Plenty of tragedies. Those memories that came before drove his cruel hand; was the only thing he clung to some days. Gave him the purpose to reclaim all he'd lost or at least give their death's some form of meaning. They had not been a violent race until they were forced into it and he could be so violent. In ways that a knife's edge never could. An eye for an eye. To call him tyrannical and ruthless from the throne of Asgard was really quite an artform of hypocrisy. One does as one must and that is that.

Ah -- Malekith's head cants to the side, just slight, watching the way her energy all but drains in the remembrance of such a topic. Hidden lips tug back as she shoots him a 'which one'. A visceral reaction, that. Eyes move from observing her to her writing and back. A scoff, deep and quick, bubbled up from him. "We were asleep when they came into being, these humans, but I understand it a talent of theirs. No doubt inherited from their creators."

He doesn't carry many opinions on them, though, having little interaction or interest in interaction with the human race thus far. As far as he'd been able to discern, they were born into life from the Asgardians which may indeed answer a few questions. At least, his were.

"I am not familiar of Orcs," a hand unfolds, "but I should like to be." So by all means, educate him.