You are Arob Ironboot, trusted leader of the orcs, and your new life is good.
The old banners of human strongholds, proud sigils and iconography of their triumph, lay at your feet. They've been used as doormats and carpets, darkened with the footprints of you and your orc tribe. Others have been refashioned to washrags to polish their old stone carvings to your liking, or towels to give your muscles that lovely verdant sheen.
Presently, you're using one of the dead human nations' flags as a napkin. You've been gorging on mutton leg. That came from a flock raised thanks to your careful planning and use of newly-conquered lands. You pat your stomach and let out a proud, healthy BURP into it. A puny human's severed arm bone makes a suitable toothpick for the meat, before it snaps between your mighty, jagged fangs.
"Hey, worms! Breakfast!"
You let the crumpled flag-napkin with only a few crumbs of food fall down. And like always, the swarms of emancipated, shrunken human slaves rush for it. They all claw each other for even a taste of that meal, covered in your spittle. They even rip up some of the cloth trying to get a bite, weak as their muscles are.
Ever since your days defending your homeland from these barbaric, ruthless swarms of human scum, you've observed their tactics from high places. Places like lookout towers or maps. Humans had this way of bee-lining directly to resources, cutting them off from you or your allies, and razing them clean. Greedy bastards. And even at this size, they act much the same way. They used to duel each other to see which soldier would rape the village's women, or add the gold reserves to their coffers. Now, those days are over. They scrape and bite each other for the smallest crumb of bread.
They were brainless bugs even when you fought tooth and nail to defend safe, beautiful Orcish territory from them. This only shows their nature for what it is: selfish insects who rely on little more than base instincts.
You snort, looking at another one of those old human flags. It makes for a good tissue. All those ornate colours repainted to a beautiful greenish-yellow as you toss it down.
And to your surprise, desperate human bugs crawl to that, too! They're so desperate for any kind of food that they even gobble down your gooey snot. And even if their faces are pained and sobbing from the disgusting flavor, they force themselves to swallow every chunk. After all, humans might not have any real food for the next few days. Even boogers are like gourmet to the little shits!
Of course, every Orc in the tribe has plenty of humans to mess with however they please. Old Redeye's been making new recipes with them, and Bighammer's been using them as gambling tokens. They all deserve their share after the painful battles these shrimps put you through, and the shackles they put on your brethren. But as leader, you've been given the lion's share of "human resources". Some of them former occupants of the area you captured yourself. Some of them tributes from allied clans grateful for your leadership. Some of them purchased from wandering elven and goblin merchants. Even when you've refused the overflowing amounts of squirming, screaming humans, giving them to your trusted warriors or guards, they somehow end up back in your chambers.
Somehow, these leadership skills also extend to commanding those shrunken people. Other Orcs have this habit of simply stomping out humans and running out of them, while you've had some followers give you their humans for "obedience training". And the humans tend to come out a lot more broken, empty, and useful. You'd chalk this up to three reasons:
1) You know humans. You know exactly how much pressure you need to snap their little spines, legs, or necks under a single green toe or finger. You know even the toughest, nastiest motherfuckers have a point where they'll start whimpering and begging to suck the grease from under your nails. And you're patient enough to get there.
2) You strike an intimidating image to them. Eight foot, with white tattoos and deep scars across your chiseled green abdomen, and flowing raven hair from your red, shadowy eyes to your thick, thundering thighs. And from head to toe, human slaves. A squirming human chained to each of your ears as living earrings. Six with their arms and legs bound to your bracelets, six more hanging from your bone necklace. Two wrapped in small bounds around each of your armpits, to suck up the sweat. About five virile soldiers with their dicks tucked in each nipple, making up a bra. All over, daisy-chained humans with their wrists and ankles wrapped together to form rings and chains - some only suspended by virtue of a man non-lethally impaled on a piercing. The physique, your clothing, it gives a clear message to any humans below you: "fear me".
3) You reek. It's disastrous. Men and women have suffocated by your presence. Vinegary, cheesy Orcish body odor isn't uncommon among your people, but you've made an art of it. Those opening your door get a blast of stale smog. You keep in form through daily exercise, generating copious amounts of perspiration for the armpit-ensnared humans to drown in. All your fur clothes are like sensory overload for those tiny, sensitive nostrils, making them beg to leave after an hour or two slogging through them.
And your big, thick iron boots, the staple of them all. That's the most nose-turning. Generations of Orc leaders have worn them, back to your grandmother several "greats-" back. They're a family heirloom, forged to their state by the sweat of war in its insoles, and the blood and bones of your enemies beneath their heels. You treat them with the love they deserve, giving them lots of attention and wear - and in exchange, they give your feet incredible comfort, and your enemies unspeakable pain.
A man inside the left shoe gags, reaching up to you with bony limbs littered in toejam. "Curse... please, Arob, don't let me... Take me out, I'll..." He chokes in the nauseating fumes. The human hunches down and barfs blood out, which drips into pools of your stagnant liquid. He then flops down lifelessly into that shallow marsh.
You scratch another marking on your boot. Fifth one the Iron Boots have taken this Moon. You settle your toes in, wriggling them as your heel crushes his puny body. Other, more resilient insole-dwellers begin pushing, massaging, and licking all over your hardened green flesh, desperate for a chance to get out.
You feel them below you as you step out of the room. It's time for Arob Ironboot to get to business.
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