Long ago, in a swamp nobody bothered to name, there lived an orc with a problem nobody bothered to fix. His tusks were heavy. His lips were thin. His brain was on standby.
And so he drooled. Through war. Through peace. Through three full festivals of fire. The shamans prayed. The healers wept. A wandering bard wrote a song and lost his job.
He is still drooling. Right now. In your browser. Look at him.
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He has seen your candle. He will not say more.

Witnessed by mortals. Studied by alchemists. Bottled by no one.

He found a mirror. The mirror has not recovered.