The Bloody Hand: FREE 5e Compatible 6 Session Orc-Filled Campaign Sourcebook with DnD Battlemaps (teaser, subscribe for the full package in February!)

Items, Foundry VTT Modules, Printable Battlemaps & 2 Campaign Sourcebook .PDFs (5e & System Agnostic) Will Be Released February 2026 for Premium Members.

What’s Included for Free Below:

• 6 ready-to-run sessions for an entire campaign.

• 3 VTT importable battlemaps for the campaign’s encounters, painted especially for this and designed with player tactics in mind by an experienced GM.

• An instrumental soundtrack of 10 songs, sorted into playlists by theme (Town & Tavern, Exploration, Combat, Boss Battle, ect) that you can loop while gaming, to help bring world to life.

$3USD Upgrades:

• Download this campaign sourcebook as 2 illustrated .PDFs; one 5e compatible, the other completely system agnostic.

• Download all the 6 battlemaps for the campaign Foundry VTT ready with walls, lighting, and sounds already done.

• Get all the 6 battlemaps ready for easy, to-scale printing at home on A4 pages, or professionally as A1-A0 posters.

• Download all 7 new monsters as 2D tokens

• Download the 10 songs from the OST as an organized folder of MP3 files.

• Download the last 2 campaign sourcebooks with battlemaps as 5e compatible, and system agnostic.

• At the end of each month, I post the free version of the next month’s campaign in advance. This way, you can cancel your membership before being charged if you don’t think you’d use the content.

• My wife and I’s gratitude; your support tells us this is the kind of content you want to see more of.

• Become a Reaper of Lore member for $3USD today (or join a higher tier for 50-100 extra battlemaps monthly) and make your life as a GM super easy!

The Bloody Hand is a brutal orc focused campaign for levels 1-3+, dropping players right into the middle of orcish uprising that threaten to send all the lands into a bloody war.

Perfect for up to 6 zero-prep sessions, your players stir naked in hanging blackened iron cages amid flickering torchlight only to witness a man be sacrificed in front of them by a hunched orcish shaman named Urgash. He intents to unite all the orcish clans and bring a bloody tide across the land granting his brethren strength from an unknown force known as the black. Escaping their bonds the players need to team up with the scarred orc chieftain named Draz, last of the orcs who refused Urgash's offer.

Cut a bloody path with Draz through goblin-choked mines on crumbling boardwalks, headhunter lairs where bone-rattling orc hunters and poison-spear throwing goblins lurk in shadows, or wolf riding orcs chase them down on mountain switchbacks and toward the ancient ritual site where Urgash hungers for total dominion.

60x40 Bloodyhand Orc Forest Cavern Village (Free VTT Resolution Map)

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The players wake up groggy and dazed, cold steel bars pressed against their naked flesh, dim lights flicker in the small cavern illuminating many hanging blackened iron cages containing others, humans apart from one orc in a much sturdier cage who stands out dressed in rags and clearly quite beaten with bruises and wounds covering his body. Urn-like vessels filled with thin finger length bones decorate the cavern and In the center of the cavern's floor is a bloody mark painted in the shape of a hand with a skull in its palm.

Before the players can make much small talk they hear the rustling of chains and footsteps coming from the cavern entrance which leads to a long curving corridor they can’t see around before two nine foot tall massive bulky orc warriors with grey skin appear escorting a more regally dressed old hunchbacked grey-skinned orc with ornate carved bones and a cloak made from the skin of what looks to be orcs…

Coming to a stop in the middle of the cavern he eyes each of the inhabitants of the cages from a far. If the players speak up, he yells “Silence! Or you shall do without your tongue.” Eventually he points at the cage on the far left containing a dirty looking human man, “That one.” He says in a gruff voice. One of the orc warriors grabs a key which was hanging from the wall on the far side of the cavern and starts approaching the man's cage but the man becomes frantic “Wait why me?!?! What… what are you going to do to me?...”

Opening the cage one of the orc warriors grabs the man, flinging him into the middle of the room where he is grabbed by the other orc warrior who holds him down firmly kneeling in front of the regal orc while clasping the man's face so he can’t move.

The regal orc bends over, running one of his long fingers across the kneeling man’s cheek. The man tries to jerk his head away but he’s locked down forcing him to stare the regal orc in the eyes. The regal orc slowly pulls out a ceremonial knife and a goblet from his belt, holding them high above his head, causing the man in front of him to become frantic, jerking back and forth to try and escape “Please…” he squeaks out.

In orcish the regal orc recites a ritual chant “Gorzul vathak u’ghul, Zargoth nak’thra ug’zha krag damu skrag’ur tu’gh, gul ur’khor vath, thrag nak’gul ur’zarg thrall’uk!” If a player understands orcish they may translate it as “Oh bearer of the black, Oh thousand eyed master, may the blood flow for you, drink this warm offering and weave your gift through your faithful servants!”

With a swift, practiced motion, the regal orc plunges the knife into the man's neck, just below the jawline. A gush of dark blood erupting, spattering the bloody hand symbol on the floor and quickly filling the goblet held ready beneath the wound. The man's frantic movements cease almost instantly, replaced by a shuddering silence as his eyes glaze over. The regal orc holds the dripping knife high for a moment, then brings the goblet to his lips, taking a long, deep drink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he drops the empty goblet carelessly to the floor with a metallic clang.

He then gestures dismissively toward the two warriors, who unceremoniously drop the man's lifeless body, leaving it to slump against the iron bars of the nearest cage. Turning his attention back to the remaining prisoners, the regal orc's gaze lingers on the orc in rags for a prolonged moment before sweeping across the player’s cages. He lets out a low, guttural laugh that echoes off the cavern walls. "Fear not, little lambs" he rasps, "Your time will come. The Bloody Hand is patient." With that, he turns on his heel and retreats down the curving corridor, followed by his two silent, hulking guards who return the cage keys to the wall on the far side of the cavern before leaving it silent once more, save for the dripping of fresh blood onto the stone floor.

Time passes in which the players have time to converse from their cages, each may have a different story as where they were before they woke up in their cages but a general trend of going to sleep one night, perhaps after drinking at a tavern then just waking up here should be a common theme.

If the players try to talk with the orc in the cage he scoffs but will converse at least for a while. Explaining in a deep voice that “Each day, they come for one of you and much like friend” he gestures to the dead man, “Urgash, betrayer will drink your blood too.” If the players ask more he growls “Why waste breath on those soon to be dead. You get caught cause weak or stupid? Ha! Humans.”

If the players point out that he’s clearly in the cage too he laughs “Ha! I take down 10 orc warriors before they chain me, we are not same.” If the players ask him why he is in the cage he becomes pensive “Betrayers… It is right of the strong to rule… It is Draz’s right to rule.” He thumps his chest with one arm “Urgash, he offers weak tribes unearned strength, pitiful.” 

Draz spits on the ground “Weak belong under strong boots. I ruled this tribe. Brought meat, gold, glory, we strong. But the weak tribes, they know they will never be strong like Draz and his brethren, they attack in his sleep, kill his family, kill his friends. They have no honor, they have no strength.”

If the players scoff at orcs having honor Draz laughs loudly “Orc honor is not that of soft-skinned weaklings! Honor is strength! Honor is blood and battle! Kill or die. Fall fighting? Good death. Win and stand tall? Greater! You pink-skins babble of ‘good’ war then slaughter just same. You no better. Worse! You hide in pretty words. You pretend be clean while wading in blood just like beast. We know we beast. You pretend you not.

He spits again. "Urgash... he no honor. Him and his weaklings took chance of honor from family, from ilk. They killed in sleep like mice. No challenge. No battle. For that, Urgash and other betrayer’s pay. He will pay blood, and I will be one to collect." He frowns, his breath heavy with fury.

"Now" he says, resting his head back on the cage, closing his eyes “Whine in cages if must or shut mouths. We rot in same hole. I fell fighting like orc. You? Fell like drunk fools. Weak.”

If the players can pick locks they might be able to reach one of the urns filled with the finger length bones which sit besides the cages, otherwise players may be able to devise a plan to reach the keys hanging on the wall at the far side of the cavern. Alternatively the cages the players are in are much weaker than Draz’s are can be bent at least slightly enough to allow for someone to squeeze out by someone sufficiently strong, in addition the hooks the cages hang from are small and by swinging back and forth a player could cause their cage to fall and tumble to the ground, allowing them to roll over to where the keys are kept on the wall.

As the players free themselves Draz watches them with a gleam in his eyes.

“So. Pink-skins grew teeth?” Draz rumbles, his voice low. He shifts slightly in his sturdy cage, the thick chains clinking. “Good. Stay locked up longer? Knife in neck. Weak way die.” He eyes their efforts, then directs his gaze at the heavy lock on his own cage. “You need Draz,” he says. “Open cage.” If the players hesitate, he snarls low, “Look. Battered? Mhm. Broken? Never. Bleeding, I smash ten of Urgash’s whelps. Easy. I know this pit. Tunnels. Traps. Ways out. You stumble blind? You die slow. I walk with you? I point the path. You live longer.”

“Urgash mine. He stole honor. Stole kin. I want blood. You want out? We want same thing, him dead. Deal simple. You free me, I lead. I tell what need. More than you think. Urgash not just mad chief. He gathers clans. Uses Bloody Hand to chain weak. If he win, whole land bleeds red. You need edge. Draz is edge.”

“Listen, soft ones. Open cage. I guide you out. I give knowledge. We kill together till Urgash bleed. Then you scamper home to your soft holes. We survive this. For now. That’s bargain.” He waits impatiently, gaze locked. 

After freeing Draz, he stretches his neck and rubs his wrists where shackles used to be. “Thank you pink-skin, now let us shed blood.” The next curve in the cavern corridor carries all of the players armor and weapons on a rack or within the barrel next to it as well as some extra for Draz. In the next cavern there is a table with a deep red ale and some gold but it is suspiciously vacant. 

Upon arriving at a T-intersection the players begin hearing orcs talking in the distance, perhaps in the next cavern and Draz tells the players “Go right, best way out of cavern.” An insightful player might notice that Draz isn’t being fully forthright, but on the other hand the orcish voices do sound further away going right so it might be the safest.

If the players refuse to follow Draz, he becomes frustrated “Right, left, both go main hall, kill Urgash, was bargain.” He shakes his head slightly “Yes, Left also go out cavern, but then no kill Urgash, keep bargain pink-skin!”. If the players still refuse to join him, Draz reluctantly follows the players instead.

If the players do follow him however they soon find themselves in the main hall. Three tables have been set up in front of a throne and six orcs are dining on meat and ale. Surprised to see the prisoners, the players get a surprise round. If you want to make the fight more difficult you may have wolves from the neighboring wolf pit join the combat if the players get too close, alternatively you may leave the wolf pit empty, perhaps having already been taken out on a hunt by an orcish wolf master.

After the fight is over, unfortunately the players and Draz do not find Urgash. Draz spends a couple minutes spitting on the dead orcs and decapitating them before kicking the headless corpse of an orc into the dining table, sending wooden mugs scattering with a crash.

"Coward!" he roars, the sound echoing off the cavern walls. He brings his blade down hard on a table, splintering the wood. "Where is he? Hiding in shadows? like rat?!"

He spins to face the players, his eyes blazing with frustration. "See this? This Urgash's weaklings! fools, not fit guard caged beasts! He send filth to die for him. No challenge! No one true warrior!" He spits on the floor near a severed head. "Thought I would smell his fear. Thought I would taste his blood now. Useless! All this, scraps. The scent of rat's nest, not a king's hall." He gestures widely at the carnage. "We waste time here. Urgash runs. We move, find his hole, or I gut every weakling left in this pathetic warren until he show face."

Leaving the hall the players encounter another ten or so orc warriors around the rest of the village and find several masterwork orcish weapons, swords, axes, maces etc. on the racks near the forges as well as some food and other miscellaneous goods in the barrels and crates likely raided from a merchant caravan.

After everything is dealt with Draz comes to the players. "Listen good, pink-skins!" Draz snarls, gesturing with his blood-stained blade towards the forest beyond. "Deal is deal! You open Draz cage, Draz leads you to kill rat Urgash! We not done! You walk out now, Urgash hunt you. He wants Draz dead. He wants you dead. He want everyone who no join him dead. We stick together! Bargain! Remember!"

He spits on the ground "Urgash... he bad sick thing! Not just Orc fight now! He look in dark places. He drink black magic. Bloody Hand not just mark, it power! He gives weakness strength, fake strength! He wants army, big ugly army, powered by black well. If he raise this army, all land die. All land fire! Urgash is poison. Draz is axe. You want land safe? We kill poison."

Draz grips his weapon tighter. "He run to other holes now. Coward! Draz knows the other orc camps, Ironhand’s Mine and Head-Hunter Fortress are closest. We go there. We look. One by one!” He grins. "And if we kill some of Urgash's weakling dogs on the way? Good! So which way Pink-skin, I let you choose.”

The journey to either the Ironhand's Mine or Head-Hunter Fortress will take over a day of travel, necessitating at least a night spent under the stars, or in whatever rough shelter the landscape provides.

As the players make camp, Draz remains vigilant. Choosing a spot where he can observe the players and his surroundings despite the shared blood and battle distrust of "pink-skins" lingers, and his bond with them is purely one of convenience and shared vendetta against Urgash for this moment.

However, during dinner Draz is slightly more comfortable opening up, especially if the players manage to keep the conversation steered away from Urgash and the current betrayal.

He speaks with rough pride about his past life, particularly his wife Orzhuk. "Strongest female in tribe. Most savage tusks ever have seen, she open a man's jugular with them! And she did, too. Once, pathetic human tried sneak into camp to steal coin. Orzhuk heard the rustle. Next morning, we find body fifty paces from tent, throat torn out. Wasn't even worth a proper axe-swing."

His brief moment of reminiscence fades quickly, replaced by a brooding silence. If pressed about his family further, he simply shakes his head, the fury in his eyes returning. "Enough talk of dead things. Focus on the living one who made them dead. Urgash. We hunt. Rest now, we waste no more time."


60x40 Goblinoid Iron Mine (Free VTT Resolution Map)

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Draz leads the party to the entrance of what looks to be once an abandoned mine but no longer. Instead now showing signs of orcish inhabitants, pikes with bloodied heads and wooden barricades etc. Pushing deeper into the Ironhand’s Mine, the tunnels grow colder and damper, small work crews appear around bends and side passages, clusters of scrawny goblins in ragged loincloths, hauling buckets or dragging sleds laden with iron ore. Each group is watched by a single orc overseer, whip coiled at his belt and a heavy cleaver in hand. The goblins freeze at the sight of intruders, eyes wide with panic, but most don’t even have time to drop their tools before the overseers bark orders to attack the intruders.

When one goblin tries to bolt down a side tunnel, the overseer’s whip cracks once—then the cleaver comes down in a wet crunch. The body twitches once and lies still. The rest of the crew, trembling, raise pickaxes and mining hammers in desperate, clumsy swings.

The tunnel soon opens up into the mine’s vast central cavern. A chasm in the middle of the chamber, bridged by a precarious web of rickety wooden boardwalks, ladders, and swaying plank bridges. Crude cranes of lashed timber groan as they haul iron ore up from the darkness below. Goblins scurry along the walkways like ants, backs bent under heavy buckets, while chains rattle and pulleys squeal overhead.

High on the widest central walkway stands the Ironhand warchief, Raka. He looms at nearly nine feet with grey skin and blackened half-plate armor. In his massive hands he grips a two-handed mace whose spherical head is studded with spikes and burns with a dull inner ember; heat shimmers faintly around the weapon. He paces slowly, inspecting the flow of ore with cold satisfaction.

When his black eyes finally settle on the intruders, especially on Draz, his mouth splits into a slow, cruel grin. He plants the burning mace head-down on the planks with a heavy thud that sends sparks skittering across the wood.

Raka’s voice booms across the chasm, thick with mockery. “So proud Draz finally crawls out of cage. Still holding to him little honor while Urgash remake world? He offer you place, strong among strong. You spit on it.” Laughing he picks up his mace gesturing lazily toward the players with it. “Now look you. Skulking with pink-skins like beaten cur trailing after scraps.” Draz’s knuckles whiten around his weapon. A low growl rumbles in his throat, but Raka isn’t done.

“Brought death to own tribe, fool. Weak must kneel to strong, or did you forget?” Raka jabs at Draz's belief in orcish honor. “Now wife’s tusks rot in dirt and ilk are crow meat. Because thought too proud to bend knee.”

He spreads his arms wide, the burning mace trailing faint embers. “Behold what follow Urgash earns. Strength. Power. Urgash’s gift run in veins, black and cold and true. Soon every orc rise as I rise. All he ask is kneel.”

Raka turns his head and bellows down the walkways.“Overseers! To me! Crush these rats and traitor pet Draz!” Four burly orc overseers peel away from their goblin crews, hefting axes and mauls as they converge along the swaying boardwalks. The remaining goblins cower at the edges or scramble higher, unwilling to join the slaughter.

Raka hefts his burning mace and strides forward. Draz charges straight at the warchief ignoring the overseers entirely. The overseers fan out toward the players instead, leaving the two orcs to their duel. Draz attempts at first to damage Raka but then shifts exclusively to defensive actions when it becomes apparent Raka is that much stronger than him now hoping to just buy time for the players to kill off the overseers and come assist him.

Raka keeps taunting through the fight, voice carrying over the clash of metal and the creak of swaying wood. “Urgash conquest coming, Draz. Rivers blood, mountains skulls. You and honor-bound ilk could have shared glory. Instead you’ll die little while orc who kneels grows tall.”

“All be remade. All be strong. All obey. That is future you reject.”

Once the last overseer falls, the players can turn toward the duel. When Raka finally is dealt a killing blow Draz seizes the opening. If the warchief is near the edge of a boardwalk, Draz drives his sword deep into Raka’s gut, twists once, then plants a boot against the larger orc’s chest.

“Strength without honor… is nothing,” Draz snarls through gritted teeth.

With a final shove he sends Raka toppling backward. The warchief’s burning mace flies from his grip, trailing embers as he plummets. His armored body strikes the cavern floor far below with a bone-shattering crunch that echoes up the chasm like distant thunder. The mace lands beside him, its inner fire guttering out in a spray of dying sparks.

Draz sways for a moment, chest heaving, then spits over the edge. “One less servant of the rat,” he mutters, bitter and low. “But Urgash still breathe.” He turns to the players, wiping blood from his blade on his thigh. “Come. We have more dogs to slay. We keep moving.”

GM’s Notes: Raka’s Mace and armor can be retrieved by using one of the ladders around the mine, while dented they’re still functional and are both of magical quality.

40x30 Bloodmarked Forest Bastion Tower (Free VTT Resolution Map)

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The journey toward Head-Hunter Fortress winds through tangled forest paths and broken, rocky ground. Late on the second day, Draz halts and points toward a distant, jagged silhouette rising above the treetops, a crumbling stone watchtower, ancient and weathered.

"Bastard’s folly," Draz mutters "Old tower. Held by human nobles, soft pink-skin guards watching edge of orc lands. Keep us out, watch our moves. Sits in small valley ahead, no good way around. Too open, too steep on sides. They spot us easy if we try skirt it. We go straight up. Climb. See what weaklings squat there.”

The ascent is steep and unforgiving but levels out once closer to the tower. Climbs the tower’s outer stairs, ancient, moss-slick slabs. The air grows sharper, carrying the faint copper tang of fresh blood long before they reach the top.

The parapet opens onto a large square platform ringed by broken crenellations. Human guards lie sprawled in spreading pools of dark blood. Crests of some local lord mark their tabards while swords and shields lie scattered where they fell. Dominating the stone floor between the corpses is a fresh, hastily painted symbol of the bloody hand.

A low chuckle rumbles from the far side of the platform where three burly orc warriors are still at work looting the dead. One wipes a gore-smeared axe on a torn tunic, another rummages through a leather pouch with greedy fingers, and the third, the clear leader, perches atop a shattered crenellation like a vulture.

The orcs freeze at the sudden intrusion, then erupt into snarls of recognition. The leader Thrak leaps down with a heavy thud that cracks a flagstone, hefting his dripping axe.

"Har! Look what stinks up wind!" he bellows, tusks flashing in a wide, ugly grin. "Draz da Traitor! Urgash say you loose, didn’t fink ya bring pink-skin whelps to wipe ya arse! We just gut soft guards for Bloody Hand, good red offerin’. Now we gut you and yer pink-skins too! Bigger prize! More blood fer da black one!"

Thrak’s orc warriors growl and ready weapons, stepping forward ready to attack the closest combatant without much thought for tactics. Thrak on the other hand like many Orcs sees Draz siding with pink-skins as being a big insult so chooses to focus attacks on him if he gets the chance.

60x40 Multi-Level Ruined Orc Fortress of the Bloody Hand (Subscriber Only Map, This is a Low-Resolution Sample)

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A couple of hours after the skirmish atop the tower the Head-Hunter fortress comes into view, a truly imposing sight, built directly into the face of a sheer cliff overlooking a deep, fast-flowing river, which it spans with an ancient stone bridge. The scale of the place suggests it was never intended for human or even orcish occupancy, perhaps being built by giants instead.

Stepping onto the bridge reveals how the Headhunter tribe has claimed the ruin. Crude wooden barricades and mismatched orcish additions, spiked logs, iron reinforcements and dangling trophy bones mar the ancient stonework.

Inside the players meet their first resistance, the Headhunter orcs do not charge head-on like common orc warriors. Instead, they hunt, focusing on flanking and getting the upper hand. Bare-chested orcs, they are clad only in leather greaves for mobility, wearing wide necklaces of finger bones and small teeth, while heavier belts sag under the weight of polished skulls taken from worthy kills. Their hooked axes are designed for one purpose, severing heads to add to the collection.

Inside the ruins the players also run into small groups of goblin allies small, wiry, and far more cunning than the average runt, they goblins are unlike the others from the Ironhand mines and are instead treated as equals. These goblins skulk in the shadows of collapsed walls and alcoves, smeared with dark mud and wearing tattered cloaks of leaves and rags. They hurl short spears tipped with poison. 

Deeper in the players reach a massive set of stairs emerging onto the fortress roof, a broad, flat expanse of weathered stone offering a dizzying view of the churning river far below. At the far end, a dark, ragged-edged opening has been hacked straight into the cliff face, a fresh tunnel, clearly no part of the original structure. Draz gestures toward it, breath ragged from the recent fights. “Here. Urgash marks trail like a filthy boar.”

The tunnel is short and narrow, opening into a small cavern that hits the players with disturbing familiarity. It is roughly the size of the prison cavern where they first awoke, and its purpose is unmistakably the same. Blackened iron cages hang empty from the ceiling. A fresh-painted Bloody Hand symbol dominates the center of the stone floor. Unlike the first cavern, though, this one is ringed by a morbid slurry, a wide, pooling circle of deep red blood mixed with countless bones and skulls that bob gently in the gore.

Standing directly over the Bloody Hand symbol looms the Headhunter warchief, Vorgul. He is a hulking brute among orcs with grey skin, every inch of flesh etched with ritual scars. Reinforced bone greaves protect his legs, but his torso is left naked to display the trophies, a heavy necklace of finger bones and teeth drapes across his chest, while his belt groans under a dozen gleaming skulls, elf, dwarf, human, and orc alike, each etched with tiny black runes that glow with an unearthly light. In his grip is a massive, curved greataxe notched from years of severing necks, its blade stained permanently crimson.

Vorgul’s black eyes gleam with savage delight when he spots Draz. His tusked mouth curls into a predatory sneer. “Draz, old blood-brother,” he rumbles, voice like grinding gravel. “You slink back from the grave? Hah! Urgash warned us you’d come sniffing. Traitor to the Black, eh? Pity. We share good hunts once, heads rolling. Now? You just another trophy for the belt.”

He taps one of the skulls at his waist, and it seems to rattle in response, as if echoing his words.

“Urgash’s rules clear, loose ends get cut. But I make it quick, for old times.”

Vorgul looks almost nostalgic for a heartbeat, his cunning eyes flicking over the players like a hunter sizing up prey, then his face hardens, daring the players to face him. After the first round once the players have engaged him and been drawn into the circle of bloody bones he bellows, laughing wildly. “Gifts from the Urgash, from the Black!” and with a savage roar, Vorgul slams the haft of his axe down onto the center of the Bloody Hand symbol. The pool of blood and bone around the mark churns violently, bubbling and frothing. 

Skulls and bones rise and snap together with gruesome speed. From the pooling blood, four headless undead horrors wrench themselves upright, bony claws extended. Faint, malevolent black light glows from the stumps where heads should be, and they lurch forward with unnatural speed, driven by the warchief's dark pact. The headless skeletal warriors shamble toward the players, focusing on the players not in melee, as Vorgul grins, axe whistling through the air.

GM’s Notes: Vorgal’s belt and greataxe are magical.

60x40 Orcs Path of War Switchback (Subscriber Only Map, This is a Low-Resolution Sample)

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Failing to find Urgash at either the Ironhand Mine or the Headhunter Fortress, Draz’s frustration boils over into grim resolve. The trail has grown colder, but the orc refuses to quit. Over several shared battles and the growing rhythm of fighting side-by-side he has come to trust the players, at least as much as an orc trusts anyone not of his blood. Around a small campfire one night, Draz finally shares the last pieces of the puzzle he holds.

He stares into the flames, voice low and rough. “Urgash… he wasn’t always this. Came from a clan far north. Strong once. Proud. But they were wiped out, raiders, plague, who knows. He alone survived. Sole survivor. Bad omen. Other tribes spat on him, called him cursed. No one took him in. Weak then, scrawny, timid, like pink-skin whelp or soft female. Hid in shadows, begged scraps.”

Draz spits into the fire, embers hissing. “Then something changed him. Found power in the dark, black magic? blood rites? whatever Urgash calls ‘the gift.’ Came to my clan one night. Offered true strength. Said other tribes already bent the knee, but he’d proved his worth first. Show them what the Bloody Hand could do. I refused. Never kneel.” He looks at the players, eyes hard but weary. “To the north, couple days’ hard travel lies old orcish ritual site. Ancient grounds where Urgash clan once held rites. Blood altars, bone circles, stones carved wit forgotten marks. If he gone to ground, it there. He returns to where he broke. Where the black took him. We go. End this.”

The journey north grows colder and wilder. Signs of recent activity appear, charred campsites, stripped caravans, crude markers of skulls on stakes. The party eventually reaches one of the old human highways, wide, stone-paved roads covered now in thick dirt, long abandoned due to orcish ambushes. A massive cliff looms ahead, the road switchbacking up its face in steep, narrow turns toward the plateau above, where the ritual site waits.

The switchback has been turned into a makeshift orc camp. Small hide huts cling to the ledges, wooden barricades studded with skulls and spiked logs block the path at intervals. Orc warriors patrol the turns, some with snarling wolf pets on chains.

The climb becomes a gauntlet. Waves of defenders descending, first small groups of axe-wielding orcs rushing down the path, then pairs with wolves. Higher up, javelin-throwers hurl barbed spears from ledges. Throughout the ascent, a massive figure watches from the top, the orc warchief astride a dire wolf mount. The beast is enormous with shaggy black fur while the rider, nine feet of grey muscle, hefts a long, barbed spear and bellows taunts that echo down the cliff.

“Draz! You last of your clan, why you bother! Bring soft pink-skins to die on my mountain? Hah! Climb, weaklings! I’ll mount your heads on the stones above!” At the top, the path opens onto a wide ledge. The warchief, Gulaman waits there, dire wolf growling beneath him. Two smaller wolves pace at his flanks, hackles raised. He is clad in leather and mail armor, a cloak of wolf pelts draped across his shoulders.

Draz halts, axe ready, recognition flashing in his eyes. “Gulaman” he growls. “Not the old chief. Where is Torvash?” Gulaman laughs, deep and mocking, patting the dire wolf’s thick neck.

“Torvash? He no kneel. Many honor, that one. Like you. Urgash offered power, size, strength, the black blood in the veins. Torvash spat on it. So I deal with him. Deal with the others who clung to old ways. Now I lead. And soon…” He leans forward,black eyes gleaming. “Soon Urgash gives us all what we need. The ritual bring the Black. We grow again, bigger, stronger. Like him. Like gods. All kneel, then rise. rest? Feed the altars.”

Draz stands motionless for a long moment, axe gripped so tight the leather wrapping creaks. When he speaks, his voice is low, edged with something colder than rage—disgust.

“Torvash…” Draz mutters, almost to himself, then louder, fixing Gulaman with a hard stare. “Torvash earned his scars in open. Challenged rivals face-to-face. Took heads when came at him howling, not when sleep. He strong. Honorable. You? You always snake in grass, Gulaman. Whispering poison, waiting for strong to turn backs so could slip the knife in.”

“I knew you wanted his seat. Watched you eye it like a starving cur eyes meat. But never thought you sell your own clan to Urgash’s black rot for it. Call this leading? Call this strength? Torvash would’ve died fighting before bending knee to shadows. You bent before fight even started.”

Gulaman’s grin falters for a split second, then widens, tusks flashing. “Honor? Old words for dead orcs,” he sneers. “Urgash shows the truth, power not earned in duels nomore. Is given by Bloody Hand. And soon every tribe see it. Should’ve knelt too, Draz. Would been standing taller now instead of bleeding out on my mountain.”

Draz’s eyes narrow to slits. “Better to die small and true than grow tall on betrayal. You wear Torvash throne like a thief wears stolen armor, it fit poorly, and everyone smell the coward underneath.” He hefts his axe, stepping forward as the players ready weapons beside him.

Gulaman raises his spear. “No more talk. Urgash want head, Draz. And your pink-skins? Extra skulls for pile.” The dire wolf rears, howling, and the fight begins.

GM’s Notes: Gulaman’s spear is magical.

60x40 Orc Blood Ritual Site of the Bloody Hand / Dark Zone Astral Blood Ritual (Subscriber Only Map, This is a Low-Resolution Sample)

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The final day's travel to Urgash’s ritual site is grim and silent. Draz speaks little that night around the last campfire, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon where the ritual site waits. Getting closer to the site the players spot a single orc corpse lashed to a rough wooden pole by the trail, skin bruised purple, chest riddled with stab wounds, tusks broken. A warning. A few miles later, another. Then dozens. By midday the roadside is lined with them, hundreds of bodies staked upright like grotesque totems, some still fresh, others rotting into leathery husks. Every one bears the marks of refusal, throats slit, skulls caved in, limbs hacked off. These were the orcs who would not bend to Urgash’s Bloody Hand.

The ritual site finally comes into view. A sheer cliff rises above the treeline like a broken fang, its base carved into tiered stone platforms connected by wide staircases hewn directly from the rock. Three enormous skulls, each the size of houses, have been sculpted from the cliff face itself, their hollow eye sockets glowing with sickly malevolent light. At the foot of the staircases lies the village, crude huts of bone and hide rebuilt around ancient stone altars, now Urgash’s seat of power.

Patrolling the village are small groups of grey-skinned orcs, their bodies swollen with unnatural muscle and veins faintly black beneath the skin. They move with confidence, clad in make-shift armor, wielding massive cleavers and warhammers. Though fewer in number than a full warband, each one fights like a lesser version of the chieftains the party has slain, stronger, faster than regular orcs but not quite as powerful as the chieftains.

The players and Draz fight their way through the village then up the carved staircases. Urgash stands alone at the center of a symbol carved into the stone, filled with blood and bone just like the morbid slurry in the Headhunter cavern but larger. He faces away from the players, broad back turned, arms spread wide, his ritual dagger in one hand. Urgash has grown larger since the players first meet him within the cavern, standing nearly twelve feet tall now, black veins crawling like roots across his bare torso. A cloak of stitched orc hides hangs from his shoulders.

Draz sees him and roars, a sound of pure, animal fury. He charges without hesitation, leaping high, axe raised in both hands to bring it crashing down on Urgash’s skull but just before the moment of impact, the axe stops dead.

Draz hangs frozen in mid-air, inches from Urgash’s head. Tendrils of writhing black shadow coming into existence from the air around him, coiling around his wrists, ankles, and throat like living ropes. They tighten, holding him suspended. Draz snarls and thrashes, muscles bulging, but the shadows only constrict further.

Urgash turns slowly. A slow, cold smile spreads across his features. “Draz,” he rasps, voice deep and resonant, carrying an unnatural echo. “You’ve been… persistent. A nuisance... But look around you.” He gestures lazily at the forest of staked corpses below. “Every orc you’ve killed, every chieftain you’ve cut down, they can be replaced. I place no value on any individual Ork, The Bloody Hand is generous. All weak can be made strong by the Black. And soon, all will rise, a never ending stream of warriors for my will.” He steps closer to Draz, the bloody emblem rippling beneath his boots.

The shadows tighten again, Draz grunts in pain but refuses to cry out. “You should have knelt when I offered.” Urgash continues. “Your tribe could have been the first to taste true power. Instead you chose death. Stubborn. Pointless.”

With a casual flick of his wrist, the shadow tendrils fling Draz backward and upward. He soars into the air above the bloody symbol, limbs splayed wide, suspended high over the platform like a crucified trophy. The black ropes hold him fast, he strains, roars, but the shadows only writhe and reform, tightening until blood trickles from where they bite into his flesh.

Urgash turns his gaze on the players for the first time. “And you… the pink-skins who helped him get this far.” His smile widens, showing teeth filed to points. “I shall enjoy testing my new gifts on you.”

The final battle erupts on the blood-slick platform beneath the three colossal carved skulls. Urgash steps forward from the center of the emblem, the ritual dagger in his hand no longer ordinary steel. It is forged of pure darkness, solid shadow given form, its blade a void that drinks light. At the crossguard sits a single, glinting eye. The eye swivels slowly, locking onto the nearest player with focus which causes that player to have a hard time concentrating.

“The Black promised me power,” Urgash hisses, voice layered with an unnatural echo, “and I shall have it.”

He steps clear of the emblem and the  moment his foot leaves the symbol it begins to bubble and froth like a cauldron coming to boil. Urgash raises the dark dagger and unleashes the first wave of his assault, tendrils of writhing shadow lash out in arcs. He moves with unnatural speed for his size, the eye in the dagger’s crossguard flicking from target to target, guiding his strikes with malevolent precision.

After the first brutal exchange, Urgash laughs, a triumphant sound and lifts his free hand high.

“Witness true strength, little whelps!” Shadows explode outward from every surface, swallowing the world in an instant. 

The platform, the cliff, the skulls all vanish, the air thickening with the copper-stink of blood and something fouler. When vision returns, the players are no longer on the mountain. They stand in a vast, dying realm beneath a sky of black pierced by countless tiny, crimson stars, faint, malevolent points of light that wink and stare like distant, watching eyes. 

Gravity feels wrong, movements are sluggish, as though the air itself resists them and High above, Draz still hangs suspended via the shadow tendrils, limbs splayed, chest heaving with choked rage and pain. He roars down at the players, voice raw and desperate. “Kill him, pink-skins! Kill now!”

Urgash stands before them in this alien place, untouched by the disorientation, the dark dagger trailing shimmering afterimages as he advances. “Your deaths will be meaningless,” he snarls. At the end of every round Urgash leaves behind a dark dagger afterimage until there are equal dark daggers to players. These daggers attack a specific player until they kill that player or Urgash is killed.

Throughout the fight, perceptive players catch glimpses of movement in the dark astral sky, writhing shadowy tendrils coiling far overhead, vanishing the instant anyone looks directly at them. When the final blow lands, Urgash staggers. The dark dagger clatters from his grip, its hateful eye dimming as it dissolves into smoke. He drops to his knees, black ichor spilling from the wounds, chest heaving.

“But it promised me…” he gasps, voice cracking for the first time. “It made a deal…”

Draz, still suspended above, lets out a low, bitter laugh through bloodied teeth as the shadow-ropes dissolve. Draz drops heavily to the platform, the dying-star realm gone in a blink. He lands in a crouch, axe already raised and with three deliberate strides he crosses to the kneeling Urgash, who looks up with fading defiance. Draz raises the axe. “No Deal.” he growls.

The blade comes down in a clean arc with Urgash’s head tumbling free. The instant the head separates from the neck, the world shudders. The glowing eyes of the cliff-carved skulls flicker and die. The bubbling emblem stills and all that remains of Urgash is drifting black smoke curling upward from where he knelt, thinning until nothing is left, no corpse, no bones, no trace. The platform is empty save for the players and Draz.

Draz stands there a long moment, breathing hard. He looks at the drifting smoke where Urgash once knelt, nothing left now but thin wisps curling into the cold air. The glowing eyes of the cliff-carved skulls have gone dark, the emblem below cracked and dry, the wind sweeping away the last traces of it all.

He turns slowly to the players, tusks still bared, but the weary grin is gone. His voice is low, rough, carrying the weight of something final. “Fought well, pink-skins. Better than most. You help bury poison that rot us from inside. For that… I owe you blood-debt. I won’t forget it.”

He glances out over the forest of staked corpses below, then up at the silent cliffs.

“Don’t mistake for softness. Urgash dead. The Bloody Hand broke. Without strong chieftain, the clans crumble. Many will run. Hide in the hills. Raid what can to survive, villages, caravans, each other. Chaos for a season, maybe years. It will take time, long time, before the orcish ilk find new strong one to unite under. When that day comes…”

He meets each player’s eyes in turn, gaze hard and unflinching. “…you might find yourselves on the other side of my blade. That the way of things. Orcs rise. Orcs raid. Orcs take what the weak cannot hold. If paths cross again in battle, I come for you with everything I have. And hope, that when that day come, we fight and die with honor.”

He hefts his axe onto his shoulder, the motion final. “Until then… stay sharp. The world doesn’t forget a good fight. Neither do Draz.” Without another word, Draz turns and starts down the carved staircase. His heavy footsteps echoing off the stone, growing fainter until he disappears into the forest beyond.

The ritual site is still. The wind carries only silence now. The threat of the Bloody Hand is broken. For now. And the players stand alone on the high platform, the vast northern wilds stretching out beneath them.

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