The torches in the vast catacombs cast flickering shadows across the rugged stone walls, creating a dim, eerie ambiance as the Orcs gathered around their Watchief.
The stale, ancient air filled their lungs, and every Orc had their eyes on Volk, waiting for his next command.
They could see his eyes glint with a feral spark, the weight of untold plans hidden behind a steadfast gaze.
The atmosphere buzzed with tension, a mix of curiosity and trepidation, as the Orcs dared to address him with their questions.
One of the older Orcs stepped forward, bowing his head in respect. "Watchief, what do you mean by that?" he asked in a low, gravelly voice that rumbled through the quiet room like distant thunder.
Volk's jaw tightened, his muscles twitching as he sized up the crowd, the spark in his eyes hardening to steel.
