In the temple of the Lady of Silver on the outskirts of Arabel, a one-eyed Ork was holding a feast. A group of brawny Orks sat in a circle around him, while a sheep, a human, and a Dwarf boiled in their pot.
"Bubble, bubble, bubble..." The Dwarf's head bobbed to the surface of the great pot, along with a leg. Ork cooking was extremely primitive: boil the water, throw everything in, and cook it to mush. They paid no attention to the thick layer of scum and bloody froth floating on top. The Orks devoured their meal without caring how it tasted.
The great hall stood empty, swept by gusts of chill wind. Once able to seat more than a hundred nobles, it now held nothing. The Orks had destroyed everything they could. A massive Ork war banner hung inside the temple, sunk deep into a mass of black rags and covered in thick dust. Of the glorious days when the temple's priests had preached and expounded their teachings here, only collapsed ruins and rubble remained.
The hall's only illumination came from the light falling through the temple roof.
In the open space beside the feast, the Orks had erected simple wooden frames to dry numerous hides. They would use these to make crude armor and weapons. Some were animal hides; others were human skin. A pointed pillar inside the temple bore twenty or thirty human heads, skewered like gourds on a stick.
This was wealth as the Orks understood it: Dwarf heads, human heads, Elf heads.
The Orks firmly believed that might was right, truth was an axe, and morality was a shackle.
"Truth exists only within the reach of my battle-axe."
-The Orks' favorite piece of wisdom.
The pool had dried up and been filled with Ork