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Your indignation gains the upper hand, the sight of the lowly creature that in the madness of its fear sought to harm you fanning the flames of your ire, and you decide that such offence cannot be borne. Your lips curl back in a bloodthirsty sneer, your fangs glistening wet and murderous in the waning light like rows of interlocked blades, and two jets of searing-hot black smoke shoot from your nostrils, all punctuated by a deep, rolling growl that shakes the air and rumbles through the earth. The orcs quail at the display, the one with the tube especially reeling back as though struck, and you take swift advantage of the weakness in their resolve.
You summon up your will to dominate, giving it substance and sending it outward to wrap around the orcs’ bodies like a creeping tendril. The twin flames of your eyes flash with new ferocity, and the orcs are yours.
“Hold Still,” you command in a low and terrible voice, and their stunted limbs become as rigid as stone. Their eyes go wide as they feel you wrest all freedom from them, and you feel them twist and writhe fruitlessly against your immaterial grasp. The biggest orc in particular strains against you to buck and scream like a frenzied animal, equal parts terror and rage, but it can manage no more than twitching his fingers. Rather than prowling like a hunter approaching cornered prey, you stride boldly forth with all the poise and might of one meant to rule lesser beasts such as the rabble before you. It is a new sensation, yet natural to the extent that you might dare call it familiar on some elder, primal level.
You rise over the foolish orc that threw its life away, forcibly locking its sickly yellow eyes with your own. Beneath the miasma of terror pouring from its grey hide you sense the agony looking into your eyes causes it, but you do not let it look away. Instead, you take care to hold its vision perfectly straight as you slowly raise one forelimb, black talons gleaming with killing intent, and hold it high in the air for a moment. The orc looks at you, you look at it, and you bring the claw sweeping down across its front.
Your blow cuts through flesh, bone and clothing alike. Black, oily entrails tumble out and stain the snow, and the orc is dead before it can even collapse. With that task attended to, you turn to the remaining orcs, and an idea strikes you. Still held fast, they watch as your eyes take on their softer, enticing glow that you used to charm the dying orc two days prior.
