Under the veil of night, the celestial duo of moons illuminated the surroundings, intensifying the radiance of moonlight. The ethereal glow cascaded upon the trees, infusing them with an otherworldly luminescence. A band of orcs gather around a bonfire.

Orcs are typically taller and bulkier than humans, possessing a robust and sturdy build. Their skin green, having coarse or tough skin, often covered in scars or tribal tattoos. Their facial features pronounced, characterized by prominent tusks or fangs protruding from their lower jaws. Their eyes range from red, yellow, to a fiery orange, exuding a fierce and menacing glare. Orcs' hair is thick and coarse, typically dark, and unkempt, often styled in braids or dreadlocks.

Amidst laughter, dancing, and drinking, the orcs reveled joyously, fully immersed in the euphoria of the moment. They had just raided a caravan filled with goods. Boxes filled with an assortment of things scattered around the campfire. Ideal for shielding their movements from the sober-eyed orcs responsible for safeguarding the goods, the surrounding structures provided convenient cover.

"Bragor, Watch over the boxes. I'm going to go take a leak." A bald-headed orc said as he coincidentally moves closer to Azrael's position. Lifting his dirty cloth, A dirty yellow stream fell to the ground. Before the orc could even finish, A sharp blade pierced through his head killing him instantly. Falling face first into his own puddle, a small thud resounded. Luckily, no orc had perceived the sound.

Effortlessly gliding from one box to another, Azrael methodically observed each isolated orc. Moving to permanently silence them one by one. A silent specter in the night, the subsequent orc met its demise mere minutes after the first, leaving no trace of Azrael's presence save for a trail of lifeless bodies.

Even the most inebriated of orcs began to realize something was wrong. The celebration soon ceased, and the remaining orcs began to trace the smell of blood in the air. The dozen remaining orcs stop at the sight of their fallen brethren.

Bragor, the one was handed down the task of watching the boxes exclaims, "Damn, they got Thraknar."

Another orc points at another dead orc just in front of them, "They also got Gul'dan!"

Proceeding with utmost caution, the group of orcs traced the grim path carved by the lifeless bodies. Halting at the sight of the final cadaver, their gaze fixated upon Ragnar, engrossed in the act of devouring the deceased form. 

"The fuck is a luparis doing here!?" One of the orcs exclaims.

Ragnar stops, and immediately bolts towards the forest line. Immediately slipping out of sight some of the orc prepare to chase only to be stopped.

"Wait! Everyone stop!" The other orcs pause in their action. "What if there's more out there and it's leading us to an ambush?"

Another orc argued back, "So what? At least we would be fighting head on! They wouldn't stand a chance."

The one closest to the forest announced, "It's too late, the luparis slipped away. We would have to split up to find it."

"Are you guys crazy? Why would we willingly make ourselves weaker to fight an enemy we don't know?"

"Honestly Grommash you just sound like a coward. First you stop us then you say don't split up. What, you don't want revenge either?"

Huffing in annoyance, Grommash more deeply explains, "I'm saying we do this the less risky way. We search together, we fight together, we win together. That's what makes us strong. Got it?"

Gradually, the remaining orcs regained their composure, their heads nodding in silent agreement. With newfound steadiness, the rest of the group cautiously pressed forward, following Ragnar's path. Suddenly, a shimmering apricot potion arched through the air, casting an enchanting spectacle above them.

Grommash's perception of time seemed to distort, as the potion descended slowly toward the heart of the group before finding its way towards the floor.  Instinctively seeking self-preservation, he hurled himself forward, taking cover to shield himself from the uncertain consequences of the potion's effects.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. The eleven or so still standing near the Potion met their demise in a fiery explosion that sent shockwaves through the camp. Grommash, flung through the air like a ragdoll, collided with a sturdy tree, resulting in a dislocated shoulder and the searing loss of his left leg. Lost in a haze of confusion, his thoughts muddled, he could barely make out three figures coming out of the clearing. 

"You have so little faith in me Ragnar, I told you it would go fine this time. Look at least we weren't the ones flung off this time." A human, Grommash thought. Though he never bothered much with common tongue, he still roughly understood what he meant.

Walking closer, the human stopped mere meters from him. "Grommash right?" The voice queried; its tone laced with determination. "I need you to tell me one thing. Tell me, where were you planning to stash the raided supplies? Better yet, where's the location of your base?"

The luparis, Grommash assumed to be Ragnar looked dazed at the human. The luparis opened its mouth, "You… You can speak monster tongue?"

With his mind still hazy he didn't catch the change in language but to him it didn't matter. 

"Why would I tell you anything."

"Because I would spare you."

"Yeah… right."

"I can just take the boxes and go, I just wanted to see if I could get more from you." 

"Well you're out of luck." Grommash stared at the human.

"Figured." Azrael took his sword and stabbed the forehead of the last remaining orc. From Grommash's form, a slender brown thread unraveled, capturing Azrael's attention. Intrigued, he absorbed the thread, curious to discover its purpose.

Geomancy - Harness the elemental forces of earth and metal; manipulating the very fabric of the earth.

Azrael approached the unopened boxes and meticulously began the process of unpacking their contents. Within, a treasure trove awaited his discovery—rations to satiate their hunger, coins to enrich their coffers, and an array of mystical artifacts.

Among the newfound treasures were the Everburning Lantern, a remarkable device that emitted an eternal flame, and the Amulet of Healing, a pendant imbued with the power to bestow minor curative abilities upon its wearer.

Gathering their spoils, the trio resumed their journey, laden with the most valuable items they could carry. Traveling north-eastward and stopping after some time, Azrael brought his foot down forcefully upon the ground, causing the earth to yield to his command. The terrain parted, revealing a concealed staircase leading downwards. Descending the steps, they arrived at a hidden sanctuary—a tranquil grotto exuding an air of safety, shielded from the intrusion of any unwelcome insects or animals.

A unique use of geomancy no doubt. Settling in, Azrael took out a bundle of firewood and deftly ignited it, casting a warm and inviting glow throughout the space.