Orahk was born into a tribe of orcs that are trained from youth to be disciplined warriors. The battlefield is their crib, victory their lullaby. Being second son to the chief of the tribe meant he was drilled harder and demanded more of than most. His mind and body were tested each day until his movement in combat became instinctual, second nature. While his father raised his older brother to lead an army, he raised Orahk to be a weapon to be unleashed. The pride and glory of the tribe depended on their ability to overpower their opponents. Strength in battle determined where authority was held and killing an enemy was seen as an act of worship to the so-called gods of battle.

Fueled by an old blood debt, a rival chief allied himself with a group of monstrous mercenaries and attacked Orahk's tribe. The foes struck at night, catching his people by surprise. Orahk's father and brother organized the men. Orahk streamed into the fray, taking on whichever enemy made the mistake of confronting him. For hours he fought back against a slaughter. He was left bloodied, exhausted, and nearly alone. Behind him his father lay dead and his brother grasping at gashes in his chest being tended to by their mother and sisters. The commander of the mercenaries, a towering ogre, stomped forward towards Orahk, most the rest of the village in flames. Orahk stepped forward to meet him in battle. The clash was titanic. His sword met the ogre’s club again and again until steel shattered. He was thrown to the ground, his ribs crushed, his vision fading. Around him, he saw his people — not warriors now, but children, mothers, elders — fleeing into the woods, hunted. Something within him refused to die. As the ogre prepared to make his killing blow, a voice spoke clearly into Orahk's mind. "Strength protects, or it destroys. You must choose which." As the club swung down Orahk felt his axe in his hand again, unbroken and gleaming yellow. He met the ogre's club and split it in two. He continued his swing and sliced open the ogre.