Thunkles

The foul wind of Roaring Canyon, carrying the scent of rust and gore, slammed against Thunkles's bloated green belly. At his feet lay several Dwarven scouts, disemboweled by their own axes, their blood still warm. Thunkles squatted down and picked up a notched Dwarven battleaxe as if selecting a snack. Shreds of flesh still clung to the handle. "Big," he grunted, grinning to reveal a mouthful of yellow teeth. "Good." He opened his mouth—a maw wide enough to swallow his own fist. He jammed the axe blade against the back of his throat. His eyes bulged as he gripped the handle with both hands and slowly shoved it down. His windpipe made a horrific, wet, tearing sound. His whole body trembled, not from pain—he liked that—but from excitement. The sharp blade sliced through his greasy innards until, with a sickening pop, it pierced out from his flank, glinting in the dim light, coated in blood and mucus. Thunkles patted the newly "grown" metal with satisfaction, his flesh making a dull thud. It made him feel a little "bigger," a bit "more." His skin was a mess of cruelty, studded with broken swords, bent spearheads, and shattered daggers that clattered and swayed with his every breath. Other Orcs watched from a distance, instinctively shrinking back. Thunkles didn't understand "awe"; he only knew they avoided him. That was good. Avoidance meant they were small, and he was big. That day, several figures in black robes, reeking of a sickly sweet rot, arrived at the camp. They were envoys of The Cursed Cult, their voices like snakes slithering through oil. "Behold!" the lead robed figure pointed a bone staff at Thunkles, his voice trembling with an unsettling frenzy. "A walking sacrifice! A living altar! Every piece of metal embedded in his flesh is a devout hymn to the God of Agony! His very existence is the embodiment of our doctrine!" Thunkles's bulging yellow eyes rolled vacantly. He didn't understand those long, winding words. But "sacrifice," "altar," "embodiment"... these words sounded big and heavy, just like the thickest steel plate on his belly. Moreover, these robed men didn't avoid him. They surrounded him, their eyes filled not with fear, but with a kind of... burning fervor? It filled him with a strange, swelling satisfaction. "God," the robed envoy hung a crude iron pendant carved with twisted runes around Thunkles's scarred neck, "delights in your 'armor.' In His temple, you shall be incomparably 'Huge'." "Huge"! The word struck Thunkles's simple mind like lightning. He understood! All this—eating knives, making his body grow metal shards—wasn't just to make himself big. He was building a temple! A temple that would make God think he was "Huge"! From that day on, Thunkles, the Shard Butcher, became The Cursed Cult's most devout "Sacred Armor Knight." He collected weapons with even greater frenzy. No longer just swallowing them, he began to insert them into his body at more twisted, more "solemn" angles, mimicking the eerie symbols he glimpsed at the Cult's altar. He dragged his cleaver across the battlefield, no longer just for slaughter, but as if gathering materials, adding bricks and tiles to his ever-growing, bloody "temple" of flesh.