High above the chaotic docks, on a private stone balcony carved into the palace lounge outer wall, Warlord Gorak stood in silence. He held his young son effortlessly in one massive arm, watching the ships break the surface of the moat.
A few seconds later, heavy, armored footsteps echoed from the corridor behind him, and Gulag stepped onto the balcony.
She was fully clad in the dark, dense bone-armor of a Troglodyte General, a massive spiked club strapped to her broad back. She looked utterly terrifying, like a true avatar of subterranean war.
However, as she approached her mate, her brutal aura completely softened. She reached out, gently running her thick, calloused fingers over the small, grey ridges just beginning to form on her son's head.
"Little Krag," Gulag rumbled softly.
The toddler cooed, revealing a row of tiny, razor-sharp teeth. He reached out with surprisingly strong hands and grabbed one of the bone spikes on his mother's chest plate, tugging at it aggressively.
