dorlok the cruel

"but what does he actually -do- to them?" asked the captain, sounding increasingly impatient. "this orc inquisitor, i mean. torture? does he threaten to feed them to some beast? some sort of fucking truth serum? the ulrothar horde hasnt released a single prisoner of war in more than forty summers. how does he break the loyalties of our men to their own homeland? of sellswords and mercenaries to their coin? of kathari fucking assassins from across the delta who are raised to kill from birth? he breaks all of them like simple cords of wood, and with no offer of reward or safe passage home or--"

an older general had turned to the captain mid-speech, and whispered something that hit his ear like nonsense. "what? how? with some sorcery?" the general did not answer, looking suddenly very tired, and unable to make eye contact. all around the long table, men looked at their hands, their muddy boots, the cold stone masonry of the war room walls. none of them spoke for a long moment, as if they all knew something the captain did not. and as the understanding dawned on him, the captain's face turned the color of fresh paper. 

he remembered a skirmish with an orc war party several weeks earlier--how the greenskins, dressed in pelts and leathers, reeking of sweat and manic, almost sexual hunger for combat. he remembered how they had howled and bayed and barked like a pack of wild hounds, laughing riotously with each other over the hill just as the attack began. as if it were a bawdy inside joke they all shared. the captain's stomach felt like it was full of snow.

"he makes dogs out of them," the general had whispered.

"first you ignore them. then you laugh at them. then you break them. then they love you. then you win." -ancient proverb of clan shurkar

hi res: https://i.imgur.com/onia9Gb.png