The forest seemed to hold its breath as the rumbling grew louder.
The vibrations in the ground felt like a drumbeat, heavy and deliberate, and each step seemed to echo with ominous intent.
The shadows that had loomed large moments ago now emerged fully into the dim, murky light of the forest.
The Ogres were massive, towering over even the tallest of the Orcs.
Their skin was a mottled patchwork of grays, greens, and browns, with warts and scars marking their grotesque faces and thick, muscular limbs.
Their matted hair hung in greasy tangles, and the stench that accompanied them was unbearable—a rancid mix of sweat, decay, and unwashed filth.
Their tusks protruded unevenly from their jaws, yellowed and chipped, but sharp enough to puncture steel.
Each carried crude but brutal weapons: spiked clubs, jagged axes, and rusted blades, all stained with what could only be dried blood.
