You must listen to this first.
"orcs,
orcs,
orcs,
orcs
marchin' up and down again
there's no discharge in the war!"
-Rudyard Kipling, probably
War and Starvation, those wretched gods that dance together in love and lust, through the mired field of the dead and dying. Their dresses are made of vulture feathers and the stink of hungry feral hounds. Atop the armor stripped from the dead for everlasting glory, they sway, they sway to the sound of the great hangers on of Bloody Campaigns, the cooks and porters and slaves that feed War's Great and Terrible Machine. They two- and three-step to the wailing cries of ransacked towns, the tearing of ration cards and the growls of empty stomachs. And they laugh.
But while they laugh, men march to the sound. And march. And march. And march. Until they lose their minds.
~~~
Everyone thinks they have the best orc and everyone is right.
These are mine
Don't- don't- don't- don't- look at what's in front of you.
March a man half to death and then do it again. Feed him hard tack after the beetles have had their fill. Drain his canteen until only a drop remains and do it for a week and then do it again. Tell him little and make him hate his Officer, for an Officer is a thing, an oracular machine who reads the winds of war in the entrails of those he sends to death. Tell them to find the Enemy, that thing so wretched and godless that it must be found like a hound on the path of the wolves who take the shepherds and their flock in dead of night. The Enemy is that thing. The Enemy is what the Officer says it is. Tell them to ignore the angry glares of those they fight for, they are not part of the efficient machine that makes machines that make war. Tell them to scorch the earth until the angels who sound the trumpets in heaven jump and cry at the heat under the soles of their ironclad and seamless floor because it will never be more then the distant and smothering ceiling of those who march. And then do it again.
Watch the soles of his feet thicken after the blisters never heal. Wear his boots thin and thinner still until there is no boot. Make him patch it. When it's all patch replace it until you don't. Then do it again until no boots are left in the whole damn world because the cobbler got drafted, the luckiest man alive he is, for who gets to find the Enemy and snuff it out.
Make hunger his friend and the white pallor of his skin his blanket. Watch this sallow skin yellow and then green and his jaw jut out at first in pride for he seeks the Enemy and then later to keep from biting his own tongue clean off. Watch his teeth grow wicked and sharp because he knows when he runs out of the bullets in the bandoliers he's counted one one-thousand times and his bayonet dulls because he's whittled his whetstone to nothing that he will use them to destroy the Enemy, who is determined by the Officer, who is the oracular machine, which finds the Enemy.
Never let him set his rifle down or the Enemy will be atop of him. Watch as by degrees and days his arms are stretched until they hang to his knees, dragging his rifle in the mud behind him. Make him hate the sight of the man ahead of him. Make him hate the Enemy, decided by the Officer, the oracle machine that makes machines that make fire to scorch the earth.
Never let him find the Enemy. When he can think of nothing but the Enemy, he is a man. When he forgets the Enemy, when his mind has been wiped clean for nought but marching and boots- boots- boots, he is an orc.
Orc-As-Class
A). Boots (boots, boots), The Officer
B). The Enemy, Hate
C). The Machine, Lunatic
D). Apotheosis
Boots- Boots- Boots-. You gain Fatigue like anyone else from a forced march, starvation and exhaustion which fills an inventory slot. Unlike others, Fatigue can be stacked in threes before it fills the next slot. You use this to keep watch all night, so the Enemy does not get atop of you. For every slot filled with Fatigue, stack 1d6 atop your character sheet. These are your Fatigue Dice
The Officer. When you have no Fatigue, you may remember the voice of your Officer. He reminds you what (never who) The Enemy is. If today's Enemy is not yesterday's, you do not question it.
Irrespective of Fatigue, when you would make a save against the Enemy, or make any save to prevent charms, mind-control or fear, you recall his voice and add your Orc templates to the save. You may also add half your orc templates to morale saves of any hirelings in your service, as long as you stand.
This is like a rangers favored enemy but you can pick what (not who) it is. It cannot be a people specially but it can be that what causes the problem that aids the Enemy.
Δ March 100 miles (16 Hexes) and wear through Ten Pairs of Boots. A week's march gives modest boots the need for a patch. At the end of each week you have Patch-in-6 chance the boot needs replaced. A la Dings
The Enemy. The Enemy is that thing which you hate more than anything in the world except boots- boots- boots- boots. When you find the enemy, whatever you use to kill them is considered a deadly weapon including your bare hands and teeth which are clawed and sharp respectively. When you kill The Enemy, you may remember the voice of your Officer, who will remind you what the Enemy is, even if you are Fatigued.
Hate. You may reduce Fatigue by one when you kill the Enemy.
Δ Stay Awake for Ten Days with no reprieve.
The Machine. You may reduce Fatigue by 1 and remove 1 Fatigue Die from your character sheet to deal ten times the damage to The Enemy you normally could or twice the damage to anyone else.
The Machine must also be fed. You may remove one or several Fatigue Dice from your character sheet, roll three times on the Carouse Table, and take the worst choice. You are ran out of town in addition to the result and after everything not nailed down, you take. You take 1d6+ [Fatigue Dice] slots of loot, divvied up between food, jewels and trophies, as you see fit.
Anyone could raid a town for supplies and get 1d6 slots of loot but you're good at it because the alternative is death. Consider scalps as trophies if it fits the tone of your game.
Lunatic. The first time you take damage from an attack, you do not. You still bleed, have an arrow in you or are poisoned, you just don't care. A lunch, rest or killing an Enemy, resets this.
Δ Kill 10 Enemies and pillage 1000 gold worth of food, jewels and trophies.
Apotheosis. Gain +1 reach from lengthy limbs held down by weapons you never part with. Gain night vision in whites and greens from too many sleepless nights on watch (it is temporarily lost from bright flashes). When you drop to 0HP, gain HP equal to Fatigue Dice on your character sheet which you then remove. You can smell loot, ambushes and the Enemy. It's everywhere.
Orc-As-Monster
March men, and only men, a thousand miles in a hundred days though ten pairs of boots. Do not let him eat, sleep or piss without fear the Enemy will be atop him. Make sure he always has his rifle and bayonet. Give him no reprieve from boredom, fear, orders and most of all marching. When he does not find the Enemy nor recognize himself in the polish of his boots, he will be an orc.
~~~
Some levity.
