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The incessant chirping in the tree above caused Okrum to cut his rest short. He growled as he reached for his orcish polearm. It was a finely crafted weapon, but even after everything he had been through with it, it still felt foreign in his hand. It didn’t matter, though. Even with a weapon that wasn’t truly his, he had slain every challenger that had stood in his path. He had once thought to make it his by wetting it in battle, but he’d given up on that foolishness after the first year. It had now been 3 years since the defeat of the Lich King.
Okrum’s black plate armor made him a shadow as he moved through the forest in the early morning before the sunrise, though only in appearance. Even to the untrained ear, he moved recklessly through the forest, stepping on or over anything in his path. This habit had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, but even in life, Okrum was never the careful type. It was one of the few things that distinguished him from any other dark plate wearing, undead orcs.