"Pathetic. Try again."

At the sound of those words for the millionth time, the child still stood up once more. Wiping the sand off his arms and blood off his cheeks, readying his stance again. In front of him was his younger, but taller half-sibling, who'd already proved himself way stronger in comparison. On the side of the pit stood their father, the one and only Sharrack, chief of their tribe of orcs. He motioned for the duel to commence in a somewhat careless manner, as he'd clearly grown disinterested several fights ago.

Lancelot, he was named, after one of the legendary orcish warriors from infamous myths. The young orc tried to evade, but was too slow again- His better opponent's fist collided swiftly with his left lower arm. The first born to Sharrack and his main wife, Lancelot shouldered many responsibilities to follow the chief in his footsteps. A retaliation by hitting his better opponent in the chin, but it seemingly left him unfazed- A kick so strong it could break bones, and Lancelot lost his balance. His father already repeated the same words, before he landed supine into the sand.

"Sharrack, don't you think this is enough training for one day?" a soft, but still gruff voice spoke up. Lance's saviour had come to the rescue, and the child skittered off the field, right into his mother's arms. He hid away his face in shame, not wanting to hear the descent into anger- Though its was only possible to leave it unheard for so long.

"The child is 7. He should be accompanying hunters already", the chief stated matter of fact. He wasn't wrong, after all. In their tribe, children were trained from a young age, and had Lancelot not been so weak, he'd have already gone on hunts several times. While younglings didn't contribute much to the overall effort, it was still regarded as vital experience and development for the next generation... Or whatever mumbo jumbo the elders said.

"You're too hard on him. Lance needs you as a father, not a chief", his mother tried once more. In the harsh force that beckoned his father, there was soft solace in the care of his mother- Another trait that deemed him a weakling, according to his father and the majority of other orcs. Lancelot knew he didn't live up to his namesake, not even closely- Yet each word against him would pierce through without fail every time.

"Then you shouldn't have beared me such a weak heir", Sharrack spat in turn, ending the conversation then and there. His mother gently stroked his head, the silence deafening as they both waited for the chief to be out of sight- His half-sibling had already walked off to find a stronger opponent. He knew, had he not been the chief's first son, he'd have been left for scraps in a heartbeat. He couldn't cry, he shouldn't and thus he wouldn't, even if there was little to no judgment from the one who truly cared about him. The young orc pinched his eyes to keep it together, slowly raising his head to look at mother.

"I'm sorry," his voice quivered, "I wish I was stronger too."

In turn, his mother soothed him without fail every time, giving him a smile that radiated a belief in him no one else held.

"Your day will come, Lance, in due time."

— STOKE THE FIRE —

---

Lance's day wouldn't come.

At least, the young orc, by then a teen, had already stopped believing. The orc could count the amount of hunts he'd gone on, on one hand- Much to his father's dismay, and even a smidge of mother's by then, all those ended quite disastrously for Lance. In order to be somewhat useful to the tribe still, after much pleading, he was assigned an apprenticeship with the blacksmiths- Whose crafts mainly functioned as structures and brawler's equipment. His father was quiet about it, but Lance already knew one of his half-siblings had been promised leadership instead of him. The equivalent of a janitor's boy, the laughing stock of the tribe, the soul-crushing reality of never amounting to anything in his father's eyes- His life in itself felt like a fool's errand, yet Lancelot tried his damnest and bestest with what he had.

"Why are you still pursuing this nonsense?" the chief once asked, rather impatiently.

"Because I want to try, despite the odds", Lancelot gruffly responded, not wanting to come across as a weakling anymore.

Perhaps not all hope was lost for this soiled smith.

Still regularly picked on by his peers, Lance'd grown tired of minding his own business. As if struck by the legends themselves, one day he snapped, returning the offense by bashing in a head with a large sheet of metal. The half-sibling he despised the most, in care for at least a week. Several other peers followed after, and Lance thought he ought to create a better weapon than mere iron paper. Taking inspiration from the stories he grew up with, the first tool Lance held was a club covered in spikes. It kept the first few offenders at bay.

The second tool Lance held was a shield. It proved successful defense, the second it was needed.

The third tool Lance held was a set of metal coverings. No longer would he have to endure kicks in the shin or several degree burns.

Akin to a stereotypical training dummy, many orcs raised their eyebrows once Lancelot actually won a duel with his own created tools. The young orc looked like a massive idiot, for sure, but the fact he'd completely floored his opponent? It was impossible insanity.

His mother was the first in full support of this strange new way of combat. With each victory, less common loss and occasional draws, Lancelot improved, more curious eyes peeking at the whole ordeal. The young orc had trials with different equipment, taking inspiration not only from orcish legends, but also those of others- On the day he knocked his half-sibling's jaw bloody rotten, loud cheers travelled through the entire tribe, Lancelot feeling pride for the very first time. Other runts of the tribe followed soon after, giving the weakest a chance to survive, rather than be abandoned without second glance.

It was then that Sharrack sat Lance down for a talk one day.

"Son," the orcish chief began, "I've always seen you as weak."

Not this again.

"You've always been the runtiest of runts, putting shame on my bloodline. I'm sure you know this all too well."

"Is that all, chief?" Lancelot responded deadpan.

"However, you have proven yourself to be unconventional also", his father continued, with a twinge of cautious optimism. Lance's ears perked out of curiosity. Was he finally- ?

"A few months ago you won your first duel. Since then you have won many more. You still look like a gaudy puppet fighting, but you've proven there is another way for the lowest", his father told him earnestly, yet hesitant to say any more. "I refused to have you as a son, no less an heir, until recently. I'm proud of you, Lance."

It was the first time Lancelot willingly gave his father a tight hug.

— REDUCED TO ASHES —

---

As Lance's so-called unconventional methods became more commonplace, Sharrack's tribe as a result grew in strength and numbers. The weaklings left to fend for themselves lowered, to the point no one was ever left behind. The weight shifted towards them, resulting in other peers and orcs curious about all this too. The stigma of 'false power' dissolved, as if the tribe came together as one. Already one of the more prominent groups, Sharrack and his fellow orcs truly set their foot down on their small patch of region.

Eventually, Lancelot was made head of the smithy, with several apprentices following in his footsteps. It'd taken years, but finally, Lance had gotten the recognition and praise he sought after all his childhood. At the front stood his mother, all gleaming with smiles and ready to catch her son should he need it. Next to her, his father took place as a stable rock, nodding in approval of the paths he'd taken thus far. The smith soiled no longer, he felt he'd become a full part of his home.

With the years visibly catching up onto his old folks, Lance found peace with his half-sibling as the next chief. The position was whole-heartedly offered to him by his father since his rise, though the firstborn had enough wisdom to decline. The orc was more than happy to do his metalwork, for he'd grown passionate about it- Were his ideas needed anyways, he suggested a council of sorts, alongside the wisdom of the tribe chief and its elders. And so, the Sharrack chiefdom continued harmonious as ever, ensuring a solid foundation for the next generations to come- With itself, as well as the surrounding tribes.

This peace, however, wouldn't go unnoticed forever.

Lance was in his 20s when he saw an orc unlike any other. Contrasting against their murky greens, stood an orc with fire in his eyes and skin reminescent of a volcano. Each visit redirected to his parents and elders, words hushed about a pact of some sorts. Each visit seemed to drive the volcano closer to erupting, though none of their tribe knew until it'd already proven disastrous. In the dead of the night, Sharrack's chiefdom was surrounded by spitfire.

Of course- By turning into a formidable force themselves, they'd caught the eyes of the apex in the region-

The Dragon Orcs.

Refusing to be taken as mere slaves for the upper echelon's industry, every one of Sharrack's forces fought tooth and nail until the last bone. As peers and elders were dealt with left and right, Sharrack himself and his firstborn were one of the few who managed to escape. Covered in sand and blood, the back of his mind recalling old memories, Lance was afraid in a way he'd never been. From a tribe nearing three digits, over half were imprisoned, over dozens were dead, and less than 10 were standing. All of their voices talking over another, panicked and unsure on what to do- They needed a plan, fast, and time wasn't on their side.

Lance felt his eyes watering when the chief spoke up, realising that the ship had changed course unfavourably.

"We aren't with enough to go against the Dragon Orcs", Sharrack began, sorrow evident. "Either we flee, or we combine forces with other tribes."

The chief then spoke to each orc individually, putting his hands on Lance's shoulders last.

"Son, I know you've fought for your right under my wing", he said, earnestly. "You started as a weakling, and now you're one of the strongest I'm proud to call my blood. You've got potential, and it'd be unwise to let that go to waste."

Lance started immediately resisting, once he realised what his father was getting at.

"No! You can't just send me away after all this!" he pleaded, tears forming more clearly in his sight- He swore he could see some forming in his father's eyes as well.

"I'm leaving you no choice, Lance. I'll banish you if I must, your place is not with this fight."

"Can't you come with me?! We already stand so little chance, why try-"

"We've lost a lot tonight", his father interrupted him, looking him straight in the eye. "I lost my wife, you lost your mother. A smart orc once told me, 'we've got to try, despite the odds'. But I'm not taking the chance in losing you as well, Lance."

As much as he wanted to stay and fight- As much as he wanted to provide help to the survivors- As much as he wanted to seek revenge for what was lost- Lancelot couldn't disregard his father's last wish. His heart had sunk amidst the ashes, wishing to be reborn anew. With that, the firstborn took his father and peers in for the last goodbye.

— FYRE'S FUELS —

---

Reaching the western border took a few weeks. Lance'd thought about various ways to start anew- Join another chiefdom, start his own, travel as tradesman- Though none of those fit what he particularly had in mind. Word went that the region west had a more.. Stable way of living, which aligned with his desire to simply settle down as a smith. He could only hope the journey would be smooth, as even nowadays orcs and elves weren't on the best of terms generally.

So, Lance ignored that he was the only greenskin around, to the best of his ability- He ignored raised eyebrows and silent questions that'd remind him more of his past rather than prejudice- He ignored the fact he was an orcish runt, but an elvish brute- Finding temporary places to stay was difficult, but not impossible. To pay off any rented rooms he was happy to work around, as well as take smithing opportunities. The more he travelled around, the more word of his tale spread- And the more folk were open to welcoming him.

After living essentially nomadically for a few years, Lance had found a cozy village within the country of Seragos. A run-down lot was claimed in his ownership, and Lancelot immediately went to work- The daily ruckus went on for several weeks, with curious eyes looking what it was all about, occasionally offering a helping hand. The locals celebrated with Lancelot, once he opened his forge Fyre's Fuels. His smithy was the first around, which would by no doubt make the lives of folk plenty easier- No longer did they have to travel by cart several towns away, for a new pair of boots, a shield, or a farmer's pitchfork.

Lancelot swiftly became beloved within his town- Rather than being treated as a vicious, uncivilised orc, he found that the folk here took a liking to him. Perhaps it was his gentler nature, or his willingless to adapt and learn about the region he'd moved to. The village he picked was a good one, thinking to himself not to leave anytime soon. In turn, Fyre's Fuels was one of many reasons the area shot up in growth and prosperity.

By the second year, the village had grown into a town, and Fyre's Fuels sat around its outskirts. Lancelot started receiving customers from other towns, as word went around of his exemplary forging skills. The orc was as passionate as one could be about his profession, creating bland iron swords as strong as obsidian steel- And folk around the country wished to see this with their own eyes. His skill was once picked up by a curious young scholar, telling Lancelot that he unknowingly was pouring magic into his crafts. It was then the smith was introduced to the art of enchanting, this scholar offering his help in turn for a smithing apprenticeship.

And so, Lancelot took on his first foreign apprentice. From spring until winter of that year, the both of them were learning quite a lot, forging an amicable bond as well. Lance eventually learned this scholar had left his duties behind, insisting on a different path after finding the love of his life- Least to say it struck a cord with the orc. He gifted him a custom hammer, to kickstart his endeavour once their lessons ended. In turn, the scholar would write every now and then, thanking Lance once more and sharing the goings of his changed path- It gave Lance a sense of pride for someone else, and the orc was happy he aided with that endeavour.

From then on, besides enchanting his works deliberately, Lance offered more apprenticeships for anyone interested.

Many more came after that first scholar, each of them a wholly different experience to teach- And some of them, without a doubt, stuck out- In a way that they'd become part of Lance's life forever.

— A BLAZING HEARTH —

---

By the sixth year, Lancelot came across an abandoned scrap of metal whilst out collecting materials- Or so, he thought. Upon approaching, it croaked and whirred and slowly came to life- Enchanted armour? The orcish smith could sense faint residue of such tamperings, though most of it seemed too advanced for his skill. Lancelot stood perfectly still, observing its actions- Then moved out of his way to offer a hand, once he realised it was trying to get up. It had no name, nor was even fully complete, as there were missing sheets and holes for coverage- Yet surprisingly, it could talk.

"How'd you end up here?" was the first question Lance asked.

There was a minute of silence. "... Abandoned", an echo-ey voice followed, from the depths of its inner workings. "... Failed my primary function."

The orc took it in without second thought.

Tending to missing metals and repairs was no problem. Once the unit was as good as new, Lancelot tried to send it on its way- Except he couldn't, for that wasn't a clear objective according to the unit's protocol. So, it was Lance's turn to write a letter to his first apprentice, asking if the scholar had any ideas. Upon receiving the answer, alongside a surprise visit, it was concluded that the unit was enchanted rather sloppily. As a test of some sorts, the smith and the scholar worked together to overwrite said spells, inciting more advanced ones to turn the unit alive.

Upon being reset, the first thing done was a mechanical, but earnest thank you. It- No, by then a he, wished to repay his debts, in the form of an apprenticeship. Lancelot was in for another surprise.

And so, the orc taught a sentient armour set, by the name of Halstead from then on, how to smith. Arguably the most difficult and experimentative apprenticeship yet, for it was Lance's first time dealing with such an entity- There were tales of them, sure, albeit even rarer than the orcish legends he grew up with. It was by far the longest apprenticeship ever given, spanning over roughly three years- By the end of it, Lance had accepted he had a soft spot for outcasts, and was happy to give Halstead a home permanently, whom he'd come to view as a son.

From then on, smithing became a tad easier, for there were not one, but two smiths- And an extra makeshift oven, for Halstead had a heated core perfect for the job.

By the eleventh year, Fyre's Fuels was in the middle of the busiest markets, the town having grown into a small city. Hammering away at a heat glowing sword, Lancelot had his heart in his craft, and was deemed the smith to be at by the locals. The air smelled of burnt iron, especially so with Halstead smelting ores in the back. Sparks and dust flew each time his trusty tool shaped the sword further, akin to fireworks according to some.

"What are you making?" a curious small voice popped out of the blue.

Looking around and then down, Lancelot saw a young elemental- Their robes indicating they were one of those mages without a doubt. Half-tempted to dismiss another snobby type, the smith gruffly answered the question nonetheless. "Art, changing a clump of iron into a broadsword. It's my specialisation. My own type of magic."

"It smells bad," the little mage responded, "like a toad's ass."

Despite the comment, their eyes had lit up in wonder. Lancelot chuckled, agreeing with the sentiment. He then motioned for the mage to get a move on already, as their elder could be audibly heard within the masses of the market. "Though you are welcome to watch my craft come to life, any other time", he ended the conversation with.

Lancelot didn't think the little mage would actually take him up on that offer a week later. As far as he knew, those types were jampacked with responsibilities to become a king's right hand or similar- And then Lance stopped his train of thought. The orc chuckled to himself as he saw the mage happily scrubbing away at rust off old tools, wondering what different path awaited this youngling he'd come to know as Syrinq.

Each week the elemental visited for his teachings once, stipt at the same hour. Each lesson scribbled down with many anecdotes, eager to absorb knowledge like a sponge. Each small oven explosion resulting in a fit of laughter, three washcloths available for everyone there. Each time he was accidentally called dad, he laughed it off and ruffled the elemental's wisps. A year later, Lancelot was more than happy to help her create her first grand blueprint- Gifting her a sword as commemoration, Lancelot knew he was one of the few witnesses to a journey elsewhere than so-called destiny. And so, he proudly waved Syrinq off as she left her past behind as well, insisting that she had a place here no matter what.

"Better late than never, right?" Lancelot told the youngling, years down the line. "Happy birthday, Sy."

The happy tears that flowed reminded him all too well of the first time his own father had seen him. The adoption papers were then officially signed by the both of them.

"If only you could do this for Halstead too", Syrinq said, after taking in her now-actually-official dad for a tight hug.

"I hope one day. Until then, he's still a son to me, as he's a brother to you."

Never did Lancelot think he could get to a place he was truly content- The orc thought he'd found it after finally finding his place in his tribe- Yet years later, he'd found home once again, despite the fact he was someone and somewhere wholly different. He could only hope the same fate befell his father and last few peers, wherever they may be- The peace he felt, upon seeing his two kids squabble over a ton of blueprints, drinks neatly pushed to the side, was something he never wanted to let go of.

— END OF DAWN —

---

Even if he was an orc, let alone an odd one, Lancelot didn't hesitate to offer a helping hand to those in need, when a crisis befell the once foreign elvish region. Word went of an influx of demons ravaging the lands, origins unknown. Once he heard plenty of guilds were dealing with the worst of it, Lance attempted to send many letters to Haevirndawn, the one where his daughter was enlisted at. With each day passing and no word returned, the orc grew antsier and antsier- Though he was temporarily chained, for his city was targeted soon enough too.

Whilst most of his efforts went into gear and supplies for the fit fighting monstrous entities, the orc still had to refreshen his own combat knowledge as well- Teaching Halstead that art proved no problem, for he was all steel and no flesh anyway. Lancelot didn't ponder for a second to open his own doors and cellar as refuge, and it crossed his mind for one second how daunting it was to see so many children and sick, yet so little caretakers- He'd long grown accustomed to a softer and kinder world, and this brought him right back to where it all began.

Lancelot at first plainly refused to teach younglings to rebel, to fight, to kill- At the same time, the orc couldn't fault them, for they were all lost and wanted to reunite with the families they'd not heard from in days and weeks. And so, Lance had to embody what he once knew as the harsh force that was his father- Tutoring younglings as little as 10 to stab demons in the most vital of places. It boiled his inner turmoil more than anything, to see this unfair force dealt by the gods. Fyre's Fuels was a tiny smidge of light within the End Of Dawn, and the orc would defend it and its refuge until its last blaze if he had to.

He hoped the families of those he'd temporarily taken in were safe, wherever they were. He hoped his daughter was safe, wherever she was with her knightly allies. And in the back of his mind, he hoped that his old home was still standing strong, too. The orc hadn't felt this familiar fright in a long, long time- Though he couldn't, shouldn't and thus wouldn't let it seep through, for he had to remain strong to keep the light on for everyone else. It felt akin to catharsis, when he realised he was following in his father's footsteps after all.

Lancelot allowed himself to fully break down- Once the demons were finally repelled- Once most younglings had finally reunited with their families- Once he'd reunited with his daughter he feared to be gone- Once his smithy wasn't one of the last bastions anymore within the ruined city- Once they could start their repairs to fix what was broken, and let go of what was lost.

The orc had shared a smidge of his past with his kids before, but it wasn't until after the End Of Dawn that he went into more detail- Not everything quite yet, for it was still a gaping wound even after all these years- But at least some of the weight was lifted off his shoulders, for both Halstead and Syrinq would support him on each side. Lancelot truly was happy he'd found a home in Seragos, though it had to be drilled in him that his guilt about his first was understandable, yet unfound. Perhaps one day he'd fully find peace with his past, but for now, the orc was pleased to keep on smithing in the present.

— FUTURE ARC —

---

Lancelot had been born anew for decades at this point. Only a handful of memories tied him to his origins, though that would change on the day his daughter practically slammed the door open. Syrinq urged both Lance and Hal to come over, as she spread out a rather official-looking scroll over the centre table. Adorned with the seal from the elemental empire, the importance of the matter was instantly clear. The three of them read over each letter carefully.

"Your emperor's seeking aid," Lance concluded after reading it all, "against the Dragon Orcs."

A name he hadn't heard in eons.

His blood ran cold.

"The guilds have plenty of capable soldiers, but they're also looking for any smiths, trainers, all that", Syrinq rambled. "I know you haven't been there for a while, but.."

Lancelot shook his fears off, firmly looking at his two kids. "I'm going. I owe my lost tribe at least that much."

With Halstead left to tend to the smithy at home, and Syrinq not meeting the criteria for the recall, Lancelot promised both he'd be fine- Insisting that the orc would find the closure he avoided for far too long. After he'd left the familiar behind, re-entering the past, most of it turned into a daze. Lancelot offered his services where possible, his position luckily prevented him from seeing too much direct bloodshed- For a majority of the effort, anyway. The moment a victorious roar overswept their side, Lance's guts started trembling with fear.

This was it.

After the battlefield had its survivors found, the winning side was allowed to inspect the Dragon Orcs' empire itself for any remnants of wrongdoings- Each soldier, each healer, each and every single one contributing to the effort- Lancelot was an exception, for he was an orc, and he had a favourable outcome due his race for once. One of the firsts to see the raging rubble left behind by the siege, the orc felt young once more, akin to the fateful day he'd lost it all.

Some, despite the Dragon Orcs' actions, were utterly in awe of the empire they managed to strike in the heart. The elemental emperor had lost his son that day. Many soldiers lost themselves that day. And Lancelot?

Amidst the rubble of what was the flourishing furnace within the volcano, the orc's eye fell upon a smithing hammer that'd withstood the eruption. Its obsidian still glimmered against the fading flames around, as if it was a hidden gem. Upon picking it up, Lancelot's attention was immediately caught by an engraving in the corner of its head- In bold, strong carves, the firstborn's eyes teared up as he read the initials.

Lancelot reunited with his father that day.

Not in the way he'd dreamt of, but it was closure nonetheless. Clutching the tool tightly in his hands, Lancelot swore he'd pride his tribe, his father and himself always. Once back home, polishing the obsidian even shinier than its found state, what was once Sharrack's hammer was then passed down to the pride of his blood- His firstborn, Lancelot, the most unconventional an orc could get, but Sharrack's son nonetheless. Then, Lancelot proceeded to tell both his children extensively about his past, no detail omitted any more, and no runt left behind- As it should be.