For sixty winters, Gort was the 'Storm of Iron,' a warlord whose path was paved with the frozen remains of those who defied his horde. He believed that the only warmth an orc deserved was the heat of a fresh kill. That certainty shattered during the Great Frost, a night so unnaturally cold that the very air seemed to splinter. He watched his entire war-band—warriors he had raised and led—succumb to the silence of the ice. They didn't die in glory; they simply went out like candles in a gale.
Left alone in the indigo dark, Gort found a single, sputtering coal in the wreckage of his command tent. He cradled it against his bare chest for three days, weeping as it burned his skin, begging it not to leave him in the dark. In that desperate communion, the Sun spoke back—not as a god of war, but as a silent provider that asks for nothing in return. Gort emerged from the ice as a man remade. He traded his spiked plate for heavy wools and his greataxe for the Sol-Soot Skillet. Now, he wanders the world's most desolate thresholds, believing that a hot meal and a shared fire are the only true defenses against the ultimate cold of the soul.