With the question of the origin of the orcish raiding party on his mind, he asked the AI chip to summarise the information on green menace.
*Beep!*
*The Orcs are perhaps the largest and most warlike of the Greenskin race, whose large size and raw physical strength easily allows them to dominate much of Greenskin society. As a tendency of their race, the Orcs are an extremely violent and brutish species in both mind, body and soul. They are brutes and louts of the first degree, insensitive to pain and higher thought, and are singularly geared towards constant and ever-escalating warfare. In a more practical term, the Orcs simply live to fight.
Orcs are known for producing large, brutal armies of difficult-to-kill troops, usually supported by a variety of sub-groupings of other Greenskins. Such are their skills on the battlefield that the majority of the most destructive campaigns ignited by the Greenskins are more often led by an Orcish Warlord of great strength, wit, and brutality. Goblins are the more prolific, but it is the Orcs that do the bulk of the bloody work in most battles. They are an overly pugnacious lot and if the Orcs find themselves without an enemy, they will often pummel each other just to keep their spirits up. Orcs naturally take their robust physique for granted and regard everyone else as weak, puny or squishy.*
Atlas nodded as it confirmed his thoughts. Orcs relied on weaker races, such as goblins, to tend to their base needs of food and supplies. An orc party, particularly one with a shaman, would have a base nearby. A base where he could source more troops to add to his growing legion.
"Strickler." Atlas's voice summoned the vampire to his side, taking him away from gathering the blood in the recently refined caldron. "Track the orcs back to their camp."
Strickler, being a former mage, had a variety of magic in other lores that even Atlas was not proficient in that would aid his task. Bowing to his liege, Strickler silently left, followed by two orcs he had risen to his service. A stranger ripple of pride went through his undead heart as he watched his progeny rise, before he pushed it down. Vampires were an ambitious lot, and he wouldn't be surprised if his death hadn't crossed Stricker's mind. Precautions had to be taken.
As Strickler departed, Atlas turned his attention back to the fallen corpse of the orc shaman. With a heavy heart and a sense of determination, he began to weave the intricate threads of dark magic, calling upon the forbidden knowledge he had acquired from Vlad himself. A shaman, if risen as a higher undead would still have access to magic and would make a powerful enemy to expand his troops further.
The incantations flowed from his lips like a haunting melody, the ancient words resonating with power as they sought to imbue the shaman's lifeless form with the essence of undeath. But as Atlas poured his magic into the spell, a sense of unease crept over him, a foreboding whisper that something was amiss.
With a sudden, jarring realization, Atlas felt the spell falter and fail, the dark energies recoiling from the shaman's body as if repelled by some unseen force. In a flash of dismay, the orc shaman's corpse disintegrated before his eyes, crumbling into a mound of dust that scattered upon the wind.
A surge of frustration and disappointment washed over Atlas as he stared at the remnants of his failed attempt. The sharp stab of pain from a miscast flashed through his body making his fingers clench as he held down an agonised scream. It was a stark reminder of the limitations of his power, a sobering realization that his knowledge of magic was not complete.
Regathering his resolve, Atlas resolved to press on, undeterred by this setback. With a steely glint in his eyes, he turned away from the crumbling remains of the orc shaman and reviewed the spell.
"AI Chip. Analyse the spell and explain the failure."
*Beep!*
*Scanning…*
*Spell failure due to: *
* 1) Magical runes formed incorrectly during…. *
* 2) Lack of Wind of Death leaving the spell undercharged.*"
*3) Failure to… *
The chip listed out several errors on his part and even offered diagrams and simulations of the correct procedure. Most were due to his control of magic, which while improving fast, still lacked the fine control necessary for complex weaves.
The one area that troubled him was the lack of magical energy. Rising the dead needs the Lore of Death derived from Shyish and he could only manipulate so much until his cultivation increased.
"AI Chip, suggest a solution to the lack of Wind of Death."
*Beep!*
* 1) Inscribe runic matrix to draw in Winds of Death over time.*
* 2) Sacrificial magic to channel the power of life into death. Estimated soul required – 94.
As Strickler returned, his report on his pale lips. The greenskins had entrenched themselves within a former dwarf stronghold, now overrun by a horde of green goblins serving their orc masters. Atlas listened intently, his mind already formulating a plan of attack.
With a curt nod, he gave the order for the group to mobilize. There was no time to dwell lest the cowards join with other tribes to down them in a green tide. They needed to seize the opportunity to claim both plunder and power. The prospect of seizing the loot that had been accumulated by the greenskins, along with the chance to sate their thirst for blood and expand their ranks with fallen enemies, spurred them onward.
As the group prepared to march, Atlas cast a final glance over his assembled forces. His undead minions stood at attention, their spectral forms a chilling testament to the power he wielded over death itself. The skeletal remains of fallen warriors, animated by dark magic, formed the vanguard of his army, their empty eye sockets fixed with an eerie sense of purpose.
Beside them stood the two wights, their ethereal blades gleaming in the dim light, ready to strike down any foe that dared to challenge their master. Strickler, his fledgling vampire progeny, exuded an aura of newfound confidence, his magical prowess growing with each passing day under Atlas's tutelage.
The ogres, towering over the rest of the group, flexed their formidable bones, their massive frames a testament to their raw strength and ferocity in battle. With each step, the ground trembled beneath their feet, a harbinger of the devastation they would unleash upon their enemies.
As they set out towards the orc stronghold, the landscape shifted around them, the rocky terrain giving way to rugged hills and jagged cliffs. The air grew thick with tension, anticipation hanging heavy in the air as they approached their destination.
The fortress loomed before them, its imposing walls rising defiantly against the backdrop of the mountains. Crude banners fluttered in the breeze, emblazoned with the crude symbols of the orc horde. Smoke rose from the chimneys, a telltale sign of the activity teeming within its walls.
Atlas remained undeterred, his gaze fixed firmly on the prize that lay within the fortress walls – victory, and the spoils of conquest that awaited them beyond.
"For blood!" And leading his troops with his glowing sword held high charged feeling a stranger sense of belonging. This was where he belonged.
War is profitable.
War is bloody.
War is fun.