It was a long way from the southern moors to the mountainous steppes of the Wolfspine mountains. Kogan was grateful for his species' fortitude, the cold little more than an annoyance against his bare chest and arms. He wore lion skin trousers and heavy, mammoth fur boots with iron souls. Several leather straps across his barrel trunk supported an array of weapons, most crude and some even made from the teeth or horns of foreign animals native to the eastern plains. A burlap cloak covered his shoulders and back, a fur sheath containing his Orichalcum battle ax, a family heirloom forged from the unique orcish metal mined in Orical, the ancient, lost homeland of his ancestors.<br/><br/>The ground beneath his iron souled boots was frozen and hard but recent rains had rendered it muddy not long ago and he could distinctly see the impressions from many other boots and hooves. That, coupled with the destruction which lined the trail let him know he was on the right path. The small village of Elk's Gnole had been decimated, it's thatch buildings burnt, the bodies left to the cold. No one had survived.<br/><br/>The Wolfspine mountains were smack dab in the middle of the border between Mahakem, the dwarven kingdoms, and the coastal Empire of Trest. And neither regime was eager to lay claim to them. They were home to a hardy people, used to hard work and a harsh lifestyle. The lawlessness of the region was also attractive to bandits, the many caves and canyons ideal as hideouts and strongholds. But the mountains held no significant natural resources and aside from a few outposts, both dwarvish and human controlled, the presence of any government or word of law was scarce.<br/><br/>Kogan Lobrek was no missionary, no altruistic champion of the people. He was a mercenary, here for gold. The loosely affiliated villages of people crazy enough to live here had banded together, saving their coppers and silvers until they could offer a reward for a particularly bloodthirsty bandit who had been plaguing the mountains, sending runners to surrounding waystations and trading posts to put up notices to draw in bounty hunters.<br/><br/>Kogan's tribe, his family and his warband were far from the Wolfspine mountains. The Lobrek company, when he'd left them, had been doing well, more and more orcish warriors flocking to them for work as they gained a reputation among the southern warlords, beyond the borders of the Trestian Empire. He'd traveled far in the last five years, partly to forget why he needed to in the first place, and partly because a Banished would be killed on sight by any other warband and they were few and far between this far north.<br/><br/>Kogan could still feel where the needles had pierced his face, even five years later, the red and orange tattoos stark against the dull green of his skin. He could not hide them or what they signified: that he was disgraced in the eyes of his tribe and would never be welcome within their ranks. He would never go to the great hunting fields when he died and neither would his offspring. A good, honorable warrior would have ended his life through the rite of righteous battle, taking on an impossible assignment for no pay in the hopes of redeeming himself in the eyes of Madanak, the father of orcs. But Kogan had always been an accomplished fighter so he took paid work, hoping for an unlucky turn that would end his life. At least he still made some money in case it didn't work, though, so that he could go in search of the next job.<br/><br/>His current mission would hopefully be his final one. He'd ventured out alone to track Nez the Red, a bandit chieftain who commanded a rather sizable force and even controlled two villages here in the mountains, looking to establish himself as a warlord in control of the region. It was bad odds, for sure.<br/><br/>It was far too quiet on the road, no sounds of animals or birds chirping or any other sounds one might expect as they drew closer to a human settlement. He could see structures in the distance and could make out the recent charring from a fire on several of the houses. He could also see odd lumps where snow had covered fallen bodies. This attack had happened at least 24 hours ago, the sleet from last night having put out the fires and covered much of the evidence.<br/><br/>He was in no hurry as he trudged down the sloping path into the valley. Even the wind was quiet, as if the mountains were mourning the destruction here. If there were any survivors, it wasn't apparent. Either way, perhaps he could find a bit of roof to shelter under for the night before continuing his journey in the morning.<br/><br/>The orc, standing around eight and a half feet and built like a brick house, made his way cautiously into town. An iron toed boot shifted some snow over a fallen body, revealing it to be one of the long furred cows native to the region. So the bandits had been here for more than just pillaging. They'd been sending a message. Had they learned of the villages' offer of a reward? Or was Nez simply cementing his dominance here by spreading terror, demolishing buildings, burning crops and killing livestock?<br/><br/>A noise alerted the barbarian. With a speed someone of his size should not possess, he drew his ax, the cruel looking blade poised and ready as orange eyes scanned the surrounding buildings.