There is a hungering a desire to mesh and weave and interlace the various and multifarious strands that thread their way through my nascent narrative. Leather skinned orcs do dine and play at chieftain much like apish children might costume and pantomime at being adults, but where is the threat, the bared fang that threatens more than just spilled blood and jejune amusements? How to take these strands and weave them tighter into patterns of scarlet and crimson, how to drench this tapestry in lust and sin and blood and desire? It is not enough for little boys to play at war, on parade in the garden as they march to the beating of fife and drum, no, what is called for is the sweat and cry the hue and clamor of true battle, the stirrings of lust and the shrieks of terror. It is not enough, it is not enough, it does not suffice and even as I write the eyes glaze over with stupefaction and boredom.

More. I must plunge deep my hands into the stuff of creation and tear free fresh and quivering hanks of meat. More. I must take each character and turn them about in my hands and discover their seams, find the latches and stitches and take them apart, piece at a time, till all lie broken and finished by the end of the tale undone by their own passions and vices, their own yearnings and desires.

But how, how, when this is a tale painted in primary colors, where it is peopled with two dimensional monsters and guided along a course so obvious that even the helmsman dozes in the midday sun? I must err and steer for the rapids, I must throw all into chaos and confusion, wreck the ease with which the course is followed and immolate them in their own twisted fates.

The circlet. The circlet must be the source of power and yet a font of nightmares. To wear it must exact a price. Thoughts unnatural and bloody even to the mind of an orc. The circlet must begin to corrupt even as it delivers. What it creates is potential for madness, for war, for dominion and debauchery. Ogri the Uniter, the paragon of old, what truth may lie behind the gilded legends? What acts of madness might have driven him at long last up into the Valley of the Dead, to fall, unwounded into the snow, and there lie until the ice drew the heat from his flesh and stilled his heart? What manner of monster was he at the end, such that he would opt for death over the glory that he had amassed?

Madness. Nightmare. The ends justify the means, even if, by slow revolutions of the sun, the means do become the very end themselves.

Ah, now I see.

Now all does become clear.

A new path is struck. I abandon the old, and strike out for darker climes.