Open Chronicles Call of the ancients [orcsorcsorcsorcs][orcs]

[Mabess]

How colourful those dreams of ancient heroes beckoned.

Many an orc can recite the tales of their ancestors. Tales of Uroghosh, she-now-joined-with-the-stars, first of the much-beloved-and-many-governing chieftains. Ruler of the tribe-of-all, as recited under the stars of the many kindred spirits named by shamans both of then and now.
And tales of many heroes long forgotten and apotheised into deities and figures of legend. Like Stormcaller among the many heroes, he-who-slew the thrice-height and thrice-weight slaver and oppressor of orcish-kind, king Mar'Galok.(taboo)
And of him who cleaved a mountain and threw it into the sea, it's empty space now the lake Crobhear.

Many more tales have coloured the long weave of the ancestry belonging to the glorious, strong and steadfast people who share their kin and blood with Uroghosh.
Told to one when still little by their mothers and fathers, played among children of the tribe as if real and of now.
And ever-present in the thoughts of those, who many years later recite them to their young as their forefathers had to them many years past...

And to some, those dreams have become so much more lucid than before.

While some tribes never heard of such an affliction, many orcs across the whole of Arethil have been struck with what seems at first a curse of madness and restlessness. Seeing things not there, speaking to people not existing, mistaking the alive for those that are dead and living a life of myth.
Their identity slowly lost or waning from time to time as the affected snap back to reality. It took on many severities, some of the afflicted clansmen were aware of their situation and questioned its origin, but many more could not.

The best of a tribe's shamans suggested the madness is of magical nature.
Powerful, ancient, vile.
No broth, nor salve could cure it, only temporarily lessen the madness and the fever it brought.
Yet the dreams, they remained, as mad as before:

I am He-Who-Speaks-Of-Truth, I am you of then and you are me of now. Your fate is so much more than offered here. So come, come and join me there where the end of the world begins.

It has begun.
Some of the afflicted began to disappear north-east into the night, some of which returned at daybreak battered yet fully awake and still somewhat sane, only to repeat the endeavour the next night.
Some never returned, either by willing conviction to find the origin of this evil or fully consumed by the madness.

While others, unafflicted could only ask why, following their mad brethren into the wild in a search for a cure.




Many months later, somewhere high in the spine, at the yet-unnamed orcish ashlander stronghold still being built. It was the season of the sea and still warm.

Hammer on hot iron, hammer on pins. The sound of manufacture and orcish work songs dominated this settlement.
Ubabe was among the workers, toiling at iron and making nails at a record pace.
Scarce were things that gave her ease of mind, not even work would save her from the ill dreams she was cursed with. The rhythmic hammering too slowly began to remind her of words spoken to her. /Join-me CLANK She-who-toils-for-naught CLANK She-who-will-be-famous CLANK/ Or were those words she spoke to herself? Nevermind.
She wiped the sweat off her forehead before setting aside her hammer and threw her heavy gloves on the anvil.

Many of the afflicted and their entourage passed here for respite before making their long march into, what seemed an end destination somewhere deep in the far reaches of the Blightlands.
While many of those that came were from the savannah, the steppe or Bhathairk itself, in truth this stronghold too was hemorrhaging its populace into the wild.
Ubabe feared she too would be among them soon enough. But perhaps she had to join them?

Nevertheless, she left for the common area somewhere in the outskirt of the stronghold where a large bonfire was kept ablaze throughout the day and night.
There, one of the revered elders was reciting a story of her early days.




OOC:

Spoiler

No need to feel pressured for long posts as the bread and butter of the thread, this is an endurance run~ we are in it for the long game.
Short posts will be better in the long term, with long posts better suited for setting the mood and epicness.

 

[Tarnakh]

The Naghoon were barely afflicted by the latest mystery plaguing the Orc populations, though news had reached Tarnakh in bits and pieces over the past few months. Intrigued and concerned, he had gathered a small contingent of troops and, after placing a small group of trusted advisors in charge of the day to day goings on of the Steppes, ventured east.

He was unsure what, precisely, he would find but the simple fact that Orcs roamed in a singular direction led him to follow the same. They'd found individuals trekking in the direction over time. First in ones or twos, though as they drew to the mountains the numbers increased.

Now, though, it was a fairly steady stream and, as they reached the mountaintops, Tarnakh was confused. A half built mountaintop fortress that could perhaps hold a fraction of the numbers that were said to travel this way. He ordered his few score warriors onwards, keen to know who resided at such a place and why.

Mabess

 

[Gorgosh]

Gorgosh didn't expect to find himself so far up the mountain, after all he was someone who preferred forests and steppes. Nonetheless, he heard that there'd be a large contingency of orcish warriors somewhere around here, maybe he could tag along with them. As per usual, Gorgosh was seeking a way to temporarily employ himself. The year was quite harsh, and he could barely make ends meet with how little he earned these past few months. Thoughts were buzzing through his head as he made his way up the steep mountain side, making sure not to slip on some wayward rock and fall to his doom. Right now he was wearing more clothes than what would usually be expected from him. His enormous form was clad in several layers of fur and from a far someone could have mistaken him for a bear. He wasn't quite the fan of heavy coats, they limited his mobility without providing much protection in return. Still, Gorgosh was hoping dearly that he wouldn't run into any dangerous creatures around here. Trying to fight and climb at the same time could prove fatal.

After fifteen minutes of climbing up some uncomfortably smooth cliff sides, Gorgosh was finally beginning to make out the mountain's top. Of snow-white and deepest gray, the mountain top was the artistry of the horizon. Surprisingly the air here wasn't as cold as it was a couple of hundred meters below. It was still cold enough to make Gorgosh clutch his fur coat, but still tolerable enough to not freeze him down to the bones. Looking around himself, he couldn't see people, not yet, tho something told him that he wasn't alone. What he could see was a moderately sized fortress, built atop of a vantage point. It wasn't as big as he was expecting it to be. Gorgosh placed his open palm above his forehead in an effort to shield his eyes from any snow particles. Taking a closer look at the fortress, he noticed that it wasn't quite finished. Someone with greater architectural knowledge might have called it “half-baked”, but Gorgosh didn't bother with trivialities. He only hoped that the rumors were true and that the place wasn't abandoned.
Mabess
Tarnakh

 

[Dal]

“When a shaman leaves you a fortune and a dying wish, next time, take the fortune and forget you heard anything. What in blazes am I doing here?” Dal asked himself and gritted his teeth. Unlike most orcs his teeth allowed his speech to resound clearly, without undue alteration from his tusks. His helmet was adopting the cold of the Spine and it did nothing to improve Dal's disposition as he looked down from his vantage point. He shrugged his shoulder to keep his longsword tight to his back as he traversed the mountain on his own, and once again spoke to himself and the wind.

“Madness is what she was afflicted with, and madness spills over to me adopting this damnable venture. What am I doing back in orc lands? Did I not have enough of my own people? Have I not spoken the tongue enough in my life without having to bark it again? Damn it all, the shaman may have paid me for a year, but this? This is too much. But still, I'm here. Despite myself. Despite everything.”

The winds howled and offered no solace. Dal once again shrugged his shoulders to keep his longsword tight to himself, although more out of the sensation of doing something about his state of affairs. It did little to rearrange his mind, but it was a good sensation to have a reliable weapon at one's back. It was the tool of Dal's professional life, a sword and an iron discipline to carry the day. He had served in mercenary companies, performed at skirmishes, ripped through monsters and challenged champions. There was little that Dal was perturbed by.

But this orc land he had discarded so long ago? It troubled him deeply. Despite his own orc heritage he felt as an outsider here. He had spent so long with the organised companies of disperate humans that the savage culture around him seemed all too unreal, too much like a fever dream that he thought he might wake up from. But it was not to be.

Dal took a moment and took off his helmet. He wanted to see this with his own eyes. He ripped off his helmet with a grunt and held it at his side as his eyes adjusted to he brightness. A low wind struck at him and sent his cloak sprawling about him. Dal's eyes narrowed as he tried to pick out figures, features.

A stronghold in construction. Orcs in movement, a bonfire which roared no matter the hour.

The wind picked up again and gave Dal pause.

“I'm here aren't I? I'm doing as you asked shaman. Leave me be,” Dal said to the wind, knowing that he was entertaining a whimsical thought. The thought that the wind could carry a dead woman's wishes. The shaman who had laid the task before him was long gone, and only memories would whisper.

Amongst humans Dal was considered a titan. Amongst orcs? One of many who could destroy with brute strength. But brute strength was not Dal's way, his way was with the finess of a blade, with the precision of a crossbow bolt, with the considered word in the confusion that combat situations brought it. He knew he had that strength to live that way. He simply refused to resolve his issues that way.

He shook his head and adopted his helmet once again.

“Only one thing for it. Fire. Fire and council. What I might find at least. I found some council with that damned shaman and enough pay to keep myself well for a good amount of time. I owe it to her to give this my best. Onward then,” Dal breathed and pushed himself off the rock.

He headed towards the bonfire to mingle with his own kind. For all the goods and ills of this world, Dal swore to himself that he would not forget why he had left these orcish lands to begin with. Brute strength was not the way a warrior kept alive for long, or if it did, it came with a terrible cost. A clouding of the mind, a binding of the body to a path of survival. Dal was different, and he wore his difference with pride. His armour shone in the sunlight as he descended onto the stronghold, and as he grew closer to the bonfire he watched his fellow orcs gather.

“I'm not alone in all this,” Dal muttered to himself. He wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad omen, but he was resolved to see this to whatever conclusion it had. If the shaman had spoken true, he would be part of a movement of orcs to change the course of their people.

Dal just didn't believe it yet.

He moved onwards at his slow but steady pace towards the bonfire, in hope of hearing some others with a shared mission. He doubted he would find such cohesion just yet, but the embers of hope were stoked by the fact that the shaman that had led him down this path had spoken truly enough in what life she spent with him.

It was enough to keep him moving forward.

Mabess
Tarnakh

 

[Gorgosh]

Observation had taken him close enough to the heart of this mountain, and it was glorious. Only now did Gorgosh begin to adapt to sub-par weather conditions, the cold bothered him less and less by the minute, tho he still wished to take off his cumbersome fur coat. In the distance he spotted what seemed to be a commotion, people moving around and....fire? Gorgosh could just begin to make out its shape, but it was fire. The bright glow and the smoke rising from it giving him a clear indication of the presence of people. He began to walk towards them, his large, muscular legs tearing through the layer of snow that was halfway up his shin. He didn't complain about it, but the snow made it harder to move freely. Gorgosh wanted nothing more than to use some of his wind magic to push himself to the location ahead. Alas, he couldn't afford the luxury of depleting his mana pool on such trivial tasks. He didn't know what kind of creatures lurked on this mountain, nor the dangers that could be lurking at every corner. Hence, why he chose to move on foot.

It took him some minutes to get close enough, once in range he could see orcish faces everywhere. The stronghold wasn't abandoned after all and knowing that made him smile, if only a little. Fire was the true solace, it meant that Gorgosh could warm himself up, maybe roast some cured meat he brought with himself. It was no secret that he was starting to grow hungry. He has been moving on foot for hours, add another hour of climbing up the slippery mountain side, and you had yourself a hungry person. Right now he was close enough to be seen by other orcs. Knowing this, Gorgosh instinctively pulled his hood down, revealing his face. He did resemblance to an orc, both in stature and appearance. For that matter, he was larger than most orcs, standing head and shoulders taller than them. His skin was strong, vibrant green, unusually bright even for an orc. His facial features spoke of human influence. Gorgosh's lower jaw wasn't as jutted out as that of a full-blooded orc, his tusks weren't as big and his nose was not snout like. His facial features were more symmetrical than what you'd expect from an average orc.

Dal
Mabess

 

[Mabess]

An elder recited her tales so vividly as if experienced firsthand.
Of then when a warlord united all tribes by bloodshot and war. His many soldiers from every tribe and creed.
They all passed by Ubabe, feeling all so real. Was her mind drifting again?
No!
These were real people.
With a shake of the head and a few deep breaths, the once seeming warband of ages long lost now felt more like a disjointed band of unaffiliated travelers. But something, someone captured her eye.
»Where does an orc come across such human armour, « Ubabe hollered at dal, perhaps genuinely interested in the craftsmanship of the suit of plate.

Ubabe was a slimmer she-orc, her head was half shaved and her simple clothes were mantled by an ash leopard pelt, but beside her was another she-orc, half sitting, half laying on the ground. Her dismissive and bored expression obscured by thick locks of black hair.
»Humanborn, « she casually snapped. It wasn't entirely clear if she was referring to the more gracile faced Gorgosh or Dal.

Dal Gorgosh Tarnakh

 

[Gorgosh]

Gorgosh squinted at them, partially because of the harsh wind that was finding its way to his eyes, which wasn't the most comfortable experience. He gave these people a good and hard look, they seemed a little disjointed, little disgruntled even. He had seen orcs before, and they were usually far more jolly than this, either singing, dancing, drinking or even fighting. But this particular bunch looked as if someone soiled on their parade, perhaps that was the reason they were here in the first place, to solve some issue. Still, Gorgosh didn't enjoy being called a “human born”, he had a name, one that he was proud of, one given to him by his father dearest. To this day he wondered how his father knew about orcish names, maybe his mom wasn't the first age-orc that he shagged. But that was irrelevant right now. He'd have to scout the situation and see if these people would even accept his services...or if they had any means of payment. As decent of a person as he was, Gorgosh wasn't naive enough to believe that goodwill would keep his stomach full and keep his hide from freezing in this chilly weather.

Gorgosh walked closer to the group, and at 232 centimeters of height and over two hundred kilos of muscle, he did look like a moving mountain. His body was very large, with muscles complimenting his features and a bit of fat in all the right places. One could even call him ruggedly handsome. Sure, his features weren't as delicate as those of a human, but he could pass close enough by their standards. But he knew little about orcish beauty, one look at these women told him that they had as much muscle on them as a physically fit human, if not slightly more. Theirs was...a different kind of beauty, an acquired taste as some would call it. Gorgosh was into curvy women, but some ones present here we're a tad too developed for his liking. As he walked towards them, his hand rested on the polished sword hilt, the pommel to be more precise. The weapon was masterfully crafted, clearly made by dwarven hands. The hilt was dark-ish, made from solidified ebonwood that felt more like marble than wood when touched. And the blade was carefully tucked into a scabbard made out of hardened leather. Gorgosh was slightly worried that someone would steal his sword, the thing costed him both blood and sweat, he didn't want to go through the process of acquiring a new one.

“I have a name, its Gorgosh Bloodgrin. I was interested if you needed any help with.... whatever endeavor you are undertaking. I was told that the orcs who live here could use a helping hand.”

Mabess

 

[Tarnakh]

The shouting was confusing at worst, annoying at best. Orcish was relatively unknown on the Steppes to the Naghoon who spoke their own language. With Common seen as the go-to trade language with anyone not of the Clans, other languages fell by the wayside and even among his people, Tarnakh knew that Common was only just now gaining a modicum of purchase. He himself had learned the language in time, though he was far from true mastery of the finer, more slippery linguistic challenges it possessed. Perhaps he would learn Orcish in time, but for now something else piqued his curiosity.

Tarnakh was fairly sure he'd heard a Common response to an Orcish call. He knew there were Orcs that spoke Common well enough, but was unsure that any would be present. He nudged his horse onward, searching for the possible speaker or speakers he'd heard. As his horse carried him, his warriors followed, armor clinking faintly as hooves beat steady on the packed dirt below.

They drew more than a few glances as they moved. Orcs were normally shades of greens ranging from bright hues down to nearly black in coloration. Tarnakh and his soldiers bore red skin, a surefire sign of Steppe Orcs. They wore armor designed for horseback made of hardened leather, mail, and riveted plates. Fur lined steel helmets sat atop heads swathed in yet more fur or obscured completely by steel faceplates. Each warrior carried a bow and multiple quivers back up by a saber, lance, or other weapon of choice. These were the Keshq, handpicked bodyguards of the Khagan and veterans of many battles in service to their ruler.

Tarnakh stopped near a roaring bonfire, amber eyes searching the crowd intensely.

"Who speaks the trade language here?" he demanded, pausing only momentarily to further translate himself more clearly. "Who is speaking Common?"

Mabess Gorgosh

 

[Dal]

Ah, their number calls out to those they see that are different. This was to be expected, Dal thought to himself. The spirit of the tribe made one sensitive to the outsider. Dal hid his face from humans so that he would not be judged for his fighting skills based upon the greenskin's ways. Now that he found himself back, he found a different kind of judgement. Not green enough, not wild enough, was Dal's thinking.

He made longer strides to cover the ground and refused to put his voice to the wind to reply just yet. He noticed another orc, Gorgosh, approach. Was he the one being called human born? Dal ignored it for now, although he was ready to receive such an insult if it was brought about to him again. Dal had been born to orc lands but found himself living most of it within the cosmopolitan areas of humanity.

He approached and saw the Steppe orcs mounted division gather about itself and was impressed with the mounted forces. Good, Dal thought. Some more seasoned warriors.

He heard Tarnakh demand to know who was speaking common and felt the familiar sense of being judged. It might make a better impression with the orcs to speak the language he decided.

Dal made his entrance. Resplendent in full plate mail, adorned with a longsword and crossbow, and carrying himself with the pride and self respect of the seasoned soldier, Dal began to speak to orcish. The words came slowly, for Dal was not used to speaking his mother tongue so readily.

“I earned this armour, with blood and coin. It suits me well for the fighting I do. Keeps me alive. Keeps me sure. Allows me to earn my way in violence without being a victim to savage cuts. I am Dal. I heard there was need of good warriors to deal with a common problem. So I came from human lands to my homelands to see how best I might help."

Dal felt strange speaking orc as if it were the higher form of diplomacy. In these lands, it was, so Dal acted accordingly. He knew his regular way of speaking might have been seen as hauty, his voice in common was clear and to be understood well. Here, speaking to elders, one should speak as directed, Dal thought to himself.

Mabess

 

[Mabess]

Ubabe only leered an ill glance at Sheeha before standing up to better receive the new arrivals as was proper.
Sheeha, however, was not in the mood, with her brows darkening her usually bright eyes. But listening closes to the requests of the foreigners, she stood up and left to fetch the warchief.
Soldiers were for warchief matters, correct?
»We speak common, do come closer, you and your band are here, « Ubabe took the note to switch over to the lingua franca of Arethil.

»Then you might find purpose here, « Replied Ubabe to Dal, walking over to offer a hand in a kind gesture. Then she turned to Gorgosh and offering to him too, »My name is Ubabe, I'm the chieftain's closest huntress, but she is not here at present. I assume you've come...for the madness?«
It was no doubt that most orcs passing here were interested, or afflicted with the madness.

Dal Tarnakh Gorgosh

 

[Gorgosh]

Gorgosh heard the red skinned man, but he didn't understand why the common tongue got him so interested. Sure, it was the language of traders, hence why people called it "common". Gorgosh wondered if people here didn't know it very well, but that couldn't be the case, the orcish woman spoke it fluently enough. “Madness?” Gorgosh reached behind his ear, scratching himself as if in deep thought, then he shrugged his shoulders. "Heard about it, didn't experience the effects on my own hide, it isn't like I would want to either." Gorgosh stretched, getting on the tiptoes in the process, his bulky physique overshadowed by the fact that he acted like an oversized cat. “I came here looking for a job, the past few months have been harsh on my finances, barely been able to make ends meet, ma'am.”

Gorgosh tugged at the blade hilt, letting it wobbly at his hip. Maybe he would be able to find a job here, people could use additional muscle, even if the pay wasn't all that impressive. “But yeah, if you need help, I wouldn't mind being on disposal. I don't ask for much, roof over my head, a warm place to sleep and-” It was at this point that his stomach made an unholy growling sound, reminding Gorgosh that he hadn't eaten in hours now. He was a big guy, a big guy scaling a mountain on foot. His caloric reserves were pretty much depleted, and he did his best to keep the hunger in check. Nonetheless, his unruly gut gave him away, leaving Gorgosh to embarrassingly stare at Ubabe. “....some food wouldn't hurt either.”

Tarnakh
Mabess

 

[Mabess]

Gorgosh
»I have the dreams, but I would not describe myself as mad,« Admitted Ubabe, leading any orc after her closer to the bonfire. Dal Tarnakh
Many an orc surrounded it, most were ashlanders, but there were a lot of orcs from tribes all over the world. Orcs short, orcs tall, orcs green, brown, black or red, even purple.
Most idly sat by, listening to an elder recite her story, but their faces bore not the expressions of kinship.
It was a gloom stuck to their heads.

»If you need anything, we've got it, ... take your fill,« another orc mumbled solemnly beneath his breath. Pots of meat stew and other foods were not hard to find around the fire. Regularly replenished, there was plenty for the weary travellers, who eagerly also contributed their own kills to the stockpile.

Ubabe though continued with a question, »There's more and more getting affected, how'd you know it wouldn't be you tomorrow? People seeming fine day one run blind into the wild the next night.«

 

[Gorgosh]

“Well, I am not a full orc, am I?” Gorgosh grabbed himself a wooden bowl, more like a plate but deeper, with greater capacity to hold food. He dipped it straight into a pot of pork stew until the bowl was filled with various bits of meat and vegetables. “Don't take my words for granted. I've had my fair share of experience with madness, I'd rather not have it again.” Gorgosh blew on the food which was still rather warm, it was kept that way, just below a summer in order to preserve its flavor and to stop it from spoiling in this rotten weather. After blowing on it a couple of times, Gorgosh showed the whole meal down his throat. He was incredibly large which allowed him to fit all of it into his mouth in one go. Gorgosh swallowed quickly, giving a small burp in response. He could taste the wild onions that were put into the stew, to him, it was a pleasant smell, tho an elf or a particularly petty human would probably find it repulsive.

“I am more than willing to help you, under one condition.” Gorgosh grabbed the hilt of his sword, rattling it to draw the female orc's attention. Then he unsheathed a part of it, watching as the blade reflected whatever meager sunlight that penetrated the cloudy veil above them. “I don't fear dying in battle, I lived by the sword and I should die by the sword.” Gorgosh gave Ubabe a small smile, then paused. He resheated the sword as to not frighten anyone. As he did so, a small chuckle slipped past his green lips. “I'll help you as long as you promise that my death won't come at the hands of cold or starvation.” To lighten up the mood, he decided to throw a little joke. “I'd like to die honorably, as I am sure you can imagine.” The grin on his lips only got wider and Gorgosh slapped himself on the chest. “How could I even look my dead ancestors in the eye, knowing that i froze to death in some bum-fuck nowhere?”

Mabess

 

[Mabess]

Dal Tarnakh Gorgosh

»You're not?« wondered Ubabe, though now that it was mentioned, the features upon him were not as gruff as other orcs. »Regardless. They're not related, are they? Well, that condition is fine by me. We the ashlanders sustain ourselves from nature alone and food is bountiful there where one knows to look.«
At the brief light of the situation, Ubabe smiled if only but a little. Who knows, all these orcs coming into the fortress and leaving the next night were bound to end up somewhere.
And at least she could help find out why. And learn how to stop the madness.
»I'd like to see if anyone else would come along as a troop.«

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

Dreams came thick like twilight each night, visions that made complete sense and yet none at all, dreams and visions that reeked of vile magic. Not only did their perversion invade and corrupt but they also stole what was rightfully his. Moghahk would not allow that, an unspeakable travesty upon him and his kin. Visiting wanderers and speakers told of a usual amount of Orcish tribesmen seeking the Spine, all afflicted and seeking the same answers to the same questions Moghahk had himself, they spoke rumours of those who sought such things never returning, whispers of spirits and dark magic, if not for answers, Moghahk had a duty, a commitment, he would go to kill the magic.

___________

‘Kill the magic’, Moghahk thought as he muscled his way past a grouping of loitering orcs, complaints would have been made if they had not been silenced near instantly by the entourage of Black Orcs following in his wake, ten strong and each as ugly as they were savage, which is to say very. ‘Could magic truly be killed, could magic bleed?’ Moghahk wondered, his heavyset brow creased sheltering beady golden eyes that speared anyone who even thought to look at him in anything but a neutral expression.
The Ashlanders had always been welcoming if not warm to Moghahk, he had helped them and in turn they-him and for that, they had his respect, even if their newfound life of settling within a city of stone and iron was much to his distaste. Setting his spade-like hands against his hips, he took in the doom and gloom sitting heavy within the atmosphere of the project; it seemed the rumours were true, many were afflicted.

“Zagrud, rara muv.” J’Darak growled through the overgrown tusks spilling from his jaw, spit flecked words bringing another of his kin forward who held a young horse slung over one shoulder, beads of sweat matting his knotted beard.

“Worbukk?” Asked Zagrud, equally beady eyes of hazel squinting in question. Thrusting a calloused, thick-nailed finger out towards where the main buildings of the city were likely being constructed, Moghahk grunted with a grind of his teeth.

“Find Great Chieftain Mabess, give gift with respect, honour.” The Black Orc snarled, guttural as he swapped language; Zagrud dipped low despite the weight of the horse on his shoulders, but before he could leave, Moghahk clamped his jaw and lifted the Orc face to face with him, tusks clashing and spittle drooling from the jagged mass. “With respect Zagrud, I find out not? You will pay. I will crush you.” He warned, before releasing his hold and with thunderous steps, made his way to the grouping around the communal bonfire.

Throwing open his mountain-hide cape given as a gift from an Ashlander elder, he passed Gja’Tok; the crude, nasty looking black-iron great-axe to one of his men and settled down onto a stone before the fire to listen, accepting an offered bowl with a dip of his head and scooping a hefty helping from the pot, it took exactly half a second before the bowl was at his mouth, chugging the chunky stew like he had not eaten in days, spilling down his beard from between his tusks. After their leader had eaten first, the nine other Black Orcs took their helping, eager to quench the hunger pains that had been haunting them worse than their nightly visions.
Once the taste had been fully enjoyed, Moghahk set his gaze around the grouping and fixed it upon Ubabe; “I come to kill magic.” He said simply, matter-of-fact... Nothing in his features said he was joking either. The Mage-Eater had come.
____
Mabess

 

[Mabess]

J'Darak Moghahk

Foreign and local orcs backed off as the band of black orcs marched through, their presence truly sparked intimidating respect from their appearance alone.
Some of the ashlanders that were present disappeared as an inquiry about Mabess' presence was called. The Chieftainess would surely be happy to see an old acquaintance. It shouldn't have taken too long for her to start approaching the bonfire on her barghest mount.

Ubabe rose her head as Moghahk came closer and took in the soup offered to all.
»So, you've been feeling that too? Think it's magic?« It definitely could be magic, now that Moghahk mentioned it. What else would bring such malice to the mind? Not a disease, not a parasite, not drugs...well maybe drugs.

But foul magic, that rung something.

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

Moghahk had never been one for pleasantries, none of his black orc kin ever were, always to the point and with very little fanfare. So as Ubabe spoke, he scooped another bowl of stew and hurried it down followed by a stroke of his hand through his beard to clean it off.

“The dreams are lies, talk things you want, tell you you are needed? I have heard too, my brothers, my sisters hear too, tell us great battles are coming, great warriors are needed, the dreams know who we are, know who you are. That magic, only magic.” Moghahk rumbled, a massive palm slapping against his thick forehead as he massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger, gesturing around the fire. “You do not listen to dreams, they are poison, if we follow where kin go,” The black orc pointed a hand towards the edge of the outpost, presumably deeper into the spine, “we find why, we kill the why and take back minds of ours.”

Moghahk’s party rumbled in agreement, nodding to themselves and each other, all of them looked tired from the march through the mountains, their rough leather armour barely covering all that much of thick skin, but even the cloaks they wore could not resist the slow creeping sapping bite of the mountain cold. Despite that each was committed, small in number, but very clearly fierce of heart.
____
Mabess

 

[Mabess]

Ubabe's eyes widened as J'Darak spoke further. Well, of course, he could be right.
»But, how do you know? « grunted the she-orc. Granted, he wasn't called the mage-eater for nothing, so there is likely some truth in that. Then again, if you are a hammer, all problems you see are nails.

The soup brewers passed a second round to the black orc band, although they were few, they were indeed massive.

»That is, a fair assessment...« came a familiar voice from the side. »J'Darak Moghahk, 'Roshamae', welcome. I should have expected for you to show up sooner or later.« There stood Mabess with her spiked chieftainess crown, half-buried in her thick hair and the very same tired face as ever.
She stepped off her shaggy barghest and took a step forward as the large canine patiently sat down.

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

‘But how do you know?’ Was asked of him, Moghahk gave a grunt in return and narrowed beady eyes, as though the question itself was a foolish one, as though everyone should have known. Though not many had tasted magic as he had. The familiar voice drew his minute attention span towards Mabess and he heaved his bulk up, veins protruding against his neck from the effort.

Dipping his head, he gnashed his teeth and slammed a fist against his left pectoral.

“Roshamae,” the great orc responded, likely a greeting he figured, it was incredible how many languages the orcish people had, cultures within cultures; or it would have been if Moghahk even thought about it. Which he did not. “I needed, I come,” he shrugged in response, as if it was an inevitability, “Ashlander has been kind to us, I return it for you and all kin. Not just mine and yours, if magic stays? We crumble to dust.” Lifting a piece of bread that barely looked like a morsel in his hand, he crushed it in his palm as if to get his point across, “we stay until done, you need? Ask, we will do for you Great Mabess.” Moghahk nodded as grunted, grumbled, and rumbled approval from his men sounded out from around the fire.
____
Mabess

 

[Mabess]

Ubabe backed off a little, stepping beside the chieftainess as her right-hand she-orc. If only briefly, her sour appearance has lessened when she took on a more stoic facade. Behind her followed Sheeha. The leader was not complete without her loyal companions.

Mabess responded with an affirming nod of her head towards the band of the black ones.
Orcs came and disappeared, nobody truly knew how to deal with this mess and only a few orcs ever truly seemed to care enough...or be brave enough to delve behind the affliction and see if it could be stopped.
No cure of shamans ever did a thing, perhaps only the might of an orc will bring an end to it?
»These are tiring times for orc-kin, and every single hand will be needed if we want to stop this before it brings ruin to all of us.« Though she paused. Mabess stepped closer, offering J'Darak a hefty orcish equivalent of 'handshake' that might have crushed a human's lower arm tenfold. »I'm glad to see you again, friend.«

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

Moghahk and his kin may have not been the best-educated, they may have not had even been the most culturally sophisticated of the orcish clans, but they were dedicated and they knew how to problem solve to the best of their abilities. That was why Moghahk was present, why they had trudged miles upon miles, weathered the steep cold cliffs and paths of the Spine, hunger never faltering their purpose. When Mabess outstretched her arm, they all knew it had been worth the trouble.

Moghahk clasped her forearm and offered a single shake of unity, one that might have pulled a lesser species shoulder from their socket. Whilst not capable of smiling to the degree others could, the corners of his lips perked and his yellowed teeth spread just a little.

"Good to see my friend after some time. You have made great plans Mabess, Ashlander become strong, have walls and fortress. No one, orc or man or sharp-ear challenge what you have here." He rumbled as he relaxed his grip, pumping both arms in a show of his biceps as he turned to the guttural calls of his men, arms spreading as if to elaborate on the surrounding constructions, his beady gold gaze falling back on the chieftainess with a glint, "no magic stand against us, together."

---

Mabess

 

[Mabess]

It was good to see old faces again.

Though while J'Darak might praise an all orcish fortress in the mountains, it was all Dormak's, the newly appointed war chief of the ashlanders, idea.
She preferred to have as little as possible to do with it, aside from administrative duties required by her position as not only leader of her clan, but all the tribes.

»Then so, I urge you to come and find shelter within the city for yourself and your men, the night will be long and possibly filled by mad and delusional fits. Tomorrow at dawn we ride out. «


J'Darak Moghahk