@Amazon Rainforest

@Blacktooth Burn-Works

The burn-works began as a ragged felling ground; now it’s a scar the size of a small town, ringed by totems hammered from truck axles and broken pylons. Blacktooth warbands marched Grunts and War Raiders into the clearing and fed the fire cult: Flame Brandishers keep ember pits constant, and Ember Shamans chant over slag troughs where stolen steel and riftstone chips are cooked into brutal plate. The forge trains Juggernaut Bruisers by starving them on smoke and heat, then loosing them into mazes of thorn and corrugated scrap. Nightfangs cull the weak at dusk. From here, raiding columns push down timber skid trails toward the river forts, testing the PLDC cordon with fire probes and tusk-drum signals that echo for miles. No mercy, no parley—humans are trophies or meat.

@River-Split Stilt-Fort

@River-Split Stilt-Fort, also know as the "Hookjaw," straddles a narrows where the current shears fast against rock. Orcs raised it from barge hulls and stripped docks, lashing everything onto ironwood stilts greased with ichor so nothing climbs it but them. Raiding galleys prowl in packs, iron prows shaped as tusks; @Orc Grunts lash grapnels into passing hulls and drag prey up killing ladders. @Siege Breaker Orcs keep a riftglass drum that flashes signals upstream to bait convoys into the choke. @Ember Orc Shamans burn raft bridges for joy and doctrine—starve the humans, bleed their fuel. When @PLDC patrols test the narrows with spore-smoke and tendon alarms, @Orc Nightfang Assassins swim under the boats, teeth wrapped in cloth, hunting ankles and throats. The fort eats anything that floats: timber, bodies, rumors.

@Verdigris Basin Gate-Mire

The Gate-Mire is a sink of riftstone knobs and green fog where the ground hums on bad nights. @H'rogal, The Unbreakable's host rings it with steel-split totems and felled buttress roots carved into kill fans. Here, the aura runs corrosive—verdigris mist eats paint and soft boots—so the orcs breed leather cured in ichor clay and send Ironclads to stand like statues until surge time. When the Gate coughs, they feast: anything that staggers out is chained, butchered, or driven toward training pits to teach @Orc Grunts how to swat spawns until bones learn the angle. @Ember Orc Shamans daub faces with bile to “see the chord.” Human teams who blunder in lose comms, then skin. The basin is a school, altar, and larder feeding assaults along the Green Vein’s edges.

@Breaker’s Shame: Overrun Relic Field Lab 73-Delta

73-Delta was a @PLDC satellite lab for coil-bath annealing of Seal Keys gathered from upriver Gates. The cordon failed during a Maw-temper wake; by the time Blue Shield pings reached the river forts, @Orc Nightfang Assassins already owned the halls. Now @Ironclad Orcs drag coil frames as trophies and @Ember Orc Shamans burn the specimen closets for “gate-smoke.” The orcs don’t use the science; they desecrate it—Key baths are piss troughs, and the testing range is a bone garden. Still, the lab’s buried capacitors hold charge, and @Juggernaut Bruiser Orcs love to smash anything that hums. Survivors trapped in the basements send faint taps some seasons; Hookjaw raiders flush them out to hunt for sport. Every singed clipboard is a sermon about the ring’s thin mercy inside the green.

@Bone-Anvil of H’rogal

Where the canopy reels back from stormfall and fire, the Bone-Anvil sprawls: a parade ground of cracked clay studded with vertebrae monoliths and tank husks. Here @H'rogal, The Unbreakable gathers his host when the drums call storm. Captains duel with door-sized cleavers atop stacked skull altars; losers feed the bruise-fires that temper Siege Breaker plate. @Ember Orc Shamans brand the @Juggernaut Bruiser Orcs with coal helixes, and Shadow cadres grade Prowlers by how long they can run the murder lily lanes without bleeding. Rumors say @H'rogal, The Unbreakable himself has slain three Blue Shield champions here and nailed their marks into a shield rim. When the Anvil speaks—thunder rolling across bone—columns spill out toward river and cordon, a moving wall of hunger.

@Green Vein Needle-14 Suture Yard

One breath of human stubbornness inside the basin, Needle-14 hangs like a steel spider above a blackwater creek, cloaked in leaf-net and anti-resonance cloth. It’s not a fort; it’s a service point for the ring’s doctrine—Isolate, Starve, Cull, Suture—pushed dangerously forward to watch a Siren-temper Gate drift. A micro @KHATIM rig nests on a pivot gantry with pre-tuned posts stowed in vine coffins; keywright tubs hum faintly on low-draw relic cells. The crew is small—@PLDC Jungle & Mountain Watch with one Blue Shield tech—and they move like ghosts: spore-smoke veils, tendon trip-alarms, ichor-sealed boats cached under debris rafts. Orcs scent it sometimes and circle; the yard goes still, lights killed, every heart counting harmonics, waiting to breathe again.