A conclave of high arcanists, calling themselves the Sculptors of Perfection, turned their studies toward the flesh. They believed the elven form—though graceful and long-lived—was flawed. Too fragile for war. Too delicate for toil. And so, they began their work.
Subjects were brought to them from Elvish prisons.
Through binding spells, alchemical brews, and relentless enchantment, Elven bodies were remade. Limbs thickened, spines bowed with new weight, and skin coarsened to endure heat, cold, and blade alike. Pain tolerance was heightened. Strength multiplied. Hunger simplified. And, most crucially, the mind was quieted.
What emerged were the first of the @Orc.
Beings of immense physical power, tireless endurance, and tragically diminished thought. Where once stood a thinking soul attuned to the world’s hidden harmonies, there now labored a creature driven by command and survival.
The Sculptors deemed their work a triumph.
And so the Orcs were put to use. They were marched from the laboratories into the wider dominions of elvenkind. They felled forests. They carved stone. They toiled in mines beneath the roots of ancient lands, hauling ore without rest, without question.
They built the glory of the Elves.