Orkäen
The Orkäen—stoic, enduring, and unquestionably forged in fire—present a striking contrast to the seafaring Mhankind, whose arrival and subsequent rise in Aÿshra we explored in the previous chapter (with as much patience as could be reasonably expected). Where the Mhan came by ship, proclaiming banners and cataloguing their every footstep with great enthusiasm and modest accuracy, the Orkäen came by earth—foot, caravan, and sheer, unrelenting grit.
Their ancestral homeland once lay far beyond the Ashen Cliffs in the southwest, a vast and unforgiving region connected to Aÿshra by a scattering of narrow land bridges. For generations, they crossed these bridges and carved their way into the continent—not with grand declarations, but through quiet perseverance. Their migration was slow, perilous, and entirely devoid of the fanfare so characteristic of Mhan historical records¹.
Tragically, much of that homeland no longer exists.
In the later centuries of the First Age, the heavens themselves seemed to turn against the Orkäen. A massive meteor, fiery and deafening in its descent, crashed into their homeland with world-shattering force. The impact obliterated entire regions, reducing mountains to rubble and shattering the already fragile land bridges that once tethered their territory to Aÿshra. The crater still smolders to this day, belching heat and sulfurous fumes into the skies—its exhaust so severe it has rendered what little remains of their homeland a scorched, barely-inhabitable desert wasteland, despite it being so near the frigid southern end of the world.²
Many Orkäen perished in the aftermath. Those who survived fled across Aÿshra, scattering across foreign lands with little more than their memory of what was lost and the iron will to endure what came next. They became refugees, warriors, historians, and wanderers—each carrying fragments of a culture nearly erased in a single night.
And while Mhankind has since planted flags and rewritten maps, the Orkäen have simply endured, as they always have—weathering not just history, but calamity itself.
¹ I once reviewed a Mhan's historical account that credited their first landing with “bringing civilization to Aÿshra.” The Orkäen, I imagine, would have laughed—had they not been too busy building that civilization by hand.-OM
² I have, of course, visited the crater’s edge myself—strictly for research, naturally. The air scorched my eyebrows, my boots fused to the stone, and my assistant has refused to speak of what he saw since. I do not blame him.-OM
Their ancestral homeland once lay far beyond the Ashen Cliffs in the southwest, a vast and unforgiving region connected to Aÿshra by a scattering of narrow land bridges. For generations, they crossed these bridges and carved their way into the continent—not with grand declarations, but through quiet perseverance. Their migration was slow, perilous, and entirely devoid of the fanfare so characteristic of Mhan historical records¹.
Tragically, much of that homeland no longer exists.
In the later centuries of the First Age, the heavens themselves seemed to turn against the Orkäen. A massive meteor, fiery and deafening in its descent, crashed into their homeland with world-shattering force. The impact obliterated entire regions, reducing mountains to rubble and shattering the already fragile land bridges that once tethered their territory to Aÿshra. The crater still smolders to this day, belching heat and sulfurous fumes into the skies—its exhaust so severe it has rendered what little remains of their homeland a scorched, barely-inhabitable desert wasteland, despite it being so near the frigid southern end of the world.²
Many Orkäen perished in the aftermath. Those who survived fled across Aÿshra, scattering across foreign lands with little more than their memory of what was lost and the iron will to endure what came next. They became refugees, warriors, historians, and wanderers—each carrying fragments of a culture nearly erased in a single night.
And while Mhankind has since planted flags and rewritten maps, the Orkäen have simply endured, as they always have—weathering not just history, but calamity itself.
¹ I once reviewed a Mhan's historical account that credited their first landing with “bringing civilization to Aÿshra.” The Orkäen, I imagine, would have laughed—had they not been too busy building that civilization by hand.-OM
² I have, of course, visited the crater’s edge myself—strictly for research, naturally. The air scorched my eyebrows, my boots fused to the stone, and my assistant has refused to speak of what he saw since. I do not blame him.-OM
Basic Information
Anatomy
The Orkäen peoples—gruff, stoic, and seemingly carved from boulders—possess the same general anatomical layout as most humanoid races in Aÿshra: two arms, two legs, a head (occasionally thick), and the standard-issue torso. On paper, they are unremarkably humanoid. In practice, however, they are built like siege towers.
While their skeletal structure is familiar in shape, its density is something else entirely. The Orkäen boast an exceptional fortitude in their bone, muscle, and dermal composition—a fact I learned firsthand when attempting to stop one with a walking stick (a long story, and an even longer limp).
To illustrate: a club capable of shattering an Elven shin would, at best, mildly bruise an Orkäen's leg—and more importantly, greatly irritate them. An arrow that might pass clean through a Mhan’s chest would more likely lodge awkwardly in an Orkäen’s side, resulting in no more than a grunt, a snapped shaft, and possibly a vow of vengeance.
In short, one does not lightly inconvenience an Orkäen. One survives them, avoids them, or, if one must engage, ensures one is uphill and heavily insured.
While their skeletal structure is familiar in shape, its density is something else entirely. The Orkäen boast an exceptional fortitude in their bone, muscle, and dermal composition—a fact I learned firsthand when attempting to stop one with a walking stick (a long story, and an even longer limp).
To illustrate: a club capable of shattering an Elven shin would, at best, mildly bruise an Orkäen's leg—and more importantly, greatly irritate them. An arrow that might pass clean through a Mhan’s chest would more likely lodge awkwardly in an Orkäen’s side, resulting in no more than a grunt, a snapped shaft, and possibly a vow of vengeance.
In short, one does not lightly inconvenience an Orkäen. One survives them, avoids them, or, if one must engage, ensures one is uphill and heavily insured.
Growth Rate & Stages
Orkäen children—affectionately (and somewhat intimidatingly) known as Tusklings—reach physical adulthood somewhere between their 25th and 30th born year, typically marked by the ceremonial loss of their first set of tusks. Yes, tusks—nature's way of ensuring that even their toddlers could, if necessary, gore a melon.
While other races might declare adulthood at the appearance of facial hair or the successful recitation of a trade oath, the Orkäen prefer to wait until their youth can lift boulders, survive blizzards, and stop an argument with a glare. Culturally speaking, they are not considered truly mature until they’ve earned their second set of tusks and at least one enduring scar—preferably both.
As for lifespan, the average Orkäen can expect to live between 130 and 150 years, provided they are not felled by war, wild beasts, or particularly stubborn family feuds. Remarkably, they remain vigorous well into their later decades—a fact which I personally find both awe-inspiring and mildly exhausting to witness.
While other races might declare adulthood at the appearance of facial hair or the successful recitation of a trade oath, the Orkäen prefer to wait until their youth can lift boulders, survive blizzards, and stop an argument with a glare. Culturally speaking, they are not considered truly mature until they’ve earned their second set of tusks and at least one enduring scar—preferably both.
As for lifespan, the average Orkäen can expect to live between 130 and 150 years, provided they are not felled by war, wild beasts, or particularly stubborn family feuds. Remarkably, they remain vigorous well into their later decades—a fact which I personally find both awe-inspiring and mildly exhausting to witness.
Ecology and Habitats
It has long been observed (though rarely appreciated) that the Orkäen tend to run cooler than the average, robustly sweating Mhan. Their core temperature is notably lower, which contributes to their distinct preference for warm—if not outright sweltering—climates. Deserts, volcanic plains, and sun-drenched highlands? Lovely. Alpine passes and coastal frostlands? Less so.
Now, this is not to suggest that the Orkäen are incapable of enduring the cold—perish the thought. They are hardy to the bone (and the bone is quite hardy, I assure you). However, they are far less frequently found in colder regions than one might expect, particularly when one considers the most curious detail of all: their homeland, prior to its rather abrupt obliteration via meteor, was entirely glacial.
Indeed, before the late First Age cataclysm reduced their ancestral territory to a crater-shaped oven, the Orkäen thrived in subarctic environments. Ancient records and oral histories suggest they were once markedly warm-blooded, capable of withstanding near-constant frost and biting wind with nothing but a fur cloak and a bad attitude. The shift to a cooler-blooded physiology is therefore one of the more fascinating (and occasionally inconvenient) adaptations in recent racial evolution.
Naturally, this has sparked no small amount of academic debate. Some attribute the shift to deep magical trauma. Others, like my esteemed colleague Professor Thandrin of the Seledhon Institute, insist on labeling them “cold-blooded”, a classification which is not only biologically imprecise, but also rather rude.¹
¹ Professor Thandrin’s theory, as laid out in his disastrously edited tome, “Bloodlines of Stone,” suggests that Orkäen physiology more closely resembles that of desert lizards than sentient bipeds. I reminded him (politely, at first) that lizards rarely compose poetry, win duels, or deliver scathing funeral toasts—activities the Orkäen are quite accomplished at. He responded by citing “field observations.” I responded by footnoting him into oblivion. The matter is, academically, closed. —OM
Now, this is not to suggest that the Orkäen are incapable of enduring the cold—perish the thought. They are hardy to the bone (and the bone is quite hardy, I assure you). However, they are far less frequently found in colder regions than one might expect, particularly when one considers the most curious detail of all: their homeland, prior to its rather abrupt obliteration via meteor, was entirely glacial.
Indeed, before the late First Age cataclysm reduced their ancestral territory to a crater-shaped oven, the Orkäen thrived in subarctic environments. Ancient records and oral histories suggest they were once markedly warm-blooded, capable of withstanding near-constant frost and biting wind with nothing but a fur cloak and a bad attitude. The shift to a cooler-blooded physiology is therefore one of the more fascinating (and occasionally inconvenient) adaptations in recent racial evolution.
Naturally, this has sparked no small amount of academic debate. Some attribute the shift to deep magical trauma. Others, like my esteemed colleague Professor Thandrin of the Seledhon Institute, insist on labeling them “cold-blooded”, a classification which is not only biologically imprecise, but also rather rude.¹
¹ Professor Thandrin’s theory, as laid out in his disastrously edited tome, “Bloodlines of Stone,” suggests that Orkäen physiology more closely resembles that of desert lizards than sentient bipeds. I reminded him (politely, at first) that lizards rarely compose poetry, win duels, or deliver scathing funeral toasts—activities the Orkäen are quite accomplished at. He responded by citing “field observations.” I responded by footnoting him into oblivion. The matter is, academically, closed. —OM
Additional Information
Perception and Sensory Capabilities
It must be said—begrudgingly, of course—that the Orkäen possess senses far keener than one might expect from individuals who spend a good portion of their lives yelling at the sky or wrestling elk. Most notably, their olfactory and auditory abilities are, in a word, extraordinary. In moments of combat, or during one of their beloved hunts (a pastime they enjoy with the same enthusiasm most people reserve for weddings or war), they are capable of entering what can only be described as a brief, trance-like state.
This meditative focus—likely passed down through generations of not being eaten—allows them to narrow their awareness to a razor's edge. In such a state, an Orkäen can track a target by scent or sound alone from up to two leagues away, which, I must emphasize, is both impressive and deeply unsettling when one is the target in question.¹
Outside of this heightened condition, their remaining senses—sight, touch, and taste—are, I am told, comparable to those of Mhankind. The Orkäen vehemently disagree with this assessment, though I’ve found they disagree with most things, particularly if Mhankind is mentioned in the same sentence.
¹ I once attempted to discreetly leave an Orkäen hunting ceremony before the feasting began, citing a scheduling conflict (and a deep distrust of their fermented root liquor). I was found less than an hour later—hiding behind a mossy outcropping—and gently escorted back by a small child who had “caught my scent on the wind.” Needless to say, I stayed for dinner. —OM
Outside of this heightened condition, their remaining senses—sight, touch, and taste—are, I am told, comparable to those of Mhankind. The Orkäen vehemently disagree with this assessment, though I’ve found they disagree with most things, particularly if Mhankind is mentioned in the same sentence.
¹ I once attempted to discreetly leave an Orkäen hunting ceremony before the feasting began, citing a scheduling conflict (and a deep distrust of their fermented root liquor). I was found less than an hour later—hiding behind a mossy outcropping—and gently escorted back by a small child who had “caught my scent on the wind.” Needless to say, I stayed for dinner. —OM
Civilization and Culture
Common Customs, Traditions and Rituals
It is often said that if you wish to understand a people, look not at their palaces, but their graves. In the case of the Orkäen, I would amend that slightly: look at their forests, their bones, and their impressively well-dressed corpses.
The Orkäen possess no pantheon of deities—not a single skybound god nor flame-wreathed idol among them. Instead, they venerate their ancestors, elevating them to a status most other races reserve for celestial beings or charmingly misbehaving trickster spirits. For the Orkäen, divinity is not above, but beneath—their revered dead believed to dwell within the very stone and soil they walk upon.
When an Orkäen perishes (and assuming, of course, the body is recoverable—a detail not always guaranteed given their enthusiasm for peril), a deeply sacred and meticulously observed ritual begins. The corpse is first anointed in a mixture of honey, ash, and blood—a thick, pungent concoction prepared with great care by the local Magi Mother and her ever-dour assembly of ritual attendants.¹ This ceremonial coating serves as both a preservative and a spiritual conduit, preparing the body for its passage into the ancestral realm. Or so the tradition holds. Personally, having stood rather too close to the preparation basin during one such rite, I can attest that it also functions with remarkable effectiveness as a flytrap. A dual-purpose solution, as it were.
Following the anointing, a processional march commences. Picture, if you will, a solemn parade featuring drums, horns, and the sort of wailing one typically associates with banshees or theater auditions. The body is borne to the commune temple, where the family proceeds to bathe it in springwater and crushed tulips. Delightful scent, tragic symbolism.
Next, the body is laid upon an altar fashioned from bone and hide—yes, truly—where it remains under open sky for a full day and night. This ritual exposes the deceased to both sun and moon, symbolizing their return to the natural cycle. Meanwhile, the clan engages in a celebratory vigil: singing, dancing, feasting, and occasionally, as I observed firsthand, getting aggressively drunk in the deceased’s honor.
By the following moon noon (an Orkäen term for midnight—how poetic), the most sacred act unfolds: the reading of the tattoos. Yes, tattoos—those sacred little ink-bound memoirs the Orkäen so love to collect across their skin, each one a story, a scar, or in some cases, a questionable life decision immortalized in stylized swirls.
You see, the Orkäen tattoo their stories upon their skin throughout life—each mark a chapter, each symbol a deed. Most elderly orcs are practically covered from head-to-toe in tattooes that signify a life well lived. The Magi reads these aloud before the gathered clan, revealing the full tapestry of the departed’s life. Then, the final tattoo is given, across the eyelids, signifying the end of their earthly journey. A tasteful touch, if slightly unsettling in candlelight.
Afterward, the body is carried deep into the forest to a preselected tree—living or dead, that the deceased chose as 'their' tree. The tree is dug up, its roots removed, and the body is laid within the hollow. (And yes, it is as dramatic as it sounds.)
Now comes one of the more peculiar—and dare I say, poetic—moments in the Orkäen funerary rites: the ritual of the Tusklings. These are the clan’s younger initiates, wide-eyed, overly earnest, and frequently covered in dirt for reasons that remain unclear. It is their solemn duty to gather seeds from the surrounding forest—each seed corresponding to a tattoo earned by the deceased in life. Yes, tattoos—those sacred little ink-bound memoirs the Orkäen so love to collect across their skin, each one a story, a scar, or in some cases, a questionable life decision immortalized in stylized swirls.
Once the appropriate number of seeds has been collected (a task made significantly more dramatic by the presence of ceremonial chanting and much directional pointing), the Tusklings cup them carefully in their hands. Then, in a moment of reverent hush, they lean in and whisper their hopes, dreams, and aspirations into the seeds—as though confiding in the forest itself.
According to Orkäen belief, these whispered wishes will travel with the deceased into the afterlife, where the honored ancestor—now presumably reclining beneath a metaphysical tree—will hear them, consider them, and in time, whisper back. Guidance, protection, a well-timed gust of wind—who’s to say how ancestral advice arrives? But the Orkäen believe it does, and more importantly, they act as if it does, which in most societies is functionally the same thing.
And now we arrive at what is, without question, my favorite part of the whole affair: the tree. You see, the tree that once stood sentinel over the burial site is not simply discarded—oh no, that would be far too mundane for the Orkäen. Instead, in the week that follows, the entire family of the deceased gathers around the felled trunk to whittle, hack, carve, and—inevitably—argue over the shaping of a memorial sculpture. It is, I must say, quite the emotional spectacle. Every family member participates, from the most stoic elder to the smallest child barely trusted with a chisel. Each mark carved into the wood is said to be a memory, each gouge a gesture of grief. The completed sculpture, once finished (or declared finished by consensus fatigue), is then affixed to the walls or fortifications of the village. Yes, you heard correctly—it becomes part of the village’s defenses. The symbolism is clear: the ancestors not only watch over their descendants, they quite literally hold up the walls.² But more than that, it stands as a promise: that one day, the spirit of the departed will return, reborn as a tree, to watch over the clan—ever-rooted, ever-watchful, and wholly unable to escape the family arguments that no doubt continue long after death.
A charming belief, truly.
¹ The Magi Mother in question was a formidable woman who corrected my pronunciation with a glance, and who led the ceremony I attended, was a stern woman with bark-like hands and eyes that could wither crops. I admired her immensely. —OM
² I was once invited to contribute a carving myself—an honor, I was told. I produced what I believed to be a rather elegant rendering of a weeping sun over a broken crown (symbolic, obviously). The Magi Mother deemed it "a bit dramatic" and repurposed the plank as firewood. I have since refrained from unsolicited artistic contributions. —OM
The Orkäen possess no pantheon of deities—not a single skybound god nor flame-wreathed idol among them. Instead, they venerate their ancestors, elevating them to a status most other races reserve for celestial beings or charmingly misbehaving trickster spirits. For the Orkäen, divinity is not above, but beneath—their revered dead believed to dwell within the very stone and soil they walk upon.
When an Orkäen perishes (and assuming, of course, the body is recoverable—a detail not always guaranteed given their enthusiasm for peril), a deeply sacred and meticulously observed ritual begins. The corpse is first anointed in a mixture of honey, ash, and blood—a thick, pungent concoction prepared with great care by the local Magi Mother and her ever-dour assembly of ritual attendants.¹ This ceremonial coating serves as both a preservative and a spiritual conduit, preparing the body for its passage into the ancestral realm. Or so the tradition holds. Personally, having stood rather too close to the preparation basin during one such rite, I can attest that it also functions with remarkable effectiveness as a flytrap. A dual-purpose solution, as it were.
Following the anointing, a processional march commences. Picture, if you will, a solemn parade featuring drums, horns, and the sort of wailing one typically associates with banshees or theater auditions. The body is borne to the commune temple, where the family proceeds to bathe it in springwater and crushed tulips. Delightful scent, tragic symbolism.
Next, the body is laid upon an altar fashioned from bone and hide—yes, truly—where it remains under open sky for a full day and night. This ritual exposes the deceased to both sun and moon, symbolizing their return to the natural cycle. Meanwhile, the clan engages in a celebratory vigil: singing, dancing, feasting, and occasionally, as I observed firsthand, getting aggressively drunk in the deceased’s honor.
By the following moon noon (an Orkäen term for midnight—how poetic), the most sacred act unfolds: the reading of the tattoos. Yes, tattoos—those sacred little ink-bound memoirs the Orkäen so love to collect across their skin, each one a story, a scar, or in some cases, a questionable life decision immortalized in stylized swirls.
You see, the Orkäen tattoo their stories upon their skin throughout life—each mark a chapter, each symbol a deed. Most elderly orcs are practically covered from head-to-toe in tattooes that signify a life well lived. The Magi reads these aloud before the gathered clan, revealing the full tapestry of the departed’s life. Then, the final tattoo is given, across the eyelids, signifying the end of their earthly journey. A tasteful touch, if slightly unsettling in candlelight.
Afterward, the body is carried deep into the forest to a preselected tree—living or dead, that the deceased chose as 'their' tree. The tree is dug up, its roots removed, and the body is laid within the hollow. (And yes, it is as dramatic as it sounds.)
Now comes one of the more peculiar—and dare I say, poetic—moments in the Orkäen funerary rites: the ritual of the Tusklings. These are the clan’s younger initiates, wide-eyed, overly earnest, and frequently covered in dirt for reasons that remain unclear. It is their solemn duty to gather seeds from the surrounding forest—each seed corresponding to a tattoo earned by the deceased in life. Yes, tattoos—those sacred little ink-bound memoirs the Orkäen so love to collect across their skin, each one a story, a scar, or in some cases, a questionable life decision immortalized in stylized swirls.
Once the appropriate number of seeds has been collected (a task made significantly more dramatic by the presence of ceremonial chanting and much directional pointing), the Tusklings cup them carefully in their hands. Then, in a moment of reverent hush, they lean in and whisper their hopes, dreams, and aspirations into the seeds—as though confiding in the forest itself.
According to Orkäen belief, these whispered wishes will travel with the deceased into the afterlife, where the honored ancestor—now presumably reclining beneath a metaphysical tree—will hear them, consider them, and in time, whisper back. Guidance, protection, a well-timed gust of wind—who’s to say how ancestral advice arrives? But the Orkäen believe it does, and more importantly, they act as if it does, which in most societies is functionally the same thing.
And now we arrive at what is, without question, my favorite part of the whole affair: the tree. You see, the tree that once stood sentinel over the burial site is not simply discarded—oh no, that would be far too mundane for the Orkäen. Instead, in the week that follows, the entire family of the deceased gathers around the felled trunk to whittle, hack, carve, and—inevitably—argue over the shaping of a memorial sculpture. It is, I must say, quite the emotional spectacle. Every family member participates, from the most stoic elder to the smallest child barely trusted with a chisel. Each mark carved into the wood is said to be a memory, each gouge a gesture of grief. The completed sculpture, once finished (or declared finished by consensus fatigue), is then affixed to the walls or fortifications of the village. Yes, you heard correctly—it becomes part of the village’s defenses. The symbolism is clear: the ancestors not only watch over their descendants, they quite literally hold up the walls.² But more than that, it stands as a promise: that one day, the spirit of the departed will return, reborn as a tree, to watch over the clan—ever-rooted, ever-watchful, and wholly unable to escape the family arguments that no doubt continue long after death.
A charming belief, truly.
¹ The Magi Mother in question was a formidable woman who corrected my pronunciation with a glance, and who led the ceremony I attended, was a stern woman with bark-like hands and eyes that could wither crops. I admired her immensely. —OM
² I was once invited to contribute a carving myself—an honor, I was told. I produced what I believed to be a rather elegant rendering of a weeping sun over a broken crown (symbolic, obviously). The Magi Mother deemed it "a bit dramatic" and repurposed the plank as firewood. I have since refrained from unsolicited artistic contributions. —OM
