Open Chronicles Breaking A Spine

Mo'gosh Stormson

Stormcaller
Member
Messages
5
Character Biography
Link
"Back off beast!" The pink-skin's demand sounded more like a squealing pig's plea to Mog'osh.

The Stormcaller flicked his tongue across his tusks in a show of intimidation. The merchant-human-thing's eyes widened with realization at the gesture. His panicked eyes darted to the two equally human guardsmen that had seen fit to bar Mog'osh's path along the roads. Crimson vitae poured freely from the slits in their iron helmets. Mog'osh had wasted little time at their accostment, and had grabbed the both of them by their iron skulls and slammed them together. He was uncertain how badly he'd harmed them, but they weren't dead.

That was good enough.

"Pick a god and pray." The Orc growled in the sing-songy tones of the human language. The utterance was far too soft for his liking. The language of the traders lacked any true emphasis behind its words: it was far more disingenuous than proper Orcish. The merchant's pack beast eyed Mog'osh with lazy eyes. Normally such a creature would try to flee, but Mog'osh had a strong affinity for the natural world, and the beast knew whatever harm he intended was not meant for it.

The humans had seen fit to try and relieve him of the currency he'd been carrying in a small leather bag at his belt. Perhaps they'd thought him an easy target, wandering alone in the backroads of The Spine. Their lack of foresight had been their undoing.

"Back!" The man shouted again as he pointed his little metal stick at Mog'osh. The Orc vaguely recalled that such things were called swords, and that they were far more dangerous than they looked. Even still, by the way it trembled in this one's hand, Mog'osh was not afraid.

With a wave of his axe and the clang of metal crashing against metal, the sword spun out of the man's hands. The merchant drew back his hand, cradling it as if it were a child as blood poured from where the metal had met flesh. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Mog'osh was already upon him, a massive green hand lifting the merchant clear off the back of his bull, and hurling him down into the grass below.

The warm amber light of the setting sun poured in over the tree line as Mog'osh slowly stalked up to the now sobbing man, his lips pulled back in a pleased scowl. He had no love for thieves, and relished the abject terror the human-thing was now consumed with.

He halted just a foot away from the man, and dropped into a crouch, his head mere inches from the human's. "You who would call yourself a merchant are naught but a thief. Thieves are cowardly creatures, pig-skin, and fear makes the meat all the more tender."

The man screamed as he broke into another fit of sobbing. Disgusted with the display, Mog'osh rose to his feet, snatched the human up by his long black hair, and held his squirming form out toward the sun as he debated killing the merchant or not.


Zeri Rekani, Bula
 

Zeri Rekani

Novice
Member
Messages
127
Character Biography
Link
Zeri Rekani did not leave The Spine immediately once she had the Edelweiss. She had come close to the Portal Stone and it was as if the Stone repulsed her. Not through any tangible means but more so as an effect of her desire to stay for a while longer in the wilderness. To stay a while longer out on her own.

This had been her first true taste of adventure, this journey out to The Spine, and she didn't want it to end. Not yet. What harm could a few extra days do? Just a few.

There had been some harrowing moments up in the mountains, yes: the troll and nearly freezing to death from being soaked in frigid water being the standout examples. But overall the journey had been wondrous. The land open and expansive, the sights gorgeous, the paths she could take near limitless. She enjoyed as she did on her little expeditions not so far from the Gates of Bhathairk the self-reliance necessary to survive, the application and honing of her skills. Life outside of the city was far different from life within it. And though she loved her family and her home and was proud of the Great Orcish Stronghold from which she hailed, life on the outside called to her in a primal way that was matched only by her brief trips with her Pa to hunt. And to finally live this life, even if for so short a time as this journey had entailed, was immensely satisfying.

She had the privilege of adorning herself with her leg tattoo when she was younger: the signifier of the completion of her first journey. This first journey she had done on the supervision of both her Ma and Pa. Here, now, she felt that she truly earned that privilege. That the ink which decorated her skin was elevated into something greater by having walked this path herself, a true culmination of what she had learned and how she could use it to thrive.

A few extra days.

That's all she wanted.

* * * * *​

Though a storm had come the day prior, this day was warmer than she expected. Humidity--that mingling of the Spirits of Water and Air--played a large part. So instead of wearing her thick winter clothes which she had brought along she rolled them up in her bedroll before strapping the whole bundle to the top of her pack. She hadn't gone too far up the heights of the mountains, so her normal attire--halter top and loincloth, fur bracers and moccasins--would do.

Zeri had had breakfast at her camp. Meat of some small game and berries, the latter she could enjoy where her kindred full-blooded orcs could not. She rubbed her hands in the ash of her campfire and gave gratitude to the spirits of the Trees and the Grass for the tinder which gave her the warmth and safety of the fire. Her hands wiped on the sides of her moccasins, she set off, pack on her back and hunting spear in her hands.

She'd no particular destination in mind. She need only to move her feet and let her wanderings take her where they may. A reckoning was kept of where she was in relation to the Portal Stone; a few extra days couldn't hurt, but a few too many might.

So Zeri walked through the foothills and the healthy forests of mountain trees which flooded her eyes with their vibrant green and cast their shadows upon the dirt and grass and mulch of the forest floor. This for the whole of the day, from the rising and nooning and now the setting of the sun.

Zeri was so wandering when she began to hear something. In the distance, just over the crest of a small hill. Curiosity bid her onward, even if caution tempered her step. And once high enough to see over the defilade, the sight of the mohawked-Orc and three humans, two of which were down and the other sobbing in a great fright.

She gasped. Crouched down such that the crest of the hill would hide her. Thought quickly and frantically to herself. Then felt compelled to do something, even if it could be dangerous.

Zeri stood and hiked up the last few steps to the top of the lazy hill and called in Orcish down to the Orc which menaced the human, "Stop! For the sake of your Ancestors, stop! What are you doing?"

She had not seen nor clearly heard what had happened. She did not know if her Bhathairk dialect might make some of her words unclear. But she couldn't just stand idle.

Mo'gosh Stormson
 

Bula

Daughter of Mabess
Member
Messages
2
Character Biography
Link
Bula was already there. She had, in fact, already been watching the human merchant and his two guards. The orc stood crouched in bushes that were only allowed to flourish because they lay on the edge of the forest. Further in, the shade from the trees would have likely prevented them from growing enough to conceal a full sized orc. Not that she was as big and heavy as some of their males, but she certainly wasn't as small and frail as the humans that lay unconscious upon the road, or the puny one hanging by his hair from Mo'gosh's fist.

She was startled when Zeri shouted from the top of the nearby hill, but the words seemed mostly orcish and gave her pause midway toward reaching for her axes. She expected to see a human that was smarter than others, or perhaps more diplomatic and trying to work with the orcs. They weren't unheard of--at least, not before her pilgrimage. She hadn't been back long enough to know otherwise. Instead, what she saw was orc-like, if being green meant one was an orc, yet not entirely orc. From here, she couldn't tell anything beyond that.

Unsure as of yet as to whether or not she should make her presence known, she remained silent and perfectly still, as if she were a trained hunter. She was at least a proficient one, in her opinion. The shaman shifted her weight as quietly as she could, legs cramping from how long she'd been sitting there. A foot shifted outward, and her heel came down on a twig she hadn't seen. Crack! It snapped beneath her weight and it took every fiber of her being to keep from grunting angrily at the offending stick.

The merchant, whose gaze turned toward Zeri even if it was just from the corner of his eye, soon looked back to Mo'gosh and then over his shoulder in the direction of the sound, wide-eyed. Would Zeri manage to save him? Or was her shouting of that guttural language an encouragement to the orc? What if, whatever had made that noise just beyond the treeline, was just as bad as the fate that awaited him at the hands of his captor? Regardless, he thought he could make out a figure that, in his fear-addled mind, looked far more monstrous than beneficent.
 

Gurash Gloomrunner

Drunkard, Fighter, and General Scoundrel
Member
Messages
14
Character Biography
Link
Gurash Gloomrunner walked easily down the road. As he had walked he noticed travelers appear before him. With a pack animal. He began to think that perhaps there would be some opportunity here. He could threaten these humans or elves or whatever they were with his massive build and intimidating armor, and then wouldn't they be relieved if he offered his services for protection? As good a ploy as any. And they might even fight him. He'd been itching for a good fight. Unfortunately they didn't look like they could put up much of one.

And then, as if on cue, they got into one. He was too far out to see exactly what happened. But it was pretty clear that they pissed off another orc. Interesting... Been a while since he fought one of his own. That would certainly be more fun... The tall mercenary didn't go charging in however. He instead took a drink from a flask of elven wine. A pretty tasting drink to be sure, but damn that stuff had the right kick behind it's soft flavor. How did those elves do it? Probably magic, he figured. They liked magic even more that than humans did.

As the big one walked closer, he hadn't picked up his pace one little bit, he saw the shorter, mohawked orc knock down the two armored humans (or whatever they were) like they were empty wine bottles. Finally, some entertainment! And he watched, and he watched. And he walked, and he walked. And the other orc had said some human words but Gurash wasn't close enough to really thear them yet. And then the human screamed. And probably wet himself a little. Or a lot. Humans were so scared of everything.

But when the other fellow picked up the human by his hair, Gurash got it! He was playing the intimidation game! What a fun game to play! The newcomer wanted to join in as well, so he put his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice and opens his mouth to yell...

..when suddenly a very feminine voice shouted a loud plea in Bhathairk Orcish. He'd recognize that dialect anywhere. Every fall his tribe used to journey to Bhathairk with caravaners who would take them in exchange for their protection, to trade for whatever supplies they needed that winter. For a split second, however, he was confused and had a look on his face as if to say 'I don't sound like that, do I?' before his eyes fell upon the small green girl in the distance, and he realized she had beat him to the punch of shouting. It wasn't any fun though, what she said. He had much better idea.

He was about forty yards away now and barely heard the cracking of a stick from a nearby bush. It could have easily been an animal, however. And he didn't really pay it much mind. Instead he raised his hands again and raised his deep, guttural voice to speak loudly in common so that the human would hear it, and understand.

"Yes! Crush him! Or even better yet, give him to me and let me crush him! Ha! It's been nearly three days since my axe has last tasted fresh blood, and it hungers for slaughter!"

Bula Zeri Rekani Mo'gosh Stormson
 

Mo'gosh Stormson

Stormcaller
Member
Messages
5
Character Biography
Link
Blood thundered in the Stormcaller's ears as his hate-addled mind fought for a solution. He had few qualms with spilling the blood of pink skins, but the shaman that had seen him worthy of their teachings had taught him a basic reverence for life, even for those that lived in abject disgrace.

Pointed ears shifted as the shrill cry of some kind of female. He momentarily turned his attentions away from the human, his heavy brow lofting as he eyed the twig girl that shouted at him in the dialect of the city folk. He was not entirely fluent in the speech of their ilk, but he understood the meaning well enough from the tone of her voice.

The exile senses, honed like those of a starved beast, picked up two new sensation as he turned toward the squirming human who'd saw fit to try and run while his attentions were elsewhere. he planted a boot hard into the wretch's back, though not hard enough to break his spine, and let his face split in a malicious grin as the trader crumpled back to the ground, flailing dramatically at his back as if it were broken.

The first of those shifting senses was a crack in the underbrush. It bore the weight of a humanoid, though amidst the screaming of the pink skin and the Orcling girl thing Mog'osh was having difficulty judging just what it was. He held his axe close all the same, and sniffed heavy of the air as the scent of another male came road downwind on the cool breeze.

Paranoia colored his hatred as the realization that this might well have been a greater trap bubbled to the forefront of his murky thoughts. Perturbed, Mog'osh quickly drew his cowl up over his face in hopes of hiding the runic tattoos that marked his visage. The Rockwalkers had been wiped out a year ago, but the markings of their tribe were noteworthy enough. Many Orcs knew what happened to his people, and how their consorting with dark powers and predation on all that called them neighbors had brought it about.

"Step from the shadows," Mog'osh grumbled in his native tongue, a dialect not unlike that of the city Orcs, and with a tone that brooked no disobedience. He rested his boot upon the back of the merchant, blue eyes narrowed like pinpricks of flint as he observed the forest around him.

It was with apprehension that he tore his gaze toward the Orc-girl-thing and the male that shouted for blood coming at his flank. "There is no honor in this bloodletting for me brother. I only wished to scare the pink skin and take its wares. If it lives, it will tell others, and less of their kind will disgrace our forests." He explained in a rumbling baritone, gaze shifting from the girl-thing and the other male. "If you wish to kill it after I have taken what it owes me, then you may." He added to the male, then nodded to the orc-girl-thing. "And you, halfblood, or so I think you to be, may try and stop him if you wish, but above all else, there is another lingering in the trees, and I will not be its prey."

The boot was lifted off the human's back. The merchant scrambled to his feet, limping quite dramatically as he tried to take off down the trail. his fate was no longer Mog'osh's to care for. The Stormcaller's eyes narrowed as he once again looked to the trees, eager to see if their stalker would comply with his demand.

(Sorry it took me a bit for a reply. Been outta state)

Gurash Gloomrunner, Bula, Zeri Rekani
 
Last edited:

Zeri Rekani

Novice
Member
Messages
127
Character Biography
Link
Zeri gasped when she heard--and then with a flick of her head saw--another orc coming up the road. Bigger even than the First who menaced the human, calling out for him to crush the man or simply to toss him to the mercy of his own axe. Three days? Did he say nearly three days? About his axe? And fresh blood?

The First orc was far more reserved. Tempered steel to the Axe orc's hot iron. Yet despite a clear admission that there was no honor in killing the man he would permit the Axe orc to do it anyway? What happened here? Did Zeri miss something? She hoped she missed something. If not, if both the First orc and the Axe orc were aggressive...oh no. Like humans, not all orcs and the tribes form which they hailed got along with each other--Zeri knew that well enough. Some of her favorite tales of battle and glory were told from the perspective of one conquering orc tribe over another.

And if they were--or could be--as hostile to her as the human? But the Spine was a long way from Bhathairk, m-maybe they didn't have an opinion one way or the other toward the Bhathairk tribe.

The First orc spoke directly to her then. Called her halfblood. (Mentioned something lingering in the trees?)

She gripped her spear in a way that utterly betrayed a lack of confidence, both hands adjacent and touching one another and tightly twisted about the shaft. Her small shoulders hunched up defensively, knees turned slightly toward one another.

Zeri didn't want to see anybody die. Any else die--she couldn't tell if those two humans on the ground were or were not. But there was no way she could possibly stop the Axe orc. Look at him! He was...(oh gosh)...he was enormous!

Those tales of battle and glory. There was a certain romance to them: the good versus the bad, friends and family and tribe versus those who would threaten them. There was never any question about their rightness. And it was this idealized view of things that had led Zeri to wanting to emulate the heroes and warriors of legend, aspiring toward their greatness.

But this was different. This was the first time Zeri had seen with her own eyes her fellow orcs doing something that she was morally unsure of. She hadn't seen the whole series of events, and so she simply did not know. All she could see was what was right before her.

So Zeri, somewhat plaintively, called out from the hill in Orcish, "What did the human do?"

Mo'gosh Stormson Gurash Gloomrunner Bula
 

Bula

Daughter of Mabess
Member
Messages
2
Character Biography
Link
A defiant grunt followed the order issued by Mo'gosh, but the addition of another orc to their little gathering was enough to bring about the desired result: Bula stood to her feet and emerged from the treeline. Armored in dark leather and wielding twin axes, the shaman's sturdy form and height put her somewhere between the half-orc and the orc that had been wronged by the merchant. Her lips curled around her tusks in an expression of displeasure that was mirrored her in only functioning eye, for her right one was scarred as a result of the injuries that marred her face.

Bula's stare moved between each of the orcs, the humans, and the one in-between--not that she knew that Zeri's parentage was actually elven as opposed to human. Her hands fell to her hips, fingers a single flex away from pulling her axes free if need be.

"Human stole," Bula growled in that guttural language, having seen everything from where she'd been lurking. She showed no intention of saying anything else, more because there was nothing else to be said. Those two words were more than she'd spoken in the last week.

Her weight shifted when she was certain that there was no immediate threat, and her hands relaxed soon after. She moved to the two fallen guards and knelt over them, one knee in the dirt. Leaning down, she dipped her head toward their helmets, listening for the tell-tale sound of breath from one then the other. A green-skinned hand extended toward the first.

"That one will die," the shaman declared. "His ancestors will welcome him."

If even one of the orcs present had spent any amount of time around the Ashlanders, they might recognize Bula as one of Mabess's daughters. Particularly, the one whose pilgrimage took far longer than it should have. She stood to her feet once more and turned to face the others.

"The other's fate is in your hands," she added, then returned to her previously silent demeanor.

Mo'gosh Stormson Zeri Rekani Gurash Gloomrunner
 

Gurash Gloomrunner

Drunkard, Fighter, and General Scoundrel
Member
Messages
14
Character Biography
Link
Gurash never actually drew his axe. He hadn't intended to. As these weakling humans were neither a threat nor a challenge. The weapon remained strapped to his back beside his greatsword. From his massive armored belt hung four other blades. They were wide cleaver style swords that would be more like short swords to the tall, muscular mercenary. But they would have been heavy weapons for the average human or elf. Conveniently, these swords doubled as additional leg armor while sheathed. Additionally, a spiked mace, and a hand axe hung from his belt as well.

Between his armaments and spiked heavy armor, most orcs of the old way would understand the message he was trying to send. Either he was a tough and cunning warrior, giving his fellows the courtesy of displaying this fact so that they did not challenge him unaware. Or he was the sort of coward who would pretend to be so, in order to avoid challenges via intimidation. Given the size and the amount of scars that he bore, to say nothing the fact that his physique gave the impression of a man who was content to deadlift ogres all day, and occasionally played ball sports using livestock instead of balls, this case was rather unlikely to be the latter.

He listened as the mohawked one took him far too seriously and then called the little green girl a halfblood. As he drew close enough to see her, he saw that although she had tribal tattoos, and more of them than Gurash bore, she actually didn't really look like a full orc. Especially because... Well... Where were her tusks? Unless she had them torn out in some seriously intense battle, which honestly would have been a pretty impressive scar for any orc to bare.

Of course, Gurash himself was hardly the type who could've called her a halfblood. He had lived and worked the outsiders' way for years now. He drank with non-orcs, fought beside non-orcs, and slept with non-orcs regularly. He spoke common more than he spoke orcish. And he cared far more about his own pleasure and pride than about honor or the ancestors. And as far as many traditional tribal shamans were concerned, his ways would reek far too much of civilization. Wayward from the Ancestors, they would call him. Or from the land. Or some such thing. But he still fought savagely, boldly, and well. Like a tribesorc of the Uzogrish Forest. And so those same naysayers had no choice but to respect him by tenets of their own code.

He watched as another green skinned female emerged from the bushes. This one did have tusks. And a very pretty set of scars across her face. Well, this day was just getting more interesting by the minute. The mercenary watched as she answered the small, tuskless girl and then told of the nearness of one human's death. It seemed likely that she was a shaman. They could read little signs in nature that everyone else couldnt see.

The big one didn't go after the human who was hobbling away, however. He didn't really care. He had just enjoyed scaring him. His paced had slowed and finally halted at the area where Mo'gosh and Bula were, however. And he took the opportunity to pick up a stone and launch it hard at the human's backside with an underhand throw, laughing when it connected.

"Hey!" He then called after the fleeing merchant in his guttural growling tone. "The next time you want to steal from an orc, bring REAL WARRIORS! With weapons bigger that these flimsy metal toothpicks! Haha!"

Bula Zeri Rekani Mo'gosh Stormson
 
  • Love
Reactions: Zeri Rekani

Zathria At'Arel

Weapon Master
Member
Messages
49
Character Biography
Link
Zathria had spent the last week above ground. Her disdain for the surface and its sun was something she needed to overcome for the sake of her people. Taking her armor, swords, and a bow, she had made for the surface and set up camp. Her days were spent bathing in that wretched orange orb while her nights were spent dreading the coming of day.

In an effort to keep from focusing on her misery and honing the skills she would one day need, she had set about hunting surface creatures when a ruckus reached her ears. She crept through the brush, rolling her eyes at the incessant shrubbery of the surface, and watched the conflict unfold from her place of concealment.

Orcs, she thought to herself. She knew that her people would likely seek an alliance with the orcs eventually, and this was an opportunity to learn more about their people. They were certainly brutal. Everything seemed to be rooted in physicality and violence.

They pushed around the humans with little issue (was that really that impressive? They were humans after all), but she couldn't help find a hint of amusement at the ease with which they accomplished this.

One of the orcs sent the humans scrambling off up the road, and a conflict seemed to be stirring between the men and one of the women. While Zathria found herself appalled that a woman would allow herself to be spoken to like that by a man, she held her thoughts. Surfacers seemed to have a very different view of the sexes. A very wrong view of the hierarchy.

The drow warrior suppressed the urge to send an arrow into the fleeing humans, but remembered that it would serve no purpose now. Most of her time around humans they were either enemies or slaves, and the instinct to fight or subjugate a free human was a difficult one to overcome.

Bide your time, Zathria. Learn. Adapt. And perhaps make a new ally, she thought to herself, continuing to watch what the gathered individuals would do.
 

Crows Call

Fate-Maker
Member
Messages
8
Character Biography
Link
Crows Call materialized in mountains, to look upon a sad sight: the sword was pressed into the ground just in front of a small human settlement sacked and with little more left but the ashen foundations. A few bodies could be seen: men, woman, children, all in various states of dress, some decayed, some still of mostly flesh. Only one body stood out to the blade, a dying ranger.

The ranger weakly lifted his bloodied and dust covered head from the ground and looked through his twisted locks at Crows Call, the expression on his face a mix of exhaustion, desperation, and loss. He lay in a splatter of his own dried blood, now caked and dried to the soil, around him a few buzzards with broken necks lay. He had will in him, that much was obvious to the sword.

Crows Call ebbed with a slight red ethereal glow, as to express his sympathies to the forsaken man. The blade then used some of its power to beckon to the ranger, Come to me damned one, grasp the hilt of battles a thousand times lost, raise this blade of twisted fates denied, pay the toll of a bloody cost, let the blood that has been wrongly spilt be re-enbibed.

In response the ranger dragged his half dead shell to the blade, his tattered clothes and entrails dragging behind him as he desperately clawed his way through the dust and dirt to Crows Call. The ranger clasping at the hilt, he began to be reinvigorated, his tried blood becoming miasmic and drifting to his split gut, the entrails pulling back inside of his body, their ruptured ends fusing and sealing behind the newly forming layers of tissue and then skin. The ranger first getting up by one knee, clutching his abdomen in shock, then getting standing on his feet, lifting the blade strait into the air, the guard at level with his eyes.

His face then shifted to grief, as he turned and wandered to the remains of his people. He knelt over the bloody and scratched body of a woman in a tattered white dress, and a young boy who now lacked a scalp.
He set Crows Call beside them, embraced them both in his arms and tried desperately to get them to live, pressing their hands against the sword's hilt. All to no avail, for the Crows call only has power enough to save one damned being.

As hours past, the ranger buried the dead, leaving them in shallow graves marked with only stones and possessions that once belonged to the dead. In the behind the ranger, two large green warriors, dressed in bits of metal and leather, their bodies painted with gashing patterns of blood approached. In this moment it became all to clear to Crows Call what happened to this village, and as the rangers grief turned to rage, Crows Call blazed with red ethereal flame.

Without a second thought, the ranger turned and slashed at the green raiders, rending their flesh, empowering crows call, and summoning the warrior-poet's specter. The warrior poet now having a vessel of power and will raised the yellow ethereal copy of crows call and thrusted the blade through the green-skin's armor, plunging the spectral the specter's sword into its heart with a triumphant, "Huzzah!" ,as the ranger continued to cleave at his green skin raider's corpse, cursing and yelling with every chop.

As the ranger calmed down, the warrior-poet's specter locked eyes with him. They need not speak word to each other to know what they were setting off to do, the green skins made a claim this day, a claim of being the most terrifying creature in these mysterious mountains, now they would learn that there is nothing more terrifying than a fathers' rage.
 
  • Scared
Reactions: Zeri Rekani

Zeri Rekani

Novice
Member
Messages
127
Character Biography
Link
So she did miss something. Such were the words of a new orc--one whose presence Mo'gosh had alluded to--when she emerged from the shrubs beside the mountain road. Human stole. And Zeri's perspective helplessly shifted on the matter.

A thief. All common crimes were punished swiftly and harshly in Bhathairk by the tribe. Whether you were a tribesorc or not granted no special refuge--a fairness in this. Thievery was an act especially egregious to the tribe: low, cowardly, dishonest, a betrayal where one lacked the spine to admit one's dishonor to those wronged. Zeri did not like seeing the punishments carried out (for to see it was to, on a subconscious level, have the knowledge that thieves and bad people abounded in the world reaffirmed) but she understood why they were necessary. Bhathairk would not be the safe home that it was without them.

Her nervousness settled some. She looked down, averting her gaze as the orcs would decide what to do with the human thief that was still on his feet. So it was to her surprise when she heard Gurash shouting after the thief, when she looked up then to see the thief had in fact been allowed to live, and live with both of his hands still attached to his arms. Even so, a mild relief came with the sight. To Zeri, she had not yet joined the tales of glorious battle to their manifest consequences in the world--these tales existed still in the ideal, not in the bloody real.

She let out a small sigh. Still held her spear in that inexpert way as she descended down the hill and toward the road and approached her orcish kin. She stepped onto the road, but still afforded for herself a few paces' worth of distance between them and her.

"Have you encountered a lot of thieves on this road?" Zeri asked to the three of them in general, sticking with speaking in Orcish for the time being. "I haven't. Not until now, I suppose. But I haven't been using the roads."

She offered a small smile to them all. "My name is Zeri Rekani. Of Bhathairk."

Mo'gosh Stormson Gurash Gloomrunner Bula Zathria At'Arel Crows Call
 

Crows Call

Fate-Maker
Member
Messages
8
Character Biography
Link
The ranger and the warrior-poet's specter began tracking their way to the origin of these Orcish raiders, as they went in silence the specter decided to converse with his new vessel, "I would know the name of the warrior I am bonded to..." ,the specter asked. "...Hienrich... my name is Hienrich." ,responded the ranger who the specter now knew as Hienrich. Awkward silence ensued.

A few moments passed as they continued to track the origins of the raiders, eventually they came across a hunters camp between two hills in a small incline, the camp was composed of four tents, all facing towards the center of the incline where a currently unlit bonfire lay. One tent was opened by an orc who was mostly painted red, he was equipped with a bow over his back, a hunting-knife on his left hip and an axe on his right, peering into the camp the ranger, Hienrich and the warrior-poet's specter could see the hanging skins of animals as well as dressed and butchered carcasses on a wooded table. It was clear from this that the location was a hunting camp and/or a raiding outpost of these red painted orcs. Looking over to the ranger, the specter could see that his rage was building at the sight of it, "We need this one alive Hienrich, you can't interrogate a dead orc, and this one likely knows where their head camp is." ,the specter cautioned the ranger.

With a nod, the ranger and the specter circled to the back of the camp as to be outside of this orcs field of vision. The warrior-poet's specter jumped from the incline landing on top of the orc, pinning him to the ground with the unnatural strength of a dead man. The orc tried to get the specter off of his back with a few elbows, but the attacks passed through the specter. Hienrich then slid down the hill, availing the orc of his skinning-knife, hunting bow, quiver, and axe.

The orc was furious, cursing, and thrashing to know avail, "Ya grok'n pig-skin thiefs! Grok'n black magick usin' twig-limbs! Wha'd ya do with my blood-brothers!" Hienrich kicked the orc in mouth, knocking one of his tusks loose before replying, "Dead, burnt, and hacked to bits; just like my village and family, you fuck'n green-skin butcher." The orc became furious at this retort, thrashing and roaring, almost breaking free of the specter's pin a few times, in response Hienrich stomped on his head before posing another question, "Where's the head camp of your tribe?" The orc only laughed in response, "Is 'ur head cracked, pig-skin? You thin' I'd 'ell ya' that? Even if I did you an' 'ur spook'd be ripped 'part like a 'ouple of twigs!" The orc then proceeded to laugh even harder.

The specters from shifted from a visage of rot to that of a skeleton before he spoke up, "Ranger, there is a she-orc and young orc in the tent to your left, why don't you make the situation very clear to frog-man, here?" Immediately the she-orc comes running out of the tent with an axe in hand, in response, the ranger expertly looses two arrows (one after the other) into the she-orcs thighs, sending her to the ground. The orc of which the specter now lovingly refers to as frog-man curses and screams for them to stop, to kill him but leave them alone, after which the she orc tries to swing the axe at Hienrich's leg, to which he simply looses another arrow into the she-orc's wrist, pinning it to the ground and disarming her. After this, the young orc begins to rush out of the tent with a skinning knife but the ranger simply draws an arrow, pulls back the string and points the arrow at the she-orc's head. The young orc throws the knife to the ground and sits down with its hands up, blubbering something in orcish, the she-orc, seething in rage and pain speaks to the young orc in orcish, a consoling tone in her voice. The specter speaks up again, "Now that everyone is civil, I'll reiterate the question: where is the head camp?" The orc responded quickly, "Up north 'hind the tallest mountain." "That's a good frog-man, are there any other tribes here? If so... where are they and what do you call them?" ,the specter said gingerly as he dug the fingers of his ethereal gauntlet into the orc's scalp. "'Ere are two others! Bal'gor Hiack an' another one we don' meet with. Bal'gor is west down the mountain, I don' know 'ere they're at be'ond south."

The specter looked to the ranger and the ranger looked at the orc, "There's just one more thing green skin... you scalped my son." He then plugged an arrow between the orc's eyes, killing the orc instantly, the she-orc wailed and the young orc jumped up before it fell to its' knees and started balling. The ranger, Hienrich then turned and began to walk north, the warrior-poet's specter stood up and followed suit, leaving the devastation they had just caused behind them. They would need to harden their hearts, for to take on the main camp: they could not afford any mercy.
 
  • Scared
Reactions: Zeri Rekani

Hath Charosh

Orc
Member
Messages
667
Character Biography
Link
Mo'gosh Stormson Bula Zeri Rekani

His bow faintly creaked as he let it down. The power built in the draw allowed to fade with Hath's will to join this fray. Instead he watched from a distance.

Hath despised the Spine. Having been born and raised in the savanna, he was accustomed to intense, dry heat through one season and thunderstorms and humitiy for the other.

He would have turned to leave. This was not his business. The humans had fled or been killed, the orcs remaining could argue about what came next without him. If it came to blows then he would be far away.

He would have left, but for the sight of Mabess' blood. Hath knew the orcess well, several of her children and mates. The shaman was either a child or close blood. It was those tribes he had come this far east to see. He unstrung his bow, instead carrying his axe, Biter, as he made his way out into the clearing. He had his left hand open, palm forwards. A sign that he wasn't here for violence. The fact that he kept his axe in his right suggested he still feared it.
 

Khurash

The Warrior
Member
Messages
74
Character Biography
Link
Along the dirt road came another traveler, rolling to the padding gait of the gray and brown furred warg beneath him. An orc was he, broad of forehead and chin, features brutish, with bone piercings through the nose and ears. His hair was shaved back into a single braid that fell to the height of his shoulders. He wore fur hide to keep the cold at bay and the skin of a buck as trousers.

A tomahawk bounced from a loop of his belt on one hip, a sheathed long knife on the other.

Suddenly, he came upon a gathering of orcs. The lips of the warg curled back into a snarl and the beast uttered a low growl until the rider barked a command.

He slid from the saddle and his feet thudded to the dirt. He strode forward toward the gathering. He was not the tallest of orcs, but his frame was wide as an ox.

"Mountain's blessings," he said, broad lips peeling to expose a smile, "I am Khurash."

Mo'gosh Stormson Hath Charosh Bula Zeri Rekani Gurash Gloomrunner
 

Crows Call

Fate-Maker
Member
Messages
8
Character Biography
Link
The ranger and the specter had taken refuge in a cave in the higher mountains, the specter had the sense that this cave may go on for quite some time, but for now, his vessel needed rest. They sat in front of a camp fire, around a deeper bend of the dark cave, the ranger, Hienrich roasted a skinned hare over the fire, the specter sat with his legs hanging on a short flattened plateau inside the cave overseeing the camp, his ethereal glow making his outline visible. He didn't like the cave, not because of the darkness, but the silence and coolness reminded him too much of the stillness of death. The warrior-poet hoped soon he would again be in glorious battle, or at least walk amongst more of the living once again.

Looking out into the darkness, he could see a few small flickering lights of life, something that only the dead could sense. He would stand on guard, though these lights could be just a few small creatures who dwelled in the cave, it could also be something much more dangerous...

Turning once more to his ranger vessel, he saw him curled up, resting with a locket and a wooden dagger in his hands, all that remained of his son and wife... in life the specter never married, but he had one he loved, and a son, he could empathize with that pain: it was one thing to die, it was another to see your town raised, but there was little worse than knowing your wife and son where gone forever. The specter looked back out into the bowls of the cave, keeping watch for his vessel while he might dream of brighter days.
 
  • Cthuloo
Reactions: Zeri Rekani