The tribe leader settled back into his imposing chair, the weight of authority resting heavily upon his shoulders. The moment he was seated, his sister's voice pierced the tense atmosphere, filled with urgency and fierce determination. "Grak kash'rok, zarg na'kruul grom'rok!" (Quick, let's end her now and eat her!) she proclaimed, her eyes blazing with a hunger for vengeance.
Her brother, a sentinel of caution, growled in response, his voice low and gravelly. "Sha'kru, elda'magor kash'ra! Irok grom'kas, uruk'na gahr'u." (She is protected by elven magic; if we eat her, we will burn to death.) His warning hung in the air, a stark reminder of the peril they faced if they dared to underestimate their foe.
Undeterred and seething with rage, Lok Ra gritted her teeth, the fire of vengeance igniting within her. With a swift, decisive motion, she unsheathed her sword, its blade gleaming ominously in the flickering light. "Grom'kar shaz'koth na," she demanded, her voice a fierce whisper that resonated with the power of her conviction. (Then let me kill her!) 
The memory of her husband’s death fueled her fury, and she continued, "Durbatulûk ghash burzum-ishi." (The same way she killed my husband.) Each word was laced with anguish, a bitter reminder of her loss that drove her forward with unrelenting resolve.
 "Zorgulâk ghash krith uk grothar nâk!" (I will make sure every bone she had will crush into nothing but dust!)  Lok Ra spat, her voice rising with the intensity of her rage. The vow sprang from her lips like a battle cry, echoing her unyielding desire for retribution.
The air crackled with tension as her declaration hung over the tribe, each member bearing witness to the storm of emotion swirling within Lok Ra. Her fury, raw and palpable, painted a vivid picture of the depths of her grief and the lengths she would go to avenge her fallen husband.
"Vrughush Lok Ra. Az'kur na ogluk gâth, kûm bak'hur zog'nar groth? Nâk urg hûm gha mâk nûgzum-hûn vâl." (Patience, Lok Ra. We have her man here still; why don't we let them meet again? Then you can do whatever you want with them.) Her brother's voice, a steady balm against her raging fury, sought to calm the storm brewing within the angry female orc.
Lok Ra scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive, but the fire in her eyes flickered as she contemplated his words. After a moment of tense silence, she relented, crossing her arms tightly across her chest as she backed away, her anger still simmering beneath the surface.
The tribe leader shifted his piercing gaze toward Enyora, who remained silent, yearning for a chance to escape the cacophony surrounding her. If given the opportunity, she would gladly deafen herself to the harsh, guttural language of the orcs that made her ears ache, especially with Lok Ra’s abrasive presence looming nearby.
Enyora couldn’t help but study the orc female before her. Lok Ra was a grotesque sight, her features a mockery of beauty. The orc's nose, resembling that of a pig, and her long, grotesque tail made Enyora recoil in disgust. In that moment, she felt a surge of repulsion, thinking that even a demon would recoil in horror at the sight of such a creature.
With a critical eye, Enyora noted the unsightly details that made her stomach churn. Lok Ra's nose hair protruded in an unkempt manner, a sight so revolting it made her want to choke back laughter and nausea all at once. How could a god—or whatever force had crafted this world—spend their time creating such abominations? 
As she watched, Enyora felt her thoughts spiral into dark humor. This creature, this so-called warrior, was a testament to the folly of creation. Surely, even the most twisted of beings would find it hard to look upon Lok Ra without feeling a mix of pity and revulsion. Enyora's heart raced as she grappled with the absurdity of her situation, caught in a world where the lines of beauty and horror blurred into a nightmarish reality.
"You killed my sister's man, and for that, I had planned to do the same to yours," the chieftain declared, raising a glass filled with a dark, viscous liquid. He poured the crimson fluid into his mouth, chugging it down with a grim satisfaction before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. A cruel smirk spread across his face as he added, "But where's the fun in that? Having you watch him die is much more amusing." 
The chieftain leaned closer, his voice dripping with malice. "Although, it's quite entertaining to have him around. You see, things get boring here." His laughter echoed through the chamber, a chilling sound that sent a wave of dread coursing through Enyora.
Enyora's eyes narrowed, a storm of fury brewing within her as she glared at the orc. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, trembling with anger. "What have you done to him? What did you do?" she thundered, her voice a fierce challenge, demanding answers.
The chieftain merely smiled, a wicked glint in his eyes, as he stood to his full height. In one swift motion, he grasped Enyora's wrist, his grip like iron, and began to drag her out of the chamber. It was only then that she realized the sheer size of his hand—twice the size of her head—capable of crushing her with minimal effort if he so chose.
He led her through a dark passageway, the air thickening with the scent of sweat and blood. As they emerged into a vast arena, the deafening roar of orcish cheers filled her ears. Enyora’s heart raced as she took in the scene before her. The arena was a brutal spectacle, filled with orcs eagerly gathered to witness the impending violence.
In the center of the ring stood a massive orc clad in heavy armor, wielding a giant hammer that gleamed ominously in the sunlight. Opposite him, Enyora's heart dropped as she recognized Willem, armed with nothing but a sword and clad only in his underwear, looking utterly vulnerable amidst the chaos.
"Willem!" Enyora cried out, her voice desperate and raw, but her plea was swallowed by the cacophony of the crowd, who roared with anticipation for the fight to come. Panic surged through her as she rushed to the railings, her pulse pounding in her ears, a mix of fear and anger boiling within her. She could only watch in horror as the two combatants faced each other, the fate of her beloved hanging precariously in the balance.
Enyora stepped back from the railing, her heart pounding in her chest as she made a decisive motion with her hands. The ground trembled slightly beneath her feet, a warning of the power she wielded. But before she could harness it further, the orc leader seized her arm with a vice-like grip. "A bad idea, witch," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "You will not control the ground of my land."
Panic surged through Enyora as she struggled to break free from his grasp, but her resistance only fueled his fury. In an instant, he raised his hand and delivered a sharp slap across her face, the force of it sending her reeling. Lok Ra, watching from a distance, smirked and let out a barely audible laugh, relishing the torment inflicted upon Enyora.
Stunned by the unexpected violence, Enyora blinked rapidly, stars dancing in her vision, disorienting her as the world spun. She struggled to regain her composure, her heart racing with a mix of shock and anger. 
"Why don't you go say hi to your old friend while you have the chance?" the chieftain taunted, his voice a cruel mockery of her suffering. With a wave of his hand, he ordered his guards to take her away, the command echoing ominously in the arena.
As the guards closed in, Enyora felt a surge of desperation. She cast one last, pleading glance toward Willem, her heart aching with the knowledge that she was being torn away from him at such a critical moment. The orc leader’s laughter followed her retreat, a haunting reminder of the power he held over her and the grim fate that awaited them both.
"Ruk tar'kar throk gamok," Lok Ra began, her voice laced with a mixture of admiration and incredulity. (That witch is quite brave.) Her gaze followed the orc guards as they escorted Willem away, the sight igniting a flicker of frustration within her.
"Zog nem'buk grak'ka rothak," her brother replied, his eyes glinting with a cruel amusement. (She's going to be perfect if she's a mutant.) The prospect of turning Enyora into some twisted version of herself seemed to please him as he observed the unfolding chaos.
Lok Ra turned to her brother, disbelief etched across her features. "Gar dak'gorn nez'ruk zag throk'ka gra'ak lothak," she protested, her voice rising with indignation. (But you said I could do anything to her after she meets the man again!) The promise he had made to her felt like a distant memory, overshadowed by his sudden change of heart.
"Gol dak'gorn isk'drak," he replied, his tone resolute and unyielding. (I have changed my mind.) He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "She is going to be the very best of my mutant pet." The finality in his words sent a jolt of anger through Lok Ra, the betrayal cutting deeper than any blade.
With a huff of frustration, she turned away, her fists clenched at her sides. How could her brother so easily dismiss what he had promised her? He had taken her chance for vengeance and twisted it into something grotesque and unacceptable. The bitterness of his betrayal weighed heavily on her heart, but she knew there was little she could do to change his mind. 
Choosing to walk away, Lok Ra felt the fire of her anger simmering beneath the surface, a flicker of determination igniting within her. She would find a way to avenge her husband. The thought of revenge lingered in her mind, fueling her resolve as she moved through the throng of orcs, searching for a path that would lead her back to the vengeance she so desperately craved.