Like every other band of mercenaries under the sun, Corlacht ra Garlai live by simple rules – wage war for whoever pays the most. Though their loyalty lies with the highest bidder, the Company have a reputation of sticking to their word. There are many accounts of frantic Lords offering them vast sums after a few weeks under siege. There are no accounts of those same Lords surviving the siege.

• War-leader
• Captains
• Lieutenants
• Infantry

A member of the Corlacht, whether past or present, can be recognised with ease thanks to their practice of tattooing the symbol of the moon on their bodies. Orcs (and those from cultures where body art is just as common) tend to tattoo these symbols on their forehead, chin, neck, or other visible parts of the body. Others are usually more reserved about the placement, but everyone who has been with the Company more than a year is required to accept the tattoo if they wish to continue marching with the Corlacht.

As warriors rise through the ranks thanks to their competence and achievements in battle, these tattoos are made more elaborate by the addition of new symbols or glyphs meant to commemorate their glorious deeds.

Even if a soldier leaves the Company, members both former and current pay considerable respect to the rank denoted by their markings. Many erstwhile warriors of the Corlacht find fast employment in various guards or personal armies when they show their tattoos. The symbol of the moon as feared as it is notorious.

The Company of the Moon started as a group of warriors from Bhathairk. Ran from their hometown because of their love of battle and bloodthirst, the thirty young Orcs saw that in the wide circle of the world, there was much need for their skills with axe and sword.

As they gained continued fame cutting swathes through the many lands of Arethil, others flocked to join their ranks – Humans, Dwarves, even the occasional Elf. All who could wield weapon or magic to fatal results were welcome in the lines of the Corlacht.

From war to war, from ambush to siege, the Company seemed unstoppable. There was no wall they could not scale; no enemy Commander they couldn’t outmaneuver in the field; no warrior they couldn’t fell in combat.

And then the unspeakable happened.

Peace.

After decades of bloodletting, the warring states were exhausted – their treasuries picked clean, their people milked dry, their soldiers rotting away in the plains. Kings and Councils, Oligarchs and Chieftains – everyone had all lost their taste for battle.

Suddenly the Company found itself without a job. No matter the gates they knocked on, no-one wanted for their services anymore. They were hounded from city to city, an easy target for all the grief and sadness that come after the war. Their numbers dwindled until they were but a shadow of their former glory, reduced to the core of what made them Corlacht ra Gerlai in the first place.

The remaining Orcs wrapped their blades in cloth, stacked their armor onto a cart, and returned to their tribal roots as nomads of the forested reaches of the Spine.

Bards still sing of their bloody exploits when nights take a particular turn in roadside taverns. And if you step over with a pint and fork over a few pennies, they might well tell you the truth – that the Company are just biding their time until another King begins lusting after the land of his neighbor.