The Lost War

Beginnings 2025 AH

The Orcs had been a problem for hundreds of years. They had never been organized enough to be a proper threat to a nation, but their untamed plains sitting at the heart of the continent had been a thorn in the side of all neighboring nations since before Arrhynsia's history was recorded. The most reckless merchants dared to escort their goods through hostile territory, while the more cautious would take the long way around. Both were little more than targets for whatever Orcish Khan happened to be in the area.
It was one of the latter that finally started the war. An Imperial International Trade Caravan was attacked, looted, the females taken as slaves, and all its armed defenders were either killed in the attack or fell to the traditional Orcish duels that followed any skirmish. For the Orcs - business as usual. This was, however, the last straw for the human empire, who has more military than patience, and had been at peace since the Great Spell Plague almost 500 years ago. Glory awaited, the Emperor gave his consent, vehemently declaring that they would end "The greatest threat of their time".

War

The Plains belong to themselves, and the dead.

— Traditional Orcish Saying

The problem with attacking orcs is that there is no way to know how well you are doing in your conquest. Walking or riding the Orcish Plains means nothing as the Orcs themselves well know. There are no fortifications, no towns, no centers of commerce. There is no permanent city except Arryn and even that seems tenuous - as though it was placed where it is for the convenience of outsiders rather than being a necessity for orcish life. The location of Elysium is known to some few outside the orcs - the dwarves and the gods certainly know, but the elves prefer to ignore its location as they ignore its very existence. And one of course suspects that the gods would take a hand in mortal affairs if the original World Tree were threatened.
So traversing the Whispering Plains to get to Arryn with marauding orcs on horseback harrying your flanks is the necessary strategy and a learning experience. The orcs it turns out, are masters of disappearing in the tall grassy wastelands, and troops left behind the main body of the human army have a tendency to be slaughtered in the night or to simply completely disappear. The few orcish captives you have been able to take simply shrug and say something about being taken by the "Eternal Conflict" whatever that is. When you ask you get steely eyed looks and half shrugs. If you do not know, the silence says louder than words, I cannot tell you. Your commanders eventually took to burning out large areas of the seemingly endless grass to deny the orcs their hiding places, but the plains seem to not care - within days the blackened fields are hazed with millions of tiny green sprouts. The action helped some though - at least during the day. The losses of men to orcish surprise attacks diminished substantially during the day.
All this changes though when you arrive at Arryn. Here you are on familiar ground. Here finally is a wall, a civilization, a place. Here you know the objective - to take the city, and you set up the siege and begin the process with a will. There are walls to tear down, weapons to sharpen. there are skirmishes, but now you have an objective. No more wandering the endless empty plains with their murderous bands of half naked savages.
There is no silence here in Arryn. There hasn't been for weeks. The low grinding of wooden beams and metal gears has haunted you since the siege began. Your waking hours have been marred by the echoing rumbles of stone boulders raining down upon the fierce but decidedly shoddy walls of the orcish capital - such as it is. Your sleep has been disrupted by the cries of unfruitful charges, both the assaulting probing attacks and the defender's hopeless counters. But the end is in sight now, the east wall is beginning to crumble - not from the top, but from the bottom where the sappers have been working the thrice damned chemical magic It is only a metter of hours before the machines fall silent and the dying will begin in earnest. Then it will be hand to hand; warriors, women and children. They will all die, none can be spared, you learned that lessons well already. The orcish women are as dangerous as a trained human soldier and the children became recruits as soon as they could hold a blade. This final battle will be bloody indeed.

Endings

Well you've done it. You've ended the Orcish threat. What happened in the throne room was undeniably effective. At once, the ragged and unorganized defenders lost all will to fight. Morale is high, hidden bottles of various alcohols found their way out of their hiding places, and celebration is breaking out all over the camp.

A veteran dwarf sits on an unused anvil in the makeshift warforge.
"Ah'm tellin' ya, ForgeBlessed, Ah seen't it m'self."
Alcohol lies heavily on his breath and his voice is haggard and worried.
"There's no good in that throne room. No honor."
The smith looks up from his work and raises an eyebrow.

He speaks of Yulasta. The story's been getting spread across the entire camp. Lord Walter Ralsh, hero of the war, Commander of the Imperial forces, Paladin of Guldari, God of War and Honor personally swept the orcish throne room. His personal guard spread the story over the Imperials well-deserved victory toast. Inside the throne room was no King, but the deceptively feminine form of Yulasta who interrogated prisoners later referred to as Goddess. The guard told the story of their subduing of her Orcish personal guard, of which Lord Walsh had no small part in. When at last only the Goddess remained, she left her throne, raising a hand at the newcomers. It was at this moment those telling the story of triumph would swear to the high heavens and the seven hells that she began casting a spell, one that would likely have smote the commander and half the Imperial forces from the world of the living.

"Ah'm no wizard, brother, and I'm sure as sin no thrice-damned mage, but I've seen magic often enough. There was no spell in her hand, no ill blood. That there face she wore was kind, as wrong as that should seem."

In a daring maneuver, Lord Walsh crossed the gap and buried his greatsword to the hilt in her chest. His quick actions, and skill with the blade saved the guard, possibly the entire army. A cry rose from the Orcs, not one of fervor of of triumph, but of despair and loss.

It was in this way that in one fell thrust, humanity declared victory over the Orcs, and that Lord Walter Ralsh claims the title of Godslayer.

"He killed her. He looked her in the eyes, barked orders at her, and ran her through. I'm no lover of orcs, but that... That was downright demonic."
The dwarf wraps his cloak around him more tightly and stares into the glow of the forge fire weaving back and forth.
"That was murder. Not self defense or even war. That was cruel beyond words. It... It chilled me right to my bones. Ah'm still cold, an' no amount of this ale's been able to warm me up."
He tries to put his concerns into words, to give body to his thoughts, but the ale in hand is taking its toll. He slurs, weeps, and shouts a great deal without much to say, and it's not long before he's passed out under a work bench.
"Cold... It's so bloody cold, I just can't stand it."