Orc Chieftain

Steel teeth glint in sunset over the dunes of the Barren Lands, and the Orc Chieftain strides at the front of crooked banners, warpaint bleeding into sweat, skin toughened by dust and blood. He is no mere brute: muscle honed by survival, tactics carved from skirmish and raid, voice that commands even when the desert wind howls in defiance.   Beside him, orc ranks shift: clubbers, raiders, wolf-riders, every orc with spoils or scars. Under the Chieftain’s gaze they align, pressing forward into the wasteland’s heat, where enemies cower in ruined forts or hide behind stone outcrops. He sees the dunes like chessboard squares; every dune a flank to exploit, every cloud-shadow a chance to strike.   When battle erupts, the Chieftain does not wait. He leaps atop a broken cart, raises a tooth-spiked war-banner, and roars a name into the blood-red sky. His army charges: dust to feet, metal to flesh, desperation to victory.   The orcs wage war against themselves and all other beings in the Wasteland. The Common Orc Chieftains are the closest thing to a field general the Orc army will ever get.