An army is a terrible thing. Wherever it goes, an army needs to eat, and what it eats is everything. The soldiers will ride out to pillage and plunder. They take food, water, fodder, women, money, stealing what they can and killing if they want. The grass is trampled, the trees are chopped down for firewood, the ground is polluted with latrines. When moving the medieval army would leave a wasteland of ten or more miles in it's wake. This process was necessary, but it was also intentional; this was the damaged inflicted upon the enemy. The misery thus caused vastly exceeded the horrors of the battlefield.
But one day the army will return home. The soldier will find his family waiting for him with open arms, eager to see his wealth and his scars. The man will put down his sword and pick up his scythe. He can stop being a soldier.
But some armies don't come home. Some march for long days under strange skies. Each day their hearts grow more and more callous. Each day the sun dries and blisters their skin, until it turns a dull, leathery grey. Each day they forget a little more about their home, and one day they will forget it all. These wretches, who burn and kill and don't remember why, these men have become Orcs.
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