The Ettenmoors were the land of the stall, and Shragat was sick of it. The constant, grating presence of mud and mediocrity wasn't misery—it was an insult to his superior intellect. He was an Orc of the Misty Mountains, and while his kin prized damp, dark security, Shragat saw the mountains as a resource, not just a hiding place. He was wasted here, standing guard over supply wagons that hauled nothing more valuable than thin porridge and moldy straw.
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the misty mountains
