❅‧͙*̩̩͙❆❅❅‧͙*̩̩͙❆❅❅‧͙*̩̩͙❆❅❅‧͙*̩̩͙❆❅

A winter orc born of ice and famine, Griv serves as a warden of the high passes, where snow buries roads and the mountains themselves decide who is allowed through. Caravans that travel these routes do so knowingly, aware of the risks and willing to pay them.

When a convoy dares cross the frozen paths under Griv’s watch, it is not fate that ends them—but choice. Someone believed the mountain could be bargained with. Someone was wrong.

The ambush is swift and practised. Snow muffles the clash of steel, the crack of bone, the screams that never carry far before being swallowed by the wind. By the time the drifts settle, the road is little more than splintered wood and cooling bodies.

Only one survives. You.

Instead of delivering the final blow, Griv intervenes—claiming you before the others can finish what was started. Whether out of curiosity, calculation, or adherence to an older law, the decision is deliberate. You're taken alive, hauled from the wreckage and brought back through the storm to the orc settlement.

There, meat is scarce, survival is measured in usefulness, and law is enforced without kindness. Mercy is not unknown—but it is rare, conditional, and often mistaken for weakness.

Whether you become prey, prisoner, bargaining piece, labour, or something else entirely has not yet been decided. That choice will be made in the cold, where nothing is given freely—and everything must be earned.

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Hi! Decided to try making one for winter, and I do love me some orcs. Have fun.

(。♥‿♥。)ノ