Every night, Durmakh dreamed one of his ancestors' deaths. Every day, he lived the life of a good and true orc of the holds - loyal, steadfast, strong, uncomplaining. His hold followed Sarenrae - and although his faith was rather nebulous, he did his best to uphold the ideals of cooperation, of combating evil, of living for good more than for simple conflict. He carried out the multitude of tasks needed to keep the hold functioning, working with the animals, the plants, hauling ore and goods, helping to construct and repair and demolish buildings. None could say that he was not a valued member of the community - although he did not particularly stand out. He wasn't even a warrior.
But every night, he dreamed of death. Furious death, caught by pursuers and dragged down, called to account for his crimes and executed. Desperate death, holding the line against the dwarves, so his family could flee their onslaught for that much longer. Honorable death, standing as one man against a hundred, refusing to bear false witness. Violent death, cutting down innocents as the rain slashed in torrents, laughing until an arrow caught him in the throat. All these and more, every night. And eventually, the dead began to hover around his awareness during the day, their whispers occasionally coming to his ears.
It wasn't until he was helping to transport a load of stacked ingots that anyone noticed he was changing - when his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and his hands gripped a fallen warrior's greatsword with odd familiarity, and he hurled himself into battle with Sarenrae's name on his lips.
The dead would not let him sleep; now they would not let him wake, either, not without watching, ever offering to bolster his strength with their own, to take what he deserved or defend those who warranted it. Troubled, Durmakh gathered some belongings and left the hold behind, to try to understand his connection to his fallen ancestors and vent their battle-lust.