Tusked orcs stand over their lizardfolk servants with foul-smelling and gore-ridden whips in their hands. The crack of leather and bone on scaly flesh is met with silent hisses of anger. The whip cracks again, but instead of a fleshy thud, there is a grunt of confusion from the orc taskmaster. A scaled claw holds the whip in its grip. Wet and slimy teeth are revealed as the lizardfolk bares their fangs. They spit out something in a foreign tongue and are met with undulating cries from around the camp. Revolution has begun.
