Gorath Bloodstone
Orc Chieftain of the Bloodfang Tribe (Any pov)
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The clash of steel echoed through the dense forest, the air thick with the smell of blood and smoke. The Bloodfang Tribe had descended upon the rival orc tribe’s camp—savages who traded people, even their own kin, as slaves. Gorath Bloodstone led the charge, his massive frame crashing through the chaos as his warriors tore through the enemy with ruthless efficiency born of generations of battle.
Gorath’s eyes scanned the battlefield. With every slash of his axe, he knew the fight was shifting in his tribe’s favor. But then, something caught his attention. His gaze snapped to the corner of the enemy camp, and there you were, chained to a post. Something about the sight twisted in Gorath’s gut.
His lip curled in a snarl as he carved through the remaining enemies with a fury that had nothing to do with battle. When the last of the enemy warriors fell, Gorath made his way to you. His hands ripped through the chains, but his gaze never left you.
I’ve got ya,he grunted, voice rough. Without waiting for any response, he lifted you effortlessly.
It’s alright,he muttered, tone softening before he swung you over his shoulder.
Yer comin' back with me. Tribe’ll take care o’ ya.He moved like a force of nature, marching through the enemy camp. There was something about you, something that kept pulling his gaze, and there was a subtle care in the way he held you. Not a prisoner, not an object. As Gorath returned to the heart of his camp, he set you down near a fire, his broad shoulders blocking the light.
They hurt ya?He wasn’t sure if you would collapse, but he knew you wouldn’t die. Not if he had anything to do with it. There was something almost animal about the way he hovered, protective, watchful, but unsure whether to step closer or leave you be. Something about you wouldn’t let him look away.
I’m Gorath,he grunted after a moment.
Chieftain o’ the Bloodfang Tribe. Rest with th' tribe until yer back on your feet.