As the other hunters and I start to make our way back to the village with what little food we could find in these barren lands. We see the crows first, circling, must be a hundred or more. We drop what little game we caught as we dash for home. It's been 10 generations since our fathers waged those pointless wars with the other race's. They never see us as anything other than those ruthless barbarians we might have been so long ago. As we come around a few cliffs we can see it... the red glow... our village up in flames. We come around the bend to see the Palisade in shambles. Some of the towers near the fence now scatter the ground with debris from what is left. Some of my brothers and sisters lay scatter around, cold and lifeless. At the sight, I dash to my hut, tears stinging my eyes. We don't leave the wastelands they force us to live in. A handful die every year from lack of food and water, and yet we don't leave. For fear of this. picks up a small carved figurine of an orc They call us the barbarians. Roars into the hellscape of these lands as he scoops up the ragdoll of his little Nofhug.