With gunsmoke, It began

A cold wind rattled through the desolate hallow, bringing a wild flailing spurt of motion to the limp dead arms of the gnarled trees. Leaves were lifted from their resting spots on the ground and carried into the sky by the wind. It was as if nature had forsaken these lands, only the alien force of the wind animated the forest, filling it with a cheap imitation of the life it would feel in spring when the wind was a warm current that flowed through the woods awakening it from its necrotic slumber. The leaves would emerge in shining green brilliance and the sun’s rays would crash through the canopy of the forest placing emerald spotlights on various features of nature’s beauty that lay strewn across the ground in the abundance of spring. Animals would rejoice and men and women would enter the enchanting woods with youth in their step, passion in their hearts and love in their eyes.
But now was not that time, the trees lay dormant with dead leaves and lame branches, skeletal hulks standing as a solemn reminder of the spring long past. Such dreams were better left for the harsh winter months, when they brought warmth and comfort at a time when there was none. Wind blew through the trees and rattled their gnarled branches once more. That chill winter’s wind that blew through all of the forest brought with it the feel of death, carrying the fallen leaves through the forest. A rustling so faint only the earth itself could hear heralded the falling of yet another leaf. Before it had time to reach the ground, the shrill cry of the chill wind picked it up and blew it away. The leaf twirled and spun in the wind. Up and down, side-to-side, it danced a sort of waltz as it was swept away through the cold quiet of the dead and dreaming woods.
The leaves danced by a lone Orc standing at a precipice that looked down into the hilly valley bellow where the humans lived, building great cities of wood and stone, making fierce declarations of both unity and independence alike and marching great armies against each other in armed conflict. His people had watched the humans for ages, they sometimes made war with them and sometimes trade but they always were there as silent sentinels that watched with a strange and sorrowful curiosity. He had seen men march through the nearby areas around the forest carrying all kinds of strange instruments of both destruction and creation alike. They rarely entered the woodlands out of a mixed sense of both fear and respect for the Orcs. They respected them by acknowledging their mastery of the woodlands and honoring them as allies of men, untied to any particular country and they always claimed that they held the Orcs in high regard, but he had seen a human before when he was very young, and he would always remember the disgust that lay in the man’s eyes when he spoke to his father. He had seen the silent hatred that the men harbored for the Orcs.
Suddenly, his quiet musings were halted as he heard sounds in the distance: screams, roars… gunfire. Only halting to grab his long hunting spear, he dashed through the skeletal hulks of the trees, crushing the dead underbrush beneath him and pressing it into the earth. Fear sank into his heart as he saw the billowing cloud of smoke rise up through the branches. He kept running toward the village clearing, his senses clouded with fear and worry. Pushing his way through bush and bramble he emerged into a grisly scene. The smell of death was all around him, burning huts and broken weapons lay scattered across the ground. Stumbling forward in a terrified stupor, he collapsed in front of the broken and battered corpse of his father. His hands traced his father’s bloodied dead face in a vain attempt to preserve the memory of the man. Dragging the body into his arms, he embraced him one last time, tears running down his face staining his gray skin with the black lines that marked their trails. He lifted his head, pointing his voice at the heavens, and yelled at the sky.
Shapes of men began to encroach upon him from all sides. Clad in dark leather and brandishing cruel instruments of death, they spoke amongst each other in mixed tones. The lone Orc held his space weeping until he could not stand it any longer. Fear and sorrow were replaced by hateful accusations. Rising to his feet he dropped his father’s body and ushered forth a heavy roar from his newfound primal spirit. Throwing himself against the black clad men with all the strength and hate that he could muster, his whirling arms smacked heavily against the comparatively frail body of one of the men, sending him to the ground with a hard thud. He was grasped by a moment’s satisfaction and before he had time to attack another one of their party, they all cleared the site, stepping aside for one man who in turn reached inside of his heavy coat and produced a long intricate instrument of destruction. The Orc wheeled himself to make one defiant charge against the man, but it was to late. Lifting the long barrel, his eyes met the Orc’s and he fired. The heavy spear-like projectile swept the Orc off of his feet as it tore through flesh and sinew and at last met the bone. The Orc tried to regain his footing but he was nailed to the ground by the thin in his shoulder. Blood spilled out of the wound and formed a grim puddle that stained the various objects that lay scattered across the floor. As the men began to forage through the ruins, he said nothing. He knew that it was over.