In the damp, eerie silence of the catacombs, the Orcs glanced around, their breaths clouding in the frigid, musty air.
The flickering torches cast eerie shadows along the stone walls, their wavering light illuminating twisted carvings and strange runes etched into the ancient stones.
Every so often, the low rumble of far-off water echoed through the halls, lending an unsettling heartbeat to the ancient tomb around them.
A young Orc stepped forward, scratching at the back of his neck, eyes darting uneasily to Volk.
"Uh, Warchief," he started, his voice hesitant, "is this… is this place doin' this to us? It's gotta be, right? It's this catacomb that brought us back?" His voice carried a mixture of awe and frustration, tinged with the faintest quiver of fear.
Volk's sharp gaze shifted, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon the Orc. Slowly, he nodded, his expression stone-cold, his silence far more oppressive than any answer he could've given.
