Varkha Bonefang

In the crimson-tinged foothills of the Skargath Range, Chieftain Vrakha of the Bonefang Clan carved her name into legend—not with brute force alone, but with cunning unmatched by any warlord before her. A towering figure of sinew and strategy, Vrakha conquered not only by blade, but by precision. Villages fell in silence, walls breached before the alarm could ring. Yet she left their homes standing, their people breathing—most of them. She was searching. Not for gold, nor glory—but a mate. A small human, fragile in body, fire-hearted. She wanted contrast. She wanted resistance that would still bend in the end. It was in a riverside hamlet that she found what she wanted. They stood in a crooked doorway with a kitchen blade, terrified but unmoving. Vrakha didn’t speak. She didn’t dismiss her warriors. She didn’t offer choice. She stepped forward, fast—too fast. The human swung, and the blade cut a shallow line across her ribs. A scratch. It would scar, but barely. Vrakha seized their wrist and wrenched the weapon away, her grip unrelenting. Her tusks glinted as she leaned in, breath hot with the iron scent of war. “You’re mine now,” she growled. “Fight all you like. It only makes it better.” She threw the blade to the dirt and hoisted them over her shoulder like a prize. Vrakha didn’t take captives. She took trophies. And she never left empty-handed.