Aeraesar To the Ashen Glades | The War Board

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The Shorai

The Shorai

The Living Crystal
Aeraesar
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The monsters are on the move. Swaths of enemy Gwathui and Abominations are rallying in the Ashen Glades, and they no doubt mean to push north. Should the monsters advance past our defensive line on the glades' northern edge, our plans to retake Aera Eäron will be delayed.

The city of Aera Earon rests on the shores just south of the Ashen Glades, and is the nations only port. If we lose our foothold in the glades, then our only route to retake the city is lost.
We cannot let this happen!

Find and kill three enemy generals, and the enemy forces will crumble!

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In the Ashen Glades the trees grow incredibly wide and tall, so tall that the canopies are obscured in the dark of their shade. Not always, but most often they stand far apart from one another, leaving much space in between. They inhabit a stretch of land over a kilometer north to south, and well over three east to west, and where the trees take on more usual size is where the glades' borders lie.​
 
The air was cool here.

It was chilled from countless battles, where lives untold had been lost. He didn't know the history, he could simply see the signs. Though there was unnatural growth in these lands, it did not hide the scars of the past. He could see old gouges out of the ancient bark. He spied the odd piece of metal, weathered from decades of age.

This was not the first war fought on these lands.

He huffed at the dread their enemy had wrought upon this land, challenging it in his very spirit, and then he urged his steed forward. It was a beast foreign to these lands, and though it stood as tall as a horse, it was a far different creature. Its body and limbs were far broader and wider, and upon its feet were no hooves. Its head was broad and long, and upon its snout were two great horns, and within its jaw were two great tusks. Its hide was thick, and grey, and its tail was long and swooping with a great club at is tip.

Behind him, a handful of others rode beasts like his, but most others carried forth on foot. For their part, the orcs had no complaints. They had traveled this way to fight, and struggle if need be, as their friends had done so for them.

Grommok's hand rose abruptly in a fist, commanding his number to halt.

In the distance, first faintly as a pitter patter, the sound of many hastened footfalls grew near.

And as the shrieking and howling went up, the orcs readied themselves.

The enemy draws near.
 
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Often in times of peace did Mogrin Dhuumal lead his ogre kin abroad from Gild and Campania in search of battle. The Maulgar honored Threshkuul with feats of strength, from wrestling events to the great moving of boulders in stone quarries, and, as it was with their ancestors and with ogres all the world round, with the besting of mighty foes.

So it was that Mogrin and thirty-two of his fellow ogres (a terrifyingly large number, given what his kin were capable of) negotiated passage to Alliria on a vessel owned by a unit of Arragoth Marines from Belgrath. And in Alliria the troop of ogres learned of strange and promising happenings to the west, on the eastern shores of Falwood. In search of coin, loot, and of the priceless chance to be seen and favored by Threshkuul, the Maulgar led by Mogrin departed for the land of Aeraesar, none knowing anything of it nor what it was they could expect.

And when the captain of the Allirian vessel told them that the port of Aera Earon was inaccessible, and that they would all have to jump into the shallows close to the shores of the Ashen Glades and fight to retake the city, Mogrin and his Maulgar rejoiced, and so loud was their joyous bellow that they frightened the human sailors. Blood! Battle! Glory! These they had traveled far to find, and they found it.

Strangely, they did not parley with elves in the Ashen Glades, whom they were told lived in the land. But instead there were humans (not Allirian, as it happened) and orcs, who themselves had traveled far, all the way from Bhathairk. Immediate was the kinship the ogres felt for their green-skinned cousins, for the Maulgar were told that they had come to the land of Aeraesar out of a debt of honor, and that blood would be repaid with blood.

Now their champion, Grommok, held up his fist and his orcs halted. Mogrin, too, raised a hand, and his ogres stopped. The Glades echoed forward the shrieking and howling of their mysterious foe.

And these dreadful cries from the enemy excited the ogres, who started to growl and bellow, to clash their weapons together or upon what sparse armor they wore, to stomp their feet in an ancient rhythm. Several of the ogres headbutted one another, amplifying the thunder in their blood with the thunder of their thick skulls colliding.

"MAULGAR!" cried Mogrin. He pounded a mighty fist upon his chest once, twice, three times in his fervor. "Tonight, we feast on victory!"

Grommok
 
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Emboldened by the kinship of the Ogres that had been shown, and the vigor they showed forth at the sounds of coming conflict, the Orcs too showed forth their eagerness. They pounded against their chests, roared out into the dark, and cried with a desperate thirst for battle.

Vengeance they cried, honouring their fallen friends.

And that is when the first of them appeared, long and sleek. It leapt to and fro, gnashing and growling, and though it moved swiftly and erratically, its course certainly fixed upon them. But soon, dozens more appeared from the dark. And then dozens upon dozens more, each one similar and yet each different and dangerous in their own ways.

"Forward!" Grommok bellowed, unafraid of the daunting number of foes that descended upon them.

And the Orcs charged forward, crying out so loudly as to overcome the shrieking sounds of their monstrous foes. And in their vigour, as the first of the Gwathui came upon them, its head was promptly crushed under the weight of an orcish hammer.

And then the wave crashed upon them. Orcs drew up their shields, clubs, axes and hammers, and fought viciously against the ravenous horde that descended upon them. And though the monsters proved swift, and strong, they had not yet contended with the sheer brutality of the Orcish tribes - let alone the likes of their Ogre cousins...

 
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And when the Gwathui emerged from the darkness and into sight, the Maulgar, who had never before seen such beasts, balked with sudden shock and terror. Anxious murmurs came from the ogre's numbers:

"I don't like the look of them!"

"Somethin's wrong, Chief."

"Oi, what are those things, boys? What are those?"

Mogrin's nostrils flared and he looked back to his Maulgar warriors. While he was revolted as much as they, he was the one ogre among them who could not falter, for if he did then all would fall.

"Nothing our axes cannot cleave, or our clubs cannot crush," he said. Then he looked to the beasts, the Gwathui, nameless to Mogrin but hideous all the same, and he shouted: "OGRES! ATTACK!"

With his own two-handed reinforced club held high and ready, he charged with a mighty bellow, and his ferocity inspired ferocity in kind, and immediately all fear was forgotten, and no ogre wished to be shamed in the view of Mogrin, largest among them, or in the view of Threshkuul, who surely heard such a warcry.

The orcs clashed with the monsters first, and then came the second hammer, the ogres, against the Dark Army's minions. Mogrin himself with a furious swing batted a leaping Gwathui high into the branches above, and the creature bounced off the trunk of a tree and went spinning off into shadows unseen.

Grommok
 
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Of the Orcs of Bhathairk, Grommok and his lot were not some of the first to have arrived. From what he knew, the war had been raging for many months, over a year now. And so, when they'd first arrived in the Aerai lands, when they first wandered through the various war-camps, they'd seen the various prizes that their kin, and their allies, had taken for themselves.

They had studied the likeness of their foes... but neither they, nor the Ogres it seemed, we quite prepared for what came for them in the night.

Forward he'd cried out. Onward had he pushed his steed. Anger and fury did flare in his eyes.

But fear did dwell deeply in his heart.

Forward he'd cried out, in spite of this.

Upon clashing with the enemy, he'd leapt from his mount, trusting in it to wreak havoc upon the monsters quite well enough on its own. He'd driven his spear well and truly through one of the monsters as he descended, lifting it and removing it from its skewer with a kick of a thousand tons.

His arms threw out to either side. Every muscle in his body strained. And his mouth opened wide as he loosed out a dreadful, furious cry. In that very moment one of the monsters was sent sailing just over his head in a sprawl, smashing against one of the great trees nearby.

One of the Gwathui leapt upon him in this moment, catching him off-guard in his boisterous bloodlust. It was a pity, as Grommok fell upon his back, and his spear fell to his side. A pity that the struggle was so short lived, as Grommok had grasped firmly upon the beast's upper and lower jaw, tearing the things very skull apart with a terrifying howl.

In that moment, from the flank!

The Humans of Drennantor arrived with their swords and voices raised high, bringing aid to the Ogres and Orcs!
 
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Here was a field in which his ogres could thrive!

Mogrin knew the strengths and the weaknesses of his people, and of the style of fighting to which they were accustomed. Ogres did not fight well in a line, with their big weapons and massive swings. Even Mogrin himself, he who was among them known as Chief and regarded with great respect for his stature, as were other ogres of similar size, could at times struggle to keep them in good order—especially if the fire of battle burned hot in their blood. Best were the Maulgar if a shrewd commander set them loose on an area thick with enemies and thin with allies, yet not too far from said allies, for once their initial burst of fury exhausted itself they would need the safety of friends to retreat to, if they had not entirely crushed their foes.

But these creatures did not array themselves in the lines and formations of an army. They came as a horde of ferocious beasts, scattered here, thick there, in a mass but in no arranged order. And here an ogre would find it challenging to miss with his mighty swings! He would with his thick skin likely suffer many a superficial wound before any severe injury. There was a danger, Mogrin knew, of an ogre being overrun by the tide of these monsters, the Gwathui, and this he would have to keep a keen eye out for; maybe it would be the greatest honor to die in battle, taking a mighty mountain of trophies as an offering to Threshkuul, but not today, Mogrin resolved. Some other day, perhaps, but not today. Some of his boys often forgot that a longer life meant more battles.

As Mogrin and his ogres and Grommok and his orcs cleaved Gwathui after Gwathui, felling many minions sent by the Dark Army, another force, hitherto undetected by the beasts, prepared to strike.

The Drennantor Captain, feeling the time was right, called back to his soldiers behind him: "Come! Let us show them that the spirit of Men can match the might of Orc and Ogre! TO WAR!"

Even from afar Mogrin heard the combined cry of the Drennan humans, and he turned for a moment and saw their charge. A Gwathui pounced on his shoulder and snapped at his neck and Mogrin grabbed the creature and flung it away, another ogre carving it in two.

And Mogrin bellowed his own war cry in camaraderie to the newly arrived humans, and he gave his chest another hearty thump with his clenched and bloodied fist.

Grommok
 
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Grommok was back upon his feet in short order. Throwing the remains of the Gwathui aside, there were several of his orc brethren who rushed to his aid and offered him enough cover for him to rise with his spear in hand. And no sooner was he up did he lunge forth and impale one of the monsters yet again, impaling it upon his spike.

His steed let out a mighty roar as it reared up, just some ways away, almost in the thick of the enemy lines - such as they were. It fell down onto his forelegs with a slam, and then a whirling swoop of its tail paid homage to the brutality of the ogres, sending a number of the monsters into a sprawling flail through the air...


As the Drennans descended into the combat, they broke enough of the monsters to come comfortably alongside their allies, and form a solid line across their forces. They'd arrived just in time to cut off the approach of another small legion of monsters, and give cover on the northerners flank.

Hasulfel, a marksmen of the Drennan army, took up a somewhat higher position upon a gnarled root, and loosed his arrow upon the enemy. In the mass of blackness that they were, it was difficult to tell if he'd truly found purchase. Nevertheless, he readied another and loosed it. This time, he spied a gruesome viciousness, one of wonderment and one that would have given him fear if not for the source.

He watched as one of the Gildan Ogres lifted one of the monsters by one of its fore and hind legs, and with a terrible shout, and a horrid sound from the beast, it was torn in two for its blood and innards to spill out and rain down upon the battlefield.

"By the gods..." he uttered under his breath, "have you ever seen such brutality!?"

This spoke volumes, as the Drennans had spent no short time fighting Arkhivom's evil monsters.

 
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Arod, a fellow marksmen hailing from Drennantor, spied the sight that Hasulfel had witnessed. He was a younger man, only seasoned of twenty-two winters, but he did think himself to be more experienced and sharper of mind than he otherwise would have been, this for the harrowing incident that urged him to trade his hunting bow for a war bow.

Yet all he could say to his friend Hasulfel was, "I'm glad they're on our side." Then, gathering his proper wits again, he said, "But come on. We've still got our part in pleasing Nykios."

And Arod lined up a shot and loosed.

Far afield, Mogrin turned to face an oncoming Gwathui, only for Arod's arrow to strike the beast in mid-leap. Mogrin with a surprising deftness for his bulk swept to the side and the beast flew just past him and hit the ground, its claws preyless. Another ogre lifted his warhammer high and brought it crashing down on the monster, making a fine mess and finishing the beast.

Mogrin eyed this ogre, seeing something off. "Where's your nose?"

His fellow Maulgar, indeed missing his nose, said with a grin stained with his own blood. "Reckon I look betta like this, Chief."

Mogrin barked out a laugh and they each turned back to the fighting. But Mogrin had not only the foes before him to concern himself with, but also the welfare of his ogres. One missing nose wasn't bad, but he had to keep an eye out for worse injuries, and for fatigue getting the better of his warriors. With the orcs and these newly-arrived humans here, there'd be ample space for his ogres to recuperate if needed.

Aera Earon would be liberated yet.

Grommok
 
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It moved through the woods.

Between those great trees.

Drawn by the slaying of so many under its appointed thrall.

With lumbering movements its lanky frame swayed, closer...

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It emerged through the dark, seen first by the glimmering light in the crystalline orb that hung over its body like a neckless head.​
 
Arod had always had a measure of admiration from Hasulfel. As marksman, they were fairly well matched. Arod had a talent. Killer instinct, some called it. It was a kind of intuition that led to the shots like the one he just pulled off. It was not the killing blow, but it was that augmenting shot that allowed the ogres to run rampant across the enemy, ensuring a killing blow.

But Hasulfel was not without his own talent. He was one of a different intuition, and a sharp eye. And so there, in the dark, before the others had a chance to divert there attention, he saw it.

The glimmer in the dark.

His hand fell upon his friend's shoulder, and with a frightened reverence in his voice, he uttered...

Long had the Drennans fought in these lands, and this name was one of a thousand fears.

"Nanhat."


The monsters were vicious. They were furious. They were hungry. This made them, despite their ilk, despite their dastardly and, quite frankly putrid existence... worthy foe. No matter how undeserving these wretched things were, the Orcs could not help but respect them.

And in this respect, they would slay them, gruesomely, hatefully, and with a resounding, unwavering fist.

And so Grommok raised his spear high, and hollered, and rallied,

"Orcs!"

"Blood! Bhatharik! Aerai!"

Homage to the past, and honour to their purpose. Honour to them.

And with a unison that would have put the Aerai themselves to shame, they shoved and pushed forward. Many a monster fell backward in a sprawl, and the Orcs in their mastery of attrition, held the line with ease.

"Orcs!"

"Ogre! Human!"

Homage to their comrade-at-arms. Honour to them.

There was then a hammering of chests, and crying out into the dark, and a rallying of lust for battle that out these petty monsters to shame. Even as they crashed upon Orc shields once again, they were thrown back with a fury unmatched. And then... they fled back. Only so far... only enough to confuse the emboldened frontline of the Orcs, and perhaps the Ogres and Drennans too...

"Nanhat!"

The cry came out, but Grommok knew not what it meant...

Until the thing revealed itself. It stepped out from behind a tall tree, a lumbering a disfiguring looking thing.

It paused upon seeing them, and a dreadful quiet overtook the surround.

And then the thing began to.. change... its body popped and spewed, and it seemed to grow and convulse with an otherworldly and frightfully painful array of contortions.

And it grew... to match the might of the Ogres!

"Kill it!" Grommok cried out, desperately, to... everyone!

 
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