The @Skyward March is a vast, unforgiving expanse in the southwestern reaches of Thalosar where land, wind, and exile converge. It is a place chosen by those who refuse submission or execution—most notably the exiled orcs, who believe death on the open steppe is more honorable than survival beneath another’s rule. The March is defined by motion: migrating herds, roaming warbands, prowling predators, and immense shadows passing overhead. No borders are marked here, only trails worn into stone by generations that kept moving because stopping meant dying.
The Skyward March is not empty land; it is contested ground where survival itself is proof of worth. Human maps label it sparsely, but to those who live here, every ridge, windbreak, and carcass-field carries memory and meaning.
The land opens into wide, rolling steppes of coarse, gray-green grass broken by long ridgelines and jagged stone outcrops thrusting up from the earth like exposed bones. Sparse pine trees cling to shallow valleys and sheltered slopes, their needles bent permanently by relentless winds. Snow lingers in shaded hollows even during warmer seasons, and dust storms or sudden sleet can sweep across the plains without warning.
Herd paths crisscross the March, carved deep by countless hooves. Scattered across the land are bleached bones, broken spears, and crude stone markers left by orcs to honor the fallen or warn rivals away. Above it all, the sky feels enormous—clouds move quickly, shadows stretch far, and the silhouettes of wind drakes can often be seen circling high above the mountain outcrops before descending in terrifying silence.
At dawn and dusk, the March feels almost unreal, washed in pale light and long shadows, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
The orcs of the Skyward March are descendants of exiles—those cast out from stronger clans, defeated warbands, or rigid hierarchies that offered death as the only alternative. Over generations, exile became identity. These orcs prize endurance, adaptability, and the ability to move without reliance on cities or forges.
They live as nomads, following herds and seasons, dwelling in hide tents, stone circles, and temporary camps marked by bone totems. Leadership is earned through proven strength and survival, not lineage. Those who slow the warband are left behind. Outsiders are met with suspicion or violence, but strength and self-sufficiency earn a grudging respect.
The greybacks are massive wooly bovines with long, shaggy fur and wide, sweeping horns capable of goring stone and bone alike. Their hides are thick, their temperaments stubborn, and their migrations dictate life across the March. Orcs hunt them with reverence and caution, using every part of the beast—meat, hide, horn, and sinew. A successful greyback hunt is both survival and celebration.
Smaller and stockier than their plains cousins, steppe trolls are covered in coarse, wool-like hair that protects them from wind and cold. They move with alarming speed, often dropping to all fours to sprint across open ground or charge from ravines. Though their regeneration is weaker than other trolls, their endurance and pack behavior make them deadly hunters. They are known to stalk herds and lone travelers alike, striking fast and retreating before retaliation.
The apex predators of the Skyward March, wind drakes are immense wyverns whose sheer size replaces venom. Their wingspans blot out the sun, and their talons are strong enough to lift full-grown greybacks or steppe trolls into the air. They nest among the mountain outcrops and hunt across vast distances, descending with terrifying speed. Orcs consider their appearance an omen—either of great loss or great glory.
To live in the Skyward March is to accept that nothing is permanent—not shelter, not safety, not even strength. Those who endure do so by moving, watching the skies, and respecting the brutal balance of the land. It is a place where exile becomes freedom, and survival itself is the only law that matters.