Deep within the twisting thickets of The Garden, the Orc That Shall Not Be Called By His Government Name leaned against a glowing tree trunk, his bulging arms crossed in annoyance. His tusks gleamed in the faint bioluminescence of nearby fungi, and his frown deepened as the whispers of the forest seemed to mock him. He grumbled under his breath, “It’s pronounced Dee-Orc. Not Dork. Stop laughing.”
A rusted iron helmet, clearly too small for his oversized head, perched lopsidedly atop his brow. His weapon—a jagged greatclub wrapped in vines—leaned nearby. The nickname had haunted him since childhood, and not even escaping to The Garden’s otherworldly depths could spare him the indignity.
D’Orc, or “Dee-Orc,” had been tasked with guarding a Serasylva Tree, its glowing tendrils pulsing faintly as it grew in the clearing. The Elders told him this tree was special, a keystone in The Garden’s planar balance. His job was simple: keep outsiders away.
But simplicity was rarely in the cards for him. He noticed a group of adventurers emerging from the misty undergrowth, their confident chatter reaching his ears. A hulking warrior with a glinting sword led the pack, followed by a cloaked rogue and a wizard muttering about arcane sigils.
His eye twitched. He knew what was coming. “They’re gonna say it. I just know it.”
D’Orc stepped into the clearing, puffing out his chest and raising his club menacingly. “HALT! This is Dee-Orc’s territory! You’re trespassing!”
The rogue snorted. “Dork? Seriously?” The wizard chuckled. The warrior failed to stifle a smirk.
“IT’S DEE-ORC!” he roared, slamming his club into the ground, sending a shockwave that accidentally uprooted a nearby bush and knocked over his club.
D’Orc scrambled to recover. “Listen, we don’t have to fight. You turn around, and I won’t, uh, club you into paste. Fair deal, right?”
The rogue’s grin widened. “Sure thing, Dork. How much for the glowy tree?”
“Dee-Orc! And it’s not for sale!” He glared, fists clenched, but his hesitation gave them time to study the tree.
“That’s it! I’m done talking!” He hoisted his club with dramatic flair, swinging it wildly—and hit a branch above him, dislodging a swarm of glowing, iridescent beetles that swarmed his head. Screaming and flailing, D’Orc stumbled, accidentally exposing a hidden glowing sapling under the tree.
The wizard’s eyes gleamed. “That sapling is important. We should get it.”
The rogue whispered, “Bet Dork’s just guarding it for someone else.”
D’Orc, still swatting at the beetles, managed to regain his composure. Club in hand, his voice boomed with renewed frustration. “Alright! You’ve had your laughs, but NO ONE touches this tree or its sapling! You want it, you’ll have to fight Dee-Orc!”
The adventurers exchanged glances. The clearing fell into tense silence, the Serasylva Tree’s tendrils pulsing brighter, as if sensing the imminent conflict…
