Gothic

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Before every battle goes peace. A tense peace. The kind of peace you experience before a hurricane. For a short moment, time seemed to stand still. The air descended upon the ground like a dense, oppressive sheet of dust. And then...

Howling voices broke into the silence, and the Orcs swept across the land like a tornado, ready to mow down anything and everything that might stand in their way. The soldiers' arrows found their mark, dragging the huge bodies down to the ground, but each gap was filled as quickly as it had emerged.

The war against the Orcs took its toll, and the prisoners of the Realm were to pay the price.

In the days that followed, every man guilty of a crime, no matter how insignificant an offence it may have been, was brought to the mining colony of Khorinis to gather ore for the king's arsenal. The ovens' fires burned day and night and from the smithies rang a constant hammering.

The huge smelting furnace generates enormous heat in the mine. The men work day and night, hewing the valuable ore from the impenetrable rock.