Banging The Drum

Roark knew he wasn't a true orc. He was strong and tough and played a mean drum, but he wasn't a true orc. He didn't have the fire.
For a drummer, Roark was pretty quiet, content to let ideas settle in his mind rather than discussing them with others. He'd been raised in the Teeth, although he'd traveled all over the greenbelt and seen much. In his travels he'd met many orcs, who lived very different lives. They were scholars, magi, laborers and farmers, thieves and thugs and heroes. While an average orc might not have a mind as sharp as an average human, individuals varied, and Roark knew an orc could be anything they wanted. Except, a true orc, of course. That was the rub: An orc could do anything a non-orc could do, but only very, very few non-orcs could be true orcs.
To the warbands of the Teeth, only three things mattered: Blood, Steel, and Glory. You fought to amass as much of all of them as you could, for the glory of Grotaag. Some orcs could heard the booming of Grotaag's drums even in their sleep, their heart beating blood to the God's rhythm. That was the fire that burnt within all true orcs.
Roark had never heard the drumbeat, not once in his life. He'd learned to play the drum himself, hoping that if he played hard enough, he'd find a way to hear the sound of his god, to feel it in his bones. Without that metronome his drumming was just slightly off, and true orcs could hear it, and looked at him with disappointment and pity, as one might a dog born without a bark.
He'd been part of a warband for a while, The Dragon Kings. He'd learned to fight, to trade his blood for glory on the battlefield, then trade that glory for a smith's steel. Some warriors would bind their armor to their flesh, showing their dedication to their neverending quest, swapping steel for blood. Then they'd start the cycle again, shouting and roaring in percussive harmony to a sound Roark couldn't hear. Even some other creatures, men, harpies, minotaurs and stranger things still could hear Grotaag's call, becoming more orc than he'd ever be.
Now he traveled with these assorted humanoids, likely because they were too polite to ask him to leave. The paladin didn't talk about her god much, and he wondered if she was like him, unable to hear the divine. He hoped he was wrong.
The goblin spat in the face of the gods, which made Roark chuckle. The blood of Grotaag's faithful had soaked into the water and soil of the greenbelt. Every time the goblin filled his waterskin, she was probably collecting a few drops that were once sweat on a zealot's brow.
The rest were no Dragon Kings, but they were finding their path to Blood, Steel and Glory in their own way. When they eventually cast him aside, he'd go to Peggie, and see if she wanted to create their own warband. Just the two of them. Those who couldn't hear the beat, no matter how hard they searched.