Interlude Two - Clan Bloodfang

In the cavernous expanse of the orcish tribal hall, where shadows danced with the echoes of ancient rites, Chief Gruul Bloodfang loomed like a tempest poised to break. The hall, steeped in the legacy of bloodshed and dark sorcery, was alive with a palpable sense of expectancy. Opposite him, Krothar Firecaller, the revered tribal shaman known for his communion with the world's shadowy spirits, bore an expression of concern rare for a man of his mystic caliber.
"My chief," Krothar's voice resonated, a deep timbre that seemed to merge with the hall's ambient murmurs, "venturing again into such peril so swiftly... it risks more than the boy can bear." His glance momentarily swept towards young Vaz'non, the crux of their endeavor, before settling back on Gruul, "He has yet to recover from our previous... endeavors."
A growl, tinged with impatience, was Gruul's reply. "Alive. That’s the bar. He doesn’t need to be intact, just has to keep breathing."
Krothar's expression grew stormier. "The magics we meddle with are fickle," he cautioned, his voice gaining a steely edge.
Yet, Gruul's eyes, fixed upon Vaz’non, saw beyond the boy to a power that eluded him for too long. "You tread with caution, shaman. Fate waits for no man, nor chief."
With Krothar turning to his sacred preparations, a shadow fell over Gruul’s thoughts. The array of arcane components, each awaiting the spark of Vaz’non's latent magic to unleash their potential, mocked him with their quiet.
The ritual began, warping the fabric of reality itself, as spectral chains ensnared Vaz’non, suspending him mid-air. From the darkness, spectral wolves, woven from nightmares, materialized, their gaze hungry, their intent clear.
Vaz’non, undaunted in the face of encroaching darkness, locked eyes with Gruul. In that gaze, Gruul perceived a glimmer of respect, or perhaps it was fear.
As the spirits lunged, Gruul leaned in, hungering for the symphony of Vaz’non's despair. The boy's magic, once ripped from him, would be Gruul's to wield.
But defiance took shape in Vaz’non's roar, not of a boy nor an orc, but of an ancient, formidable force. The spectral wolves dissolved into nothingness, their existence extinguished by Vaz’non's indomitable will.
Krothar stepped back, his ritual undone, a mix of frustration and respect etched upon his face. "He remains unbound," he conceded.
Gruul's fists tightened, nails digging into flesh. "Then seek another path," he demanded, his voice a menacing rumble. "My rule... it requires it."
Their words lingered, both a decree and a damnation. Gruul observed as Krothar collected his instruments, his thoughts undoubtedly racing towards new machinations. The prophecy loomed over them, a harbinger of power, yet at what price?
Vaz’non, in the ritual's aftermath, appeared diminished against the hall's vastness, yet unbroken in spirit.
Beyond the hall's confines, whispers of power and destiny filled the night, speaking of spirits both spectral and flesh. The hall stood silent, a testament to the internal struggle it housed. Yet, the tale it held was far from concluded.
Gruul turned his gaze from the scene, his mind a tempest of thoughts. The night stretched on, the path forward veiled in uncertainty and shadow.