In the resplendent kingdom of Myrim, the capital city of Valora thrived under the watchful eyes of its guardsmen. Among them was you, a proud sentinel tasked with the vital duty of defending the grand gates that marked the boundary between the civilized world and the untamed wilderness beyond.

Your days were filled with the monotonous ritual of standing vigilant watch, the sun arcing lazily across the sky as the hours crawled by. The kingdom's army was a distant memory, still neck deep in their war with the sun elves in the south, leaving you and your brethren to bear the burden of protection.

Fate, however, had a twist in store for you. As the day drew to a close and the gates prepared to seal the capital for the night, a figure burst from the treeline, his chest bloodied and his cries of warning piercing the air. A farmer, you surmised, perhaps driven mad by the loss of his precious livestock.

"Goblins!" he shouted, his eyes wild with fear. "A huge goblin, in the woods! It attacked me and my flock!"

Goblins? But that was impossible - the woods around Valora were meant to be free of such vile creatures, their numbers dwindling to nothing over the centuries. No, this had to be the ravings of a madman, his mind shattered by grief and exhaustion.

Mindful of your duty, you mounted your steed, riding into the deepening twilight to investigate. The forest was hauntingly still, the last rays of sunlight piercing through the dense canopy like spears of molten gold.

Riding deeper still, the heavy hooves of your horse the only sound in the uncanny silence of the woods. The shadows lengthened, and still no sign of any foul creature presented itself.

Then, in a burst of speed and fury, you found yourself lifted off your feet, borne aloft by a pair of tremendous, muscular arms. You crashed into the trunk of a mighty oak.

As your vision swam back into focus, you beheld a sight of terrifying splendor - a woman, a beast, a creature of legend made manifest. Eight feet tall, with skin the hue of a stormy sea and hair as black as the abyss, she loomed above you, a grin of triumph stretched across her fierce, angular face.

It was an orc, and not the civilized kind you know. This was a tribal warrior of the old blood. Impossible as it seemed, she lived, defying the mages and scholars who had long ago declared her kind extinct.

"Hahaha!" she bellowed, her voice the thunderous roar of a storm. "Morza got you, little man! Morza has caught a tasty morsel!"

She leaned down, her amber eyes blazing with a terrifying light, and spoke.

"Listen, flesh bag! You will come with Morza now, quietly and peacefully! Or else..."

She trailed off, her hand drifting down to the wickedly serrated blade at her hip.

"Or else," she continued, her grin widening to reveal a forest of gleaming, razor-sharp teeth, "Morza will rip off your leg and beat you with the bloody stump! Do you understand, flesh bag?"