Tyrant sat on his throne of wood, leather, and bones, stroking the once mighty blade Messer. It was the legacy of his people; the blessing of his great grandfather who lead this tribe as one of the most successful tribes in history. Great champions of foreign tribes came to beg for a place amongst even the common orcs of his tribe, while shamans came bearing riches and slaves for merely being allowed to exist. There was no force of might or magic that could strike down Messer or its wielder. At least, not as once. No matter how the storm howled, the mountain would not bow to it, but as the winds howled, for years and years, the mountain was weathered. Tyrant's ancestor grew meek with age, and while far from feeble, none were a perfect replacement. The tribe was lead, but by a poor choice. As the tribe grew weaker, Messer grew feeble, turning to stone in the chieftain's hands.
And enemies came.
The tribe, so fierce just years ago, had left a path of pillaging and ravaging in its wake. Many feared them, and bowed their heads to avoid their wrath. Now, they rose from their knees, lust for revenge that they had so long been able to satisfy. The stone blade, Messer, was chipped away, large chunks taken by enemies ranging from other orcs, to humans, to even an elven group of skirmishers. The shame of Tyrant's grandfather fell on his mother; a wise and potent mystic in her own right, but with no strong champions to lead.
And then, there was him.
Surrounded by members of his tribe, arrows trained and axes ready, the chieftain and the shaman of the Ironback tribe knelt before him, sweat on their brow.
The quivering shaman spoke for the two of them. "Our tribe offers our full allegiance. We believe you to be Gruumish's herald on Earth! Anything you need, we will give."
"Are you aware of our tribes' history, Mystic Thera?"
Tyrant got off his throne, Messer in hand. "Generations ago, this exact conversation was held before. Your tribe, swearing fealty to mine. Your leaders' groveling at the feet of our champion. And do you know what happened to that loyalty, Mystic Thera?"
He waved Messer at her. "Replace it."
The trembling mystic took a large, unimpressive looking shard of stone from the chieftain, and placed it neatly into a section of Messer that was dented away. The grooves between the blade and the shard glowed bright green, before sealing, though the crack was still visible. "You were one of many to betray us."
The chieftain looked up, belligerent, "Your tribe grew meek. Oaths and loyalty are nothing compared to that! If you grew weak, I would cut you down myself without a second of hesitation!"
The mystic looked horrified. Tyrant put Messer right against the orc's throat. "He doesn't mean that, Lord Tyrant! We will always...." But it was too late. They were past words. With a quick, but mighty blow, the mystic was bisected. Tyrant returned to his throne, staring down at the chieftain who eyed him with rage. "That was a proper orc response Chieftain of the Ironbacks. But never bring such weak willed filth as that mystic near my tribe again."