My name is Garrok Halforcen, and I am a son of two worlds—my blood, a blend of orcish strength and human ingenuity. It was the discovery of a newfound power that would set me apart, a power born of fire and smoke—Black Powder.

  It was the Dwarves who discovered the explosive potential of black powder, a byproduct of mining certain ores. In the past, it was discarded as useless debris, until one of their alchemists discovered its volatile properties when mixed with other compounds. The resulting substance made it easier to extract ore and blast new fissures. First a mining tool, then a weapon.

  They harnessed it as a tool of war—packing it into globes called bombus to defend their tunnels. But during the last great war, the Dwarves crafted a new kind of weapon, one that focused the fury of black powder into deadly force. They named it the Gunnhildr, or gun for short. Massive siege cannons, compact handguns—pistols used behind their shield walls. These guns turned the tide of battle and safeguarded their citadels from the swarms that came to claim them.

  In peacetime, the guns did not disappear. Dwarven Rangers now patrol their high passes with long guns across their backs, protecting the realm and enforcing the King’s Law. And though the knowledge of gun-making spread—to gnomes, to goblins, even to some humans—black powder remains a mystery to many. Some call it coward’s magic. Others call it heresy.

  I call it freedom.

  I was born into a traditional orcish clan. My father was an orc—a proud hunter and warrior, fierce as the mountain storms that howled across our valleys. His hands bore the callouses of war and beast alike. His breath reeked of smoke and fermented root. His laugh could drown out thunder.

  He taught me the hunt. He taught me leatherworking. He taught me to gut a boar before I could lift a spear, to read the wind, and to move without sound.

  When I bring down an animal, I give thanks—not just for the meat, but for the hide. Every part has its use. If I want good leather—soft, strong, and lasting—it starts with how I skin the beast.

  I lay the hide out flat and clean it. With my fleshing tool—a smooth bone blade or the back of a knife—I scrape away every trace of meat, fat, and sinew from the inside. It takes time. Rush it, and you tear the hide or leave bits that rot.

  If I want to make buckskin, I soak the hide in water for days, sometimes with wood ash, to loosen the hair. Then I scrape that off too.

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  Next, I stretch the hide on a frame and peg it tight. No wrinkles. No curling.

  Then comes the heart of the craft: the brains.

  Every animal has just enough brain to tan its own hide. I cook it down into a warm paste and mix it with water until it's thick and slick. Then I rub it deep into the hide—hands, fingers, pressure—coating every fiber to keep it from stiffening.

  Once rested, I take it off the frame and begin softening it—pulling it across a rope or working it over a rounded branch. I stretch it, move it, work it as it dries. Stop too long, and it's ruined. Left with rawhide.

  Finally, I smoke it.

  I sew the hide into a pouch and hang it over a low, smoky fire—punk wood, no flames. The smoke darkens the leather, gives it that earthy scent, and seals the fibers. Rain won’t ruin it. Even if it stiffens, reworking brings it back to life.

  That’s how I was taught. Brain, smoke, and care. That’s leather. That’s tradition. That’s survival.

  And these skills would serve me well in the years to come.

  My mother… she was human. A slave. Captured from a merchant caravan and claimed by my father. She had been a merchant’s apprentice and knew the art of reading, writing, and mathematics—skills she quietly passed on to me.

  She was quiet, but her eyes were sharp. While others saw a prize, my father saw something else. He protected her. Loved her, in his way. And she, in turn, gave me what he could not—words, numbers, knowledge. She showed me how knowledge could be wielded like a blade, and how not all strength is muscle and bone.

  I was their only child. Too smart for the orcs. Too savage for the slaves. A mutt. Halforcen.

  Still, I had a place.

  Until the day smoke and thunder tore it all apart.

  I first witnessed the terrible power of black powder when a band of human bandits descended upon our camp. It was a moonless night, and the clan had gathered around the feast-fire, our guards dulled by meat and drink.

  Then came the first shot.

  It cracked the air like thunder. Then another. And another.

  Our warriors fell before they could rise. Pistols roared like beasts. Blood soaked the earth. The smell—gods, the smell—of charred meat, gun smoke, and burning hides filled my nose. Screams were everywhere.

  My mother died from a rogue shot as she tried to shield me. My father roared in grief and rage, charging into the bandits with nothing but his axe and fury. He cut down many… before their bullets turned him into a pincushion.

  He died standing.

  The survivors—few of us—were bound, beaten, and taken. Myself among them.

  I remember the silence after the screams. The way fire reflected in the bandits’ eyes. The sting of the rope. And the sound of flint striking steel to light another fuse.

  That day is etched in me, burned like powder flash.

  Several days later, I was separated from the others and sold to a mining camp. My days became labor, the stone and soot becoming my sky. But due to my human blood, and my skill with the common tongue, I was treated with a scrap more mercy than the rest.

  I became useful.

  I ran errands. Accompanied hunters. Skinned beasts. Mended gear. Worked the forge. I was a slave—but a slave who moved freely.

  And that is where my true story began.

  Not with my birth.

  Not with my clan.

  But with smoke… and thunder.

  Gunnhildr is an old norse name that means "War-sword", often shortened to "Gunna". This is believed to be one of the origins of the word "Gun".

  Bombus is a Latin term meaning "booming" or "buzzing", and is believed to be the origin of the word "Bomb".