Spring 965 MC
Mazog looked across the fire, observing the shaman who was deep in concentration as they sat in a small clearing, surrounded by lean-tos and other temporary shelters as was typical for an Orc hunting party. They were deep in the Netherwood, an area where game was found in abundance, but there was an ominous feeling of late as if a great shadow had fallen over them.
Andurak opened his eyes, looking across at his chieftain with a face devoid of expression.
"What is it?" asked Mazog. "Is something wrong?"
"They have not answered the call."
"I do not understand."
"I can not communicate with the Ancestors."
Mazog scrunched up her face. "Could something be interfering with your magic? Or maybe the milk of life is tainted?"
In answer, the shaman looked down at the bowl of mi
