Orcs Are Like Lobsters

All creatures grow as they age until they approach a maximum size, at which point they begin to shrivel. The orcs will tell you that this is a falsehood told by softskins and milklings. Orcs know that there is no such thing as old age, that life is meant to grow uninhibited until death drags it away kicking and screaming. Humans, elves, and nobbins believe in full maturity as an excuse for their laziness, but the truth is that they would keep growing if they really wanted to.

by Viktor Titov

Orcs are like lobsters; the older one gets, the larger (and stronger) it becomes. An average specimen dies at 30 years of age (due to their violent lifestyles) resembling a tall, tusked human with lustrous grey skin, but orcs who live past the ripe old age of 50 soon find themselves in the same weight class as trolls. Ancient orcs are towering siege beasts with an armory’s worth of horns jutting through their faceplates. They like to peer over castle walls before kicking in the gates for their friends. Call them 1 HD per 10 years until 60, then 1 HD per 20 years after that.

Between growth spurts, orcs molt. The whole process is quite an ordeal: new muscle bursting through the old as skin and hair slough off in sheets. Newly molted orcs are relatively vulnerable, having shed their chitinous skin, which takes up to 1d4 days to grow back. A single orc molts approx. once a month.

After centuries of growth, orcs become so enormous and muscle-laden that they can barely move. When an elder orc begins to stumble, clan members typically descend upon them, tearing their eldest to shreds as they salvage them for parts. Otherwise, they leave them for dead; the nomadic lifestyle has no room for stragglers who cannot be made useful. Elder orcs are a threat even when reduced to dragging themselves overland, but eventually starvation or some more agile predator claims them.

In rare circumstances, crawling orcs are mistaken for fallen gods, or perhaps convince other humanoids of the same (they’ve got a few centuries of wit to them). Towns and villages develop around their wisdom, building shrines around their massive bodies, trading offerings and care for dark secrets and cryptic blessings. However, this is rarely sustainable, as the orc’s appetite is so large that it must be sated with herds of game, and clearing their waste involves diverting entire rivers. Eventually, the orc grows hungry, and a few missing retainers turns the town against their bestial god.

Some believe that the orcish life cycles originate in their philosophies rather than their biologies. The monks of the Great Hand attempt to live like orcs and emulate their values, in order to surpass their physical limits and begin molting themselves.

by Mayavan Thevandra

I’m bad at these table things

1d6	Orc Encounters
1	A discarded orc skin and three sets of footprints, two of which belong to large cats. They’re fresh.
2	An orc in fine silks and 1d4 human monks of the Great Hand. The orc is despondent. The monks call him Father Ktur. He’s a mage and probably an outcast, which is why he’s socializing with humans. They’ll try to convert you before they try to eat you.
3	A scouting party of 1d4+1 young orcs, one of whom is about to molt. That’s when the real fight starts. Their tusk arrangements are ridic, and they’ll try to stab the party with their face if they can.
4	An elf with 1d4 orc bodyguards. He’s looking for the Chalice of Endless Vittles in a nearby dungeon, and brought them along as muscle and trap-fodder. They’re looking for the first chance to kill him.
5	A fallen orc shrine, guarded by a troll-sized orc and her two wolves. Her grandfather is inside, alive but immobile due to his size. He knows things, but will demand Herculean tasks in exchange for his knowledge (mostly demon-related, orcs love that shit).
6	A dilapidated orc shrine, walls lined with the bones of the elder it was built on top of. The ghosts of everyone she ate stalk the corridors. There’s BIG treasure here, but its a giant carved-stone bellybutton piercing full of ghosts.

🃟 back to where it all began 🃟