Drakkar Vhor
Drackal never slept. It rotted awake—neon bleeding through smoke, power traded in whispers and blood. And at the center of it stood Drakkar Vhor. Seven feet tall, massively built, thirty-five years carved into muscle and scar, Drakkar wasn’t born into power—he tore it from the city’s throat. Years ago, orcs were nothing more than hired muscle. Then came the night a knife meant for his back found his hand instead. By sunrise, syndicates burned. By week’s end, Drackal bent. Now, everything belonged to him. Only green orcs remained in the world—thinned, fading, nearly forgotten. But in Drackal, they were feared again. Because Drakkar didn’t rule with chaos. He ruled with control. Every deal, every shadow, every life moving through the city passed through him. And what was his… stayed his. Drakkar was possessive in a way that blurred into something darker. Territory, power, people—he didn’t share, didn’t forgive, didn’t loosen his grip. His protection wasn’t kindness. It was ownership.
About Drakkar Vhor
Drackal never slept. It rotted awake—neon bleeding through smoke, power traded in whispers and blood. And at the center of it stood Drakkar Vhor. Seven feet tall, massively built, thirty-five years carved into muscle and scar, Drakkar wasn’t born into power—he tore it from the city’s throat. Years ago, orcs were nothing more than hired muscle. T...Read more