The Awakening In The Dark

[Watyll 1104]

 

 

Deep within the swirling currents of the spirit realm, all is not as it seems. Whilst on the plane of the mortal realm, chaos rages, it seems quiet and calm here. The Uruks in their rage slaughter each other, as the Badger fights the Turtle. Yet- the spirit realm remains as placid as a desert oasis. Shamans do not sense the despair within that is about to begin. For within the darkest levels of the spirit realm, in the shadows of shadow that are this immaterial world, five beings meet. For a mere instant, it seems, the immaterial plane becomes material, a space rather than a void. Within this space, this floating rock within the ocean of nonexistence, appears a quintet of madness.

First to arrive upon the scene is a wretched being, a cage filled to the brim with writhing and twisted forms. Arms attach to legs, eyeballs are inside out. The voices of the anguished ones pierce through the void.

Second comes a more lithe, composed form. Within its wake trails shadows and mist. Her serpent tail slithers across the floor of the meeting place, and she places a delicate finger upon her lip, studying the wretched cage across from her intently. They speak not a word, for more are soon to arrive.

A vast roar announces the presence of a warrior, long before he arrives. A ripping, tearing sound approaches as a portal slashes open and yet another sentience issues forth. It is a great warrior, bearing swords of cunningly wrought steel. His teeth are clenched in a rictus snarl. The Uruk warrior’s forest green body is pocked with scars, and his flesh is torn and bleeding in many places. Intestines hang loose from his open stomach. The lithe serpentess smiles as she sees him, before turning her head as another form emerges.

This spirit appears rather unimpressive compared to the rest. A portal spits out a dried and cracked pile of bones, which shamble along the floor of the void-made-space. The Uruk warrior glares at the bones as they appear, letting out a snarl.

Finally, last to the party of plotting, comes an old man, his skin stretched over thin and brittle bones like the canvas over a tent. Sores cover his body, festering. Maggots eat at them, and flies buzz perpetually about the man. He has six arms, the three on the right hold a rusted spear, sword, and axe. Upon his left side, the arms hold a halberd, a warhammer, and a bow. It seems that the weakened man can barely hold them up. Each spirit stares at each other in turn, before finally the woman speaks in an ancient tongue known to few but the Orcs, who name it Old Blah.

“Why have you called us here, Krathol?”

The pile of bones rustles. “You know why, Shezept. You know very well why, I think. And if I had not summoned you, one of the others would have.”

The warrior snarls. “Always you speak in riddles, Krathol. I know not of what you speak. You distract me from my true task. The Azogs are tearing at the throats of the Uzg, and I must continue my mission. Soon the War Nation will fall, and the Shamans with it.” The warrior spits some crimson blood, as if to punctuate his point.

“Surely,” said the spirit of the cage, speaking through each of the mouths imprisoned within, “If your power was so great, Anyhuluz, you would have destroyed the Uzg long ago. You have not the tact for such strategy.” The voices sound like a chorus of pain, some of them speaking off-kilter to the others and creating a chaotic and ill noise.

Anyhuluz pounds his chest, roaring. “I am responsible for all strife, Ogrol! I brought down the Rexdom a thousand times, and I will do so again!”

“Of that we have no doubt,” said the elderly man, speaking in a quiet voice, “You always manage to bring the Rexdom down. But the Uzg never falls with it. Such is the way of the Uruk, Anyhuluz. The strong survive to rule, and the weak die.”

“Enough prattling,” cut in Krathol. “We have business to attend to.” The spirits quieted, looking uneasily around each other.

“I will speak his name then, if you all fear it so much.” said Shezept, smiling lightly. “Ikuras has returned to the spirit realm.”

The pile of bones rattled. “Yes.”

“Then we destroy him.” growled Anyhuluz.

Ogrol’s many mouths grunted. “The trap of the Aenguls was cunningly made. I had not thought he would be able to escape it.”

“Why was he trapped there, and not the accursed realm?” asked Orgon quietly.

“Because the Nether holds the other one. No prison can hold the two of them together.” spoke Krathol.

“This is true,” muttered Anyhuluz reluctantly, “But still, I say we kill him. He is too dangerous, too powerful.”

“I agree.” said Ogrol.

“As do I.” said Shezept.

“You are fools,” said Krathol, rattling the pile of his bones, “You know not the power he can bring.”

“I do very well.” said Shezept, snarling. Her tail rattled with annoyance. “But I do not want to lose my grip on this realm. We have held sway here for the last thousand years while Ikuras was locked away in that prison of his. Why should we give it up now? Why should we give to him souls that we have toiled to gain?”

“I am not surprised you support him,” said Ogrol’s wailing voices, “You were once his greatest servant, Krathol. I know you wish for dominion over us once more. What say you on the matter, Orgon?”

“I say nothing.” said the old starving man. “I once served him, as did all of you. I do not wish to give up my realm, but the price of failure is too high to risk it. Do you forget what he did to Rashar?” The spirits all recollected the fate of the dead spirit of Dread and Foretelling. The spirit had screamed for years. None of those gathered had thought something like that could even be done to a being such as themselves.

“Then it is a majority.” said Anyhuluz. “We kill him.”

“But how?” said Shezept.

“I know not. That is your specialty, betrayer.”

The serpentess chuckled. “This thing is true. Why don’t we contact… Rolfizh. It has been some time since he has had such an offer.”

“You speak of offers,” said Ogrol, “But what do we have to offer him?”

“A place upon this council. He has much desired it for eons.”

Anyhuluz growled. “I will not allow that tuskless slinking maggot on this council. He cannot fight head on, like a true spirit of power.”

Krathol laughed, bones rattling with mirth. “If you hold your honor in such high regard, go kill Ikuras yourself.”

Anyhuluz was silent.

“Or, don’t kill him at all.” said a new voice. The spirits’ heads all snapped to the direction of the new voice. A shaman strode in, purple skinned with tattoos running around his body.

“Zogrocka.” growled Anyhuluz. “Your purpose was finished. You failed to lead the Azogs into war. Leave this place before I destroy you.”

“I no longer fear you, o spirit of malice. I have a higher power protecting me. I believe you were just speaking of him.” spoke Zogrocka, voice filled with amusement.

Anyhuluz glared. “Have you come to inform on us, then?”

“Nay. My master comes with an offer. Think carefully, for this offer will come but once. Think carefully in turn. Ogrol, when was the last time you captured a soul? I imagine quite a long time. Nobody has dared summon you in ages. And Shezept, the Orcs code of honor has all but destroyed your practice. Oh, you still get some magnificent betrayals in the Human land, but they are not as sweet as the Orc betrayals of old, codes of honor smashed to bits over greed and violence. Anyhuluz, you yearn for blood and strife. Who better is a harbinger of strife but the spirit of Fear and Insanity himself? Cannot Ikuras and Anyhuluz help each other?”

Ogrol’s many heads looked thoughtful, if twas possible for faces twisted in agony. Shezept looked troubled, and Anyhuluz looked slightly less angry.

“You know what I say is true. But serve my master, and you will walk the earth again, free. You will devour all the souls you want. You will taste the flesh of your enemies, feel their blood dripping down their face. I know how much you yearn for the destruction of Jevex, Shezept. My master can kill him, you know this. He can help.”

“Let us think upon this.” muttered Shezept.

“No, no thinking. The offer applies now. It will not come again. The decision must be made. War comes.”

“Very well…” said Shezept, serpent’s tail lashing back and forth in anxiety “I will serve Ikuras.”

“As will I.” said Ogrol with a sigh.

“And… I… I too will serve… Ikuras.” Anyhuluz said, muttering to himself after he spoke the words. Zogrocka looked to Orgon. Orgon simply nodded, and Zogrocka then turned to Krathol.

“I will serve Ikuras, as I ever have, Dark Shaman.”

Zogrocka cackled. “Then follow me, honorable spirits. We have work to do.

 

[Tom_Whiteman 949]

            Zhol'Lur, a hunter and no more as others used to see. He met Zogrocka when they turned the adult age of ten. The learning hunter, bloodline of fist, was a very strong kub, so was Zogrocka. The two knew each other for years, the two Orcs being brothers for many years. The Lur stayed a hunter, and a privileged Orc among the Uzg. Zogrocka, how ever, was a clanless Orc, his father could not fight well, his mother was weak and dishonorable. Though Zogrocka grew up to be a very honorable Orc, joining a clan himself after years and years of klomping. He later become a shaman and worgoth, whilst Zhol, remained a hunter. 

            The two Orcs, once very close brothers, grew apart, surprising. Years passed, Zogrocka becoming High Shaman, the most honorable of shamans. He took to his honor, before later being overthrown by Malog'Yar. The purple Orc led a solemn life afterwards, his Orcish traits disappearing as the Shaman took to the more darker forms of his art. Once Zhol heard of this, he refused to fight his long lost brother. The very day he passed his soul onto the ancestral plane, he made a promise, a pact to Zogrocka's spirit, which the hunter will now uphold for the remaining time, until death does its part.

 

            The Lur hunter walks up to the altar where Zogrocka is placed. A solemn tear wanders down the Orc's fat cheek, his eyes laying atop his brother's expired body. He whispers in his ear, "Zogrocka, mi wyll flatz da zpyridtz whu deztruied lat." Zhol then turns, giving a lengthy speech to the brothers attending the ritual to release the Orc's spirit into its belonged realm. The High Shaman, Brunhyldir, lights the body on fire, smoke ascending into the sky as Zogrocka's soul takes its place in the ancestral realm. Zhol turns back to Zogrocka, resting his forehead on the burning corpse, whispering once again, "Mi prumize diz." The then closes the Orc's eyes with his index and middle finger, taking his place in the front of the crowd to watch the once honorable shaman burn peacefully.

 

[Glyc 234]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.