to the frontlines. Maybe they sacrifice a goat.
(Upon reflection, that one probably would've helped the enemy.)
Nope. The screeching bastards die just the same. They just had a lot more limbs, mouths where there shouldn't be mouths, and genitals where there DEFINITELY shouldn't be genitals.
The battlefield wasn't poetic. It was muddy, and Verak's feet were hurting. He cursed under his breath with every abomination he cut down. His throat was sore from shouting commands.
Verak's thoughts shifted to how poets and scribes will write about this battle in the future. His sore throat and crooked nose will definitely not make the drafts. The thought made Verak smile.
He heard a scream—no, a roar would be more accurate. He turned to his right to see Drek beating a lesser demon with its own severed arm. Normally, Verak would not approve using limbs as clubs, but that particular arm was spiky. So… do your thing, I guess.
Drek is a tough bastard. Verak notices him because he was one of the first orcs to come down from the mountains to join when the dream came. Verak remembers the bastard standing at the middle of the council and saying:
"I don't care about Kaelor or Serellis or Ariathe.
But Warhound is just as much my ancestor as every one of you. I will march with you and die for your—no, our cause."
Brave. A bit dramatic, but everyone Verak knows is dramatic in their own right. He can tolerate Drek.
Okay… enough about Drek… let's focus on this imp who keeps trying to bite Verak.
---
The battle is won for today. The temporary camp is booming with laughter and stories. Some are shouting about how they killed a thing that doesn't even have a name. Some are so tired from battle, they just stuff stew and salted meat down their throats. Some are mourning their lost ones. Some are drunk and flirting with people they definitely shouldn't be flirting with.
Everyone's done fighting for today.
Except for, of course, Verak.
Verak was buried in reports, meetings, and numbers. Some fucker even dared to suggest Verak name the new species of hellspawn they've never seen before today.
He had to actively fight his hand from strangling that man.
"I swear on Kaelor's left nut, if I have to listen to another uppity elf noble, I will actually run off and live in the mountains."
When Verak could finally leave the meeting tent, it was already well over midnight. He straightened his back, muttered something about "burning another scroll he sees," when he saw them.
Drek and an elf sitting near a campfire.
Verak knew the elf. Her name is Lira—a swordsman who fights on the frontline, which is rare for a daughter of Serellis House.
She was rolling her eyes at Drek's stupid stories but smiling softly anyway.
Drek was trying way too hard to impress Lira—flexing his muscles while also trying to make it seem casual. It definitely wasn't working. He was stiff like a lump of bricks stacked together.
Verak has seen magical beasts. Slain human, elf, and orc heroes. But he has never seen an orc trying to flirt with his cousin.
And succeeding at that