Shadows of the Past

[_pok_ 1768]

 

 

 

Drokon stood silently at the head of the ridge facing the entrance of Kamp Ugkil. Before him loomed a long, dimly lit path that wound down the side of a crevice into the common area where members of Ugluk, Lak, and Gorkil all socialized and practiced skills in combat, preparing themselves for the coming battles with their Orcish brethren. A brief smile crossed his face as he watched them from above, his mind drifting to thoughts of battle and glory during the war with Raguk, but his fantasy would quickly be interrupted by a faint purple glow emitting from the path just ahead of him.

Curious and without anything better to do, Drokon moved toward the light with unbreaking attention, captured by the essence of the glow. As he approached, Drokon found himself more and more encaptured by the glow until the light enveloped him and Drokon found himself cross-legged on the ground, his eyes drifting shut as he felt the light engulf his body, a sort of warmth he had not felt in a long time enveloping him.

 

As his eyes opened again, Drokon found himself on a far different plane of existence, his senses slowly returning to him as he rolled about, groggily getting a feel for his surroundings. The night sky, filled with thousands of stars loomed high above him, and he stood in an empty field of tall grass that clawed as high as his shoulders. Turning slowly, the Ugluk searched for any sign of others and not long after his vision had fully recovered, Drokon discovered a thick plume of smoke climbing steadily up into the air. Without any other sort of sign, the young Orc pushed through the grass toward the smoke, the sound of cracking wood and popping embers beginning to fill the air.

With a final push through the grass, Drokon found himself standing at the edge of a circular clearing. The clearing contained a massive fire, the flames seeming to reach right up into the sky itself, even higher than the shadowy clouds hanging above. Large wooden logs surrounded the fire and on either side sat two massive Orcs. One appeared youthful and his build showed obvious signs of obsessive physical training and experience, his hair slicked back into a tall mohawk with battle tattoos and scars covering his body. Drokon found the other to be much older, one of those sorts that one could look at and know that they held a wealth of knowledge. After a moment of brief confusion, Drokon found himself experiencing a feeling of complete and utter understanding without a single word from either of the orcs, as though they had transferred their knowledge to him. “Throm’ka, elders.”

Pok spoke first, the younger of the two elders. “Welcome, kub. We have been wanting to speak to lat for awhile. This wagh presents us with a bub’ozh opportunity to do so. The Raguks are bold, but they do nub gruk their history, Drokon. Lat do. Lat understand the ways of Ugluk. Lat understand that nothing but complete and utter victory will be accepted, nub?”

For a moment, Drokon looked at the elder confused. Did he understand what the Wargoth had just said correctly? Had he really instructed him to do what he believed to have just come out of his mouth? After a moment of processing, the youngest Ugluk responded, “Lat am asking me to do what me think you are, elder?”

The great Wargoth cracked a sort of twisted grin, his hands clawing lightly at the log beneath him, his hand drifting to a golden axe just beside him. He stood, plodded carefully over to Drokon and grasped the younger Orc’s left hand, in his right, Pok placed the heavy, twisted weapon. “This was axe belunged to Ugluk.”  Pok paused and his gaze drifted toward the elder sitting not far behind him who now gazed silently at the pair, a sort of smile on his face, although Drokon could not make it out exactly. The elder’s eyes shifted back to meet those of Drokon, addressing him once again. “After a time it wound up in the hands of my popo, and for a time it was lost again, it was not until after thousands of moons of searching that I found the artifact, just before my flatting. It has a way of becoming lost, this weapon. But none of that matters now, because lat  have it. This is the lusk that I want lat to use to crush the skull of each and every Raguk lat find. For each time lat do, our power grows and the clan Ugluk will only grow stronger from it. Only when the last Raguk is flat can we truly be secure once again. We cannot experience another uprising like the Braduks.”

Drokon stood silently as Pok stepped away, weighing the axe in his hands, shifting it between each one and cutting through the air a couple of times, getting a feel for the blade. He nodded slowly, understanding now what had to be done. Drokon straightened his posture, a bit more confidence flowing through him as he began to speak to his grandfather, “I will finish what lat started, grandfather. I will not rest until the last Raguk’s skull has cracked and will make sure that their corpses are gathered and burned, twice. They say that these Orcs do not die easily, after all.”

The two elders looked to one another, wide and obvious grins crossed their faces. Drokon caught the two doing so, a sort of confusion once again crossing his mind. He moved toward the other elder, a sort of yearning to know more about his lineage. But instead of having his craving satisfied, the elder simply turned to the cub with a horrible cackle piercing the air like knives, “Lat am done ‘ere, kub. Lat understand what lat must do. Now do it.” And with that, Drokon felt himself being pulled from that plane of existence, the light from the fire fading and the thick scent of smoke and ember leaving his nose. Yet that cackle remained, as though his elders mocked him for his lack of knowledge, as though they did not believe that he could accomplish what they had sent him out to do. Drokon promised himself that he would prove those elders wrong, regardless of what they believed.

Cold air seemed to rip at Drokon’s skin like prying hands as he came to once again, the fires of activity within the camp all but snuffed out and most Orcs asleep by now. In the sky above him, he could see the early rays of the sun’s first light. How long had he been gone? How many Orcs had passed him in his otherworldly state? These questions quickly faded from his memory as he looked at his hands, noticing thick cuts in both of his palms, blood trickling slowly from the two cuts. He moved to wipe away the blood, but soon realized it was useless because it simply kept flowing. Standing, Drokon moved to descend the rest of the path to find an Orc capable of shutting the cuts, but his gaze was caught by an item reflecting the moon’s dying light. When he moved to the familiar object, Drokon quickly understood what he had found. He wrapped his hands around the hilt of axe, his blood flowing up and down the thick padded iron hilt. When he pulled one of his hands away, he found that his wound was gone, his palm all but unscathed. After the young bull saw this, he once again felt that understanding he had in front of the fire.

He hoisted the axe up once more and he forgot the awful cold as a sort of warmth washed over him. Somewhere, in that other plane of existence beside the fire the elder’s cackle had yet to cease and the lowest pangs of that horrible laugh still scratched at Drokon’s ears. The fate of the clan had been sealed, and the elders would have their biding done.

[Smaw 2376]

An Orcs Turmoil

 

 

Kharak would be the last of his clansmen to descend into the confines of the Raguk fort, instead choosing to remain above ground for a time, staring at the stars the Raguk so often miss. He slowly removed his stained armour; the result of a raid earlier in the day. He threw it down, himself slumping onto the sand thereafter. The Raguk Wargoth sighed, rubbing his face in a mild irritation. He looked first to the city of the Uruk, and then upward to the mystifying blanket of stars spread across the night sky.

 

The passing of time would spawn a great sense of disturbance within Kharak as he continued to glare upward. He shook it off, rising to his feet and dragging his armour with him, back into the depths of his Stygian home. The wooden lift came to a sudden, creaky halt at the base of the fort. He stepped off, welcomed by the enveloping soot and sound of metal work that filled the air. As he walked the path to his throne, he gestured at the remaining Smiths. They set down their tools, congratulating each other on a day of success as they went their separate ways.

 

The fort fell into an encompassing silence as Kharak sat himself down into his throne, his armour offering the last disturbance as it clashed against the stone floor. Kharak hunched over, resting his elbows upon his knees as he looked along the hallway, taking note of the bubbling lava running through the centre. He rubbed his hand together in idle thought, turning his attention to the chalice sat upon one of the stone arm rests. It was a chalice of elegant design, made of pure gold and encrusted with dazzling sapphires. He rose his left hand to grab at it, swirling around the contents within before taking a swig.

 

The Orc had an unusual penchant for red wine, holding the cup and peering into the swirling crimson colour. As he stared into the cup, that familiar sense of disturbance pervaded his senses once again. Kharak tried to shake it off, taking larger sip of the wine. As he set the cup down, he noticed a strange bubbling within. The wine in the cup began to alter in colouration, turning into a deep purple colour before his very eyes. He shot up, looking around in a hastened manner for anyone or anything that might have been causing it.

 

The fort was empty of company, save for the severed heads surrounding the throne. He looked back into the cup, staring deep into the now settled purple "wine". Suddenly, it began to glow as the world around Kharak began to quiver and detach. The Orc's heart began to beat in rapid anxiety as the very fabric of his existence began to morph before his very eyes.

 

Suddenly, he was immersed in darkness. In every direction, an endless expanse of nothingness.

 

Intervention

 

A small, purple spark formed before Kharak, growing quickly into a blazing fire. The floor beneath became visible, a smooth stoned floor expanding outward in a circle. Beside the flames sat an anvil, the figure of a legless man hunched over it. He rose his hand into the air, striking a hammer against the iron upon the work station.

 

The chime filled the air, heralding the appearance of another Human, unusually muscular and skinless. His bleeding tendons were completely visible, an open display of the inner machinations that made this being so powerful. Kharak inspected him, noticing a metal gauntlet on his hand.

 

They were on either side of the fire, the smithing man looking down at his work, but the skinless man offering Kharak an intense glare. The Orc was completely baffled, but no amount of struggle would assist him in moving. He was helpless, only capable of speaking; somehow more fluently than ever.

“What the **** is happening?” He said to himself, looking between the two.

 

“Settle down.” The man said, looking down to his legless companion with a smirk. “We’re not here to hurt you.” The blacksmith offered no response, continuing to strike at the anvil.

“I-I’ve seen you before.” Kharak remarked, continuing to look between the two in deep anxiety.

“Of course. We’re spirits.”

 

“When did I fall asleep?” Kharak said, settling down slightly as he looked around. The Smith stopped his hammering, a booming voice calling out and filling the void.

“Listen!” It yelled, grabbing at every fiber of Kharak’s attention. He turned his focus back to the skinless man, remaining silent.

 

“You have done so little for your clan.” He remarked, laughing as he spoke.

“What? I’ve done everything for them.” Kharak said in agitation.

 

“Everything but show your strength.” He said, crossing his arms as he seemingly inspected the Orc. “The Raguk have always been weak. A mockery to the Uzg.”

 

“What do you know? The spirits are nothing.” The Orc said in spite, scowling at the man.

 

“I know what you feel. It’s why you started that war with the Ugluk. You’re pathetic. To let those Myrzym die so easily.” Said the man, looking down to his companion.

 

“**** you, Leyd.” Kharak yelled, struggling with a great intensity to move from his stagnant position.

 

“Relax, Wargoth. We have a gift for you.” Leyd said, reaching down with his gauntleted hand to grasp at the blade resting upon the anvil. The reticent Smith leant back, observing the scene before him.

 

Leyd held the blade upward with both hands, running his unprotected hand along the blade as it cut at his flesh.

 

“Destroy them.” The spirit said, the void shaking and contorting just as the real world had done, the men disappearing before Kharak as the flame went out.

 

The Wargoth awoke to find himself slumped in the throne, the chalice beside him, wine spilt along the floor. He followed the trickle of wine, leading to the sight of a lonesome blade, laid out along the floor.

 

[Travista 1361]

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Frpj01yDK5Y

 

The bonfire roared angrily, coughing forth a thick cloud which bore a great contrast to the orange sky. Maneuvering his large frame around the logs of willow and the limbs of Raguks he curtly excused himself, shoving his flagon of grog, which oddly flared with a purple tint, into the hands of Tawdnug’Lak before stumbling off as his kin frenzied to stuff the fire in their own stupor.

 

Glancing upwards, Shreck’Lak muttered a curse directed at the heavens, which was now stained black, and continued to follow the feeling which had engrossed him, though something was off. He had the will of a thousand gators but it was overwhelming, welcoming even, too. Toppling over to his side, at the mouth of an expansive bog, his eyes shut, his will razed by a great force.

 

Then he awoke, surrounded by swampland. It shared characteristics with Laklul’s realm, excluding the mosquitoes which inhaled greedily at his clammy skin. Zaphen, the spirit of insects, had long been subjected by Laklul in his conquest against Arwa, the spirit of fertility. Why would Laklul’s subordinates attack his greatest champion? Who was Shreck to question Laklul, however? He dismissed his thoughts, bellowing out Laklul’s name to garner his attention; he knew well that this was just another delegation upon clan Lak.

It was brief. A hulking shrine in Arwa’s name layed prettily upon the flank of the Raguk throne room. Laklul was enraged; his voice thundered throughout the swamp, shaking the entirety of the spiritual plane as Shreck’s connection was expeditiously severed.

 

Though brief, though slurred with anger, his words were clear.

 

“Lat must flat them all, Shreck. Club the insolence of these vile dogs from existence!”

 

Upon dawn he awoke, both hands groping a gnarled, brutish club.

 

 

 

 

 

[the 1 bow 1112]

 

 

 

The great Warlord Kahn’Braduk paced across the sands, a push of wind catching his lions mane of hair, causing his war braid that stretches down beyond his lower back to fly up and drape over his shoulder. Kahn’s infamously enormous figure pushed the flaps of his tent open and ducked as he entered, taking a seat on his ornate towering wooden chair.

 

Things were being set in motion, several old Braduks had returned and after receiving an omen in the form of the mark of the Blood Talon, Kahn knew his destiny. The path of the Great Rhino would be fulfilled by the Iron Rhino. It was with initial reluctance Kahn thought, that he must exterminate the Ugluks. He had sincere remorse in response to his actions, the vast, brutal slaughter of Drokon’Ugluks family. Yet, the time for this remorse was over. After hearing of the false claims that they had fabricated about their history, the Rhino Lords had had enough. Kahn’s firey red eyes, spawned of his devotion to Enrohk, held a primal rage signature only to his bloodline.

 

Kahn glared at the Hammer of Braduk, the Zpidhammah. Its unique carvings on its stone head caught the light of the blazing wooden logs that acted as a fireplace in the Warlord’s tent. Depictions of rhinos, ravens, wolves and moons, the symbols of the ancient Braduks. Such an awesome weapon, wielded by all the Braduk chieftains. The former Rex’s head tilted, focusing in on the words “Reaf Ad Hiron” plastered across the front face. It was the ancient tongue of the Braduks, Ot’pezak, it meant ‘Fear the Rhino’. But… the words began to deform, changing from a stone engrave into a splint of bright light. It’s ominous glow slowly changed into that of a purple hue. Entranced, Kahn leant forward, going to wrap his tree trunk like fingers around the light. It suddenly sparked, dazing the huge Orc and clouding his vision, and before he knew it he was ensconced in eternal darkness.

 

As his eyes opened, he immediately knew where he was, for he had been here before. The reddish, bloodied, gore-filled wasteland that stretched out before him was endless, with corpses constantly piling up. A gutteral metallic laugh echoed in the space around Kahn, and then he saw him. A giant armoured bastard wielding a greatsword, with blood and literal guts drenching its plates. It stood hundreds of meters in the air, and each step quaked the ground. Enrohk.

 

“KAHN OF THE CLAN BRADUK.” The voice thundered, seeming to shake reality itself. Kahn was used to dwarfing everyone he had encountered. For the first time in his life, he felt small. “YOU ARE NOT FULFILLING YOUR DUTY. BLOOD HAS YET TO BE SPILLED.”

 

“Give me time to prepare, I am no fool, I do not charge absent a plan.” The Iron Rhino retorted. Enrohk emitted a violent roar that split into every fibre of Kahn’s being.

 

“YOU HAVE MY BLESSING. YOU ARE MY FAVOURED SON. YET YOU SIT AND PLAN LIKE A HUMAN. I DEMAND BLOOD. I DEMAND GORE.” Enrohk brought his greatsword back swung through the air. As the giant blade sliced through the air, it seemed to cut through reality, exposing the greater spirit realms. It then reached Kahn, and then, darkness.

 

Kahn awoke again, in a less aggressive setting. An empty savannah esque field expanded all the way to beyond the horizon. The Warlord looked around, eventually seeing a campfire, and beside it, a particularly large Orc and a large raven covered in purple feathers with slick ivory horns protruding from either side of its head. Kahn knew who they both were. The Orc, was Braduk. The raven, the Blood Talon. It was he, or a representation no less. The legendary Orc, ascended to Krug. Mokrag.

 

Braduk stood up and greeted Kahn. They shared a similar appearance, dark skin, long hair, although through the various cobwebs of bloodlines, Kahn was physically bigger, yet he stood before quite possibly the greatest tactical mind in Orcish history. Always ten steps ahead, Braduk knew what you were going to do before you thought of doing it.

 

“Kahn. I never knew these Ugluk pups. But they have defaced my name and the names of my descendents. You all sent them to extinction once before, and that was in a time when those in their clan were somewhat notable. Now, they are all cubs, greener than grass.” Braduk placed a hand on Kahn’s shoulder. “Kill them all.” The fabled ancestor then pointed Kahn in the direction of the horned raven. It let out a squawk, that sounded more like a roar. It’s eyes glowed purple.

 

“Mokrag..” Kahn muttered.

 

“You wanted to seek peace with the Bulls. Admirable, but mistaken.” The raven said, no sound came from it yet Kahn heard its voice. “They have twisted our history, made up lies about me. Everyone of them must die. Every Orc Feroc and Cub. Ghazkull lead the charge, and you finished the job. Now, it is time for you to complete the task again. You were born to.”

 

Those last words repeated in Kahn’s head. “You were born to...You were born to...You were born to…” A piercingly bright light blinded Kahn, and then he snapped back to reality. The long lost Mace of Mokrag sat in his grip, as he still sat in his chair.

 

Fear the Rhino

 

 

[LaCabra (Soda) 1519]

 

 

 

 

 

Thump-thudda-thump-thudda-thump. 

 

A cloud of dust trails a lone rider atop a dense brown boar, speeding through the flat sandy plains of the uzg. The sun beats down on the olive green figure's thick skin, though he pays no mind to it. His blue eyes are narrowed in determination as he rides across the desert, over dunes and past cactus, though always underneath a merciless hazy sky.

 

Thump-thudda-thump-thudda-thump.

 

His mission was an important one; war had just broken out - brother against brother, clan against clan. The ancestors would frown upon this, the blood of kin is not meant to be so easily spilled. He had friends on both sides of the dispute, an ancient friendship and duty rooted in the Ugluks, and a camaraderie with the Raguks that was built through hard work and battle side by side. Grothmar's mission was to disallow any other clans joining in and raising the stakes of the war, to prevent this from becoming a nation-wide feud. On this hot day, he was riding to the Braduk-lands, seeking the company of Kahn and Lukra in attempt to persuade them against fighting. The sun continued to beat down on the olive-skinned orc.

 

Thump-thump-thump...

 

The steady beat of hooves on the sand slowed down, Grothmar's steed slowing inconveniently in the desert sun. It was a reliable animal, one he had ridden with constantly. A faithful ally and companion, this boar was. The boar's slowing was an oddity, something that had never happened before. "Ztrange..." thought Grothmar. Before long, the animal stood completely still. Grothmar drew breath slowly, his gaze drifting across the desert in search of perhaps an enemy or something that would be alarming the animal.

 

Thump-thudda-thump-thudda-thump.

 

Grothmar's heart began to beat quick and heavy, his body tensing as the boar squealed and reared up its hooves in terror. Nothing had made the beast act this way before in his entire time knowing it. Something was wrong. Clinging onto its back, Grothmar held on with all of his might. Suddenly, it reared with too much force, slipping onto its side and pinning Grothmar under its weight. "ZKAH!"

 

Thump.

 

Everything went black.

 

"Grothmar..."

 

A sound filled Grothmar's ears, a translucent whisper, sourceless and empty. He could see nothing, despite opening his eyes. The whisper rang in his ears, and slowly his vision returned. Smoke, purple smoke and dim red eyes were all that the orc could see. Faint and distant, wine-red eyes, those of Gorkil, peered at him hauntingly through the blackness.

 

"Grothmar... You know who we are... You are of our blood... Why do you choose to avoid the shedding of weaker blood? We are disappointed in you..."

 

Grothmar began to raise his voice in protest, but the voices struck at him immediately.

 

"Do you challenge the wisdom of your ancient kin?!"

 

Grothmar was silenced by the bitter sting of the voices, filled with shame at their accusation.

 

"Good... The blood, let it spill... Let the weak will fall and the strong stand tall..."

 

The orc hung his head shamefully, the faces of many of his friends, both Raguk and Ugluk filling his thoughts. The purple smoke dissipated and the the faces disappeared as Grothmar recalled that is an unwise orc who disobeys the will of his ancestors, his people. At this, Grothmar woke from his vision, the sun still beating down on him. His boar was calmed now, standing obedient and firm in the sand. Grothmar rode back for Mount Gorkil.

 

Thump-thudda-thump-thudda-thump.

 

The beat of wardrums thrums constantly through the desert air.

 

War has arrived. Death is on its way.

[Goldrim 1422]

(( Just wanted to hop in and say this is an excellent RP thread, +1 enjoyable read paired with custom imagery. ))

[Publius 4098]

(Legit coming in and seeing this is pretty inspiring, I've never seen a legitimate RP thread this unheated and so vivid. Had to plus one each after reading. Stuff like this makes me want to lay an Orc really badly, and I'm sure gives many a point of reference RP wise to see Orcs are up for more than just raiding.)

[Man of Respect 5471]

 

 

 

 

Eath'Lur stood upon the entrance of the Rex's palace, watching the empty Uzg on the silence of the night, feeling the soft breeze of the wind hit against his skin, refreshing his soul, thinking of the Uzg from the very moment he ascended to Rexdom; for many nights, he haven't slept, worried about the Uzg. It was no time for feast or fun or raiding, but for a war between clans.

 

It didn't take long before a stormy rain took place, the orc looked above him before returning inside the palace, going to take a seat upon his throne. He was tired, and perhaps, it was time for a little nap... as soon as the orc closed his eyes, it didn't take long for him to hear a thunder echoing through the skies, as rain began to strike his skin. He slowly opened his eyes, gazing towards the sky... something was wrong.

 

There was no roof.

 

Nothing.

 

But ruins.

 

Tiredly, the orc raised to his feet, looking at the dark clouds that loomed on the skies. Skulls and somehow impaled skeletons were evident things, It seemed that nature had taken over the place, so the orc walked slowly and tiredly outside of the palace just to see more ruins and destruction. In the distance, dark smoke would sip from the sand and ascend to the skies, as craters with a burning, black fire would be clear across the desert and the many plateaus. There was no hope, no life.

 

A loud thunder struck the ground infront of the orc, breaking the agonizing vision, his senses slowly going back to normal. Sunlight entered the palace, the orc would slowly walk outside of the palace to see a few orcs, and after making a few assumptions, the Rex tought it was some sort of the vision, given only and only to him.

 

Something has to be done to stop the war.

And now.

 

 

Spoiler

it was just a dream

 

[Catarrh 720]

   

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

Just east of the goi, at the foot of the totem of Yar, the Wargoth and wise shaman, Malog'Yar, sat cross-legged with his eyes closed in meditation. A single, continuous, deep hum could be heard coming  from the back of his throat. At his sides, his mate, Durah, and his daughter, Nurena, sat, threading sharpened bone needles in and out of his skin, as if stitching up some nonexistent wound. At his feet sat a bowl of cactus green mixed with various herbs and mushrooms from which rose a foul-smelling smoke. He was thinking; meditating in hopes of an answer. The war had barely begun, and orcs were questioning him concerning his stance on the matter.

 

On one hand, he understood the perspective of the Ugluks. The whole thing seemed like a foolish misunderstanding which the Raguks had senselessly blown out of proportion. On the other hand, he understood the Raguks' attachment to their mounts. Orcs commonly formed such bonds. Furthermore, he'd heard the Braduks had joined their cause. He could never stand it: this hatred between Ugluks and Braduks. He'd served both in life, but he knew he'd be asked to pick a side one day. The black and white paint had begun to run from his face as it mingled with his sweat in the brutal heat of the day. Then, he felt it.

 

A powerful, bone-shaking, mind-rocking resonance from the center of his being, far deeper than anything so shallow as the mind or the heart. This came from the very core of his spirit; from beyond his mortal conscience. Soon, it happened again, and again, each time blackening his vision. Before long, he found all his world to be a pitch-black emptiness. For what felt like hours, there was nothing, until he finally heard the rattling and clacking of bones; thousands of bones. Then, came vision.

 

Before him stretched a vast battlefield. Orcs of all variation struggled in brutal combat, their eyes full of hate. At the far end of the field, approached one orc far greater than the rest. On his back, he wore a cloak made from an innumerable collection of dry bones, filling the air with the clamorous sounds of their tapping and thumping together, and drowning out all other sounds. The great orc's face was firm, stoic, and wise, yet simultaneously disdainful. In his hand, he held something with which he is rarely depicted: the Flail of Yar. Without even a hint of remorse, the great orc raised his weapon, and slung it down into the middle of the battlefield, the long chain rattling almost as loudly as the bone cloak. Those caught in its devastating path were instantly dashed to pieces, and as Yar marched, several smaller orcs collected the bones of the slain for his cloak.

 

"Patience is not inertia." a voice rang through Malog's head, full of judgement. "The time for neutrality is over. Choose a side! Be an orc!!!"

 

"A side..." Malog mouthed in reply, though no voice actually came out.

 

"No good father will tolerate his children's disobedience. Make a decision! Choose a side! Be an orc!!!" the voice commanded again.

 

Soon after this, the ground beneath Yar rose up, and he stood upon the shell of a great duhnah skhelll tortoise. As the beast opened wide its gaping maw, the entirety of the battlefield was consumed thereby, including Malog whose vision then became black again for several hours until he awoke in his clan lands. The whole world seemed to rock back and forth for a minute or two, as he returned to consciousness. The two feorcs attending him in his meditation had evidently fallen asleep, as he'd been in his trance for many hours. He turned to face the totem, and at its base saw the flail from his vision. He stood, approached the totem, and took the weapon in his hand.

 

It was a cruel device. The chain was somewhat longer than most, and the head was oppressively heavy, clearly designed for smashing bone as well as splitting flesh. Along the hilt were carved the various runes and symbols of many spirits, and a pair of bones dangled from the pommel. The words of Yar pounded through his head, "Be an orc!!!" He sat down with the weapon in his hands until sunrise. He admired it in all its detail, yet something seemed inexplicably off about it. Something seemed wrong.

 

[_pok_ 1768]

Blood and guts dotted the heavily eroded path that weaved endlessly beyond the horizon, stretching deep into the desert and twisting back again toward the lands of those other descendents who had no place in this conflict. Aside from this terror, hulking bodies lined either side of the road, some missing limbs and heads. Those with heads lacked scalps, those with hands lacked fingers, and those with legs lacked any sort of feet or toes. Whoever had done this clearly did so out of an unspeakable hatred, one that ran so deep that it can only be spoken about in hushed whispers otherwise the wrath of such a feud could be unleashed.

 

-----------

 

The Lusk of a Dozen Bulls, the axe which Pok trusted the Orc to hold, rested flatly at Drokon’s side. The head of the axe appeared brown and rusted, though a careful examiner would find that this brown came as a result of drying blood, not rust and wear. This would become abundantly clear upon inspection of the edge of the blade from which small droplets of blood fell onto the ground that it laid on top of.

 

Master of the Ugluk’s Axe, Drokon sat cross-legged atop a mountain of bloodied armor, weapons, and twisted limbs of red and green. Blood still covered large parts of his body, his Mryzym hide helmet drenched in the blood of its former masters. The young bull’s breathing came to a sort of crawl, breaths pouring out only when it was absolutely necessary. Once again, Drokon felt himself drenched in a purple hue and soon he felt warm, the cackle of his ancestor returning to his ears as though he had never left, the smell of the smoke from the fire once again filling his nostrils. Embers bit at his skin again and he found himself sitting down this time.

The elder of the two, who he had come to understand to be Ugluk himself, examined the young Orc up and down. When Drokon attempted to find his bearings once again, he discovered that the axe given to him by Pok was still clipped to his side, just as he had done before leaving this realm the first time. Nearly as soon as he came to this realization, Ugluk suddenly began to speak, his voice shattering the air around them, his words hitting the ear like a hammer swung by a great blacksmith.

“Lat have done well, young one. Lat spilt the blood of the Rhino once again and brought forth the furry of our clan. Those Myrzym skahers did not know what to expect, you cut them down easily. It made your grandfather proud, it made me proud.” Ugluk paused a sort of grin washing over his well aged face, his mouth twisting once again as he spoke once more, “But Lat are not done yet. One victory, one battle does not bring about the end of the war. Lat have not done your job, they are still very much alive and very much willing to fight. Lat must crush this will, break their backs over one another. Crush them, Drokon. Bring them to their knees then cut off their heads, do not show mercy.”

Drokon nodded slowly, his hand moving to the axe resting at his side. The young bull cracked a smile, a great amount of satisfaction and pride swelling up inside of him. This pride was the last feeling that the Orc felt while in the realm of his ancestors, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and his world going dark.

[the 1 bow 1112]

 

 

"Dont make me destroy you." - Wargoth Kahn'Braduk

 

 

Cries of agony and pleas for mercy filled the desert air on this day. In a systematic culling both those of the Ugluk and Lak clans were slain, their appeals for kindness fell on deaf ears. But it was not only the Orcs who suffered. It was their mounts. The heads of dozens of bulls can be found scattered around the desert, at the foot of the empty Rex's throne, delivered to the Ugluk fort, or left to bleach in the sand in a pile of their own waste. Blood demands blood, and the till would be filled and then some.

 

 

 

 

Stepping past the threshold, leaving the mighty Doomfort under construction of the Braduks, Wargoth Kahn'Braduk, adorned in his battle armour stood flanked by the hulking Ghazkoth and the insane Drax. A sight to behold, the three giant Orc's set out, their goal, blood. One thing the Ugluks would be certain of by now after centuries of being hunted by the Braduks, they always came in threes.

 

As they passed across the desert, shades of times past, Braduk slaughtered Ugluk, Rhino slaughtered Bull. Scalps were taken and added to the collection, cut away by the infamous Ugluk Hair Parter. But it wasnt enough. Kahn knew it was his destiny to end the lies. The Ugluks only existed today because he allowed it, and now, he would become their doom.

 

--------------------------------------

 

Braduks and Raguks stood shoulder to shoulder, the Rhino Lords and Unbroken Vanguard clambering for gore. And they would have it. Unfathomable amounts of casualties, Ugluk and Lak lines were simply swept away. Drokon'Ugluk could only watch, before disappearing into the unknown, something that seemed to be a common occurrence. The Iron Rhino took to a high perch, and spoke to the warriors gathered before him.

 

"Ah blah tu mi Bradukz, bud lat Ragukz kan here mi wordz foh dey karreh true.

 

Da Uglukz zpin kountlezz liez. Dey blah dat ad da height of dere power, dey hahd thirteh Urukz in dere rankz. 

 

Diz iz ah lie.

 

Dey blah dat dey beat da Bradukz tu near ekztinktion.

 

Diz iz ah lie.

 

Dey blah dat Mokrag kame tu him agh azked tu leave da Ugluk klan.

 

Diz iz ah lie.

 

Dey blah dat Mokrag iz dizapointed in uz, agh haz zided wid da Uglukz.

 

Diz, iz ah lie.

 

Da pup Drokon iz ah kompulzive liar. Agh heh wil beh dealth wid akkordingleh. Weh wil zend him ekztinkt, like weh zent hiz anzeztorz ekztinkt. Dat iz, if heh duznt run ohr dizapear each tik." The speech was followed with uproarious laughter, yet Kahn held his reserve. A voice called to him, faint yet clear.

 

 

"Good...good. The Ugluks are running scared. Finish the job, send them to extinction once agin.

You were born to."

 

 

Fear the Rhino

 

 

[herculean_wud 3662]

Chef Wud applauds his brethren, yearning to join in with the conflict; though he cant, he's still locked in FiatLux's Basement Prison. . .Sad Chef Wud 

[CosmicWhaleShark 2488]

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

The scar was faded, barely registering on the calloused palm, it had been decades ago after all. Perhaps nearly a century now, it was difficult to keep track. A thin, pale line inflicted by a dagger, to certify a blood oath all those years ago.

 

With each spirit walk, Phaedrus always found himself stealing a glance at that palm, tracing its shape with his thumb during the ritual prior. 

 

"Where would I be now... Had it not been for them, I wonder."

 

It would be the first scar to mark his loyalty, but more would follow as he grew into his own among them. He would share their victories, he would share their defeats, both their glory, and their shame. Eventually, not merely sharing them, but leading them to supposed triumph and honor.

 

"Why now... They have already fallen so far."

 

The brand of the duhnah skhell in contrast to his marked palm, still held its form, its pale color against his dark skin. He was as much a Yar, as he ever was before. 

 

You despair.

 

I cannot get dragged into this, again.

 

Now doesn't seem any different, from all the times before.

 

I have learned my lesson finally. I meddle too deeply, get too involved.

 

Nothing lasts forever, Golug.

 

I stand to lose too much, if I go now. Opportunity, progress, her.

 

You do not think you can win, then, if you are weighing the risks only now.

 

I do not think I can stretch myself any further.

 

Your time among them has weakened you. You may be strong, yourself, but your will has dulled. I remember you differently.

 

What can I possibly even accomplish in this situation?

 

You can honor your oaths. They rely on you to. They hope you will.

 

Only for me to leave again, once it is over?

 

It is more than what you stand to provide, now.

 

This is not a shaman's fight.

 

But it is a Yar's.

 

It is a Yar's...

 

 

 

 

 

[Ilikefooddude 430]

Spoiler

44 Seconds.
https://youtu.be/jRLOwUZBQO8?t=44

 

 

Trembling, shuddering, flattening, faltering, the howl tore through the depths of the Farseer's mind, reverberating off the chilled bone corners of his skull. Aching joints and torn thoughts rattled in complaint as his world span on in agony, writhing in chaotic freedom. A scene rumbled into being from the precipices of the world, rushing into place like the mechanization of some great construct. It arrived before him as his legacy.

Nothing was left but the embers and coals of dead hellfire.

Eternal battlegrounds clambered away to the horizon, the ground a once white robe perverted by gorestains. The realm split in parallel reflection at its edges; suddenly there was the sky, holding its own endless satin-cloth darkness overhead.

The Shaman's gaze snapped down to the scene behind him. It cackled.

 

"I'm pleased, Thurak."

 

"Pleased."

He echoed in disgust.

 

"Sated, almost."

 

"Not yet."

 

"Never."
Krathol clacked, his wings spreading out wide. Encompassing the warzone in shadow, the ghastly bones bore the remains of the great Vulture's flesh clinging to withered tendons. They were featherless, skinless expanses, bulging in places while in others being devoid of all- These holes allowing the Farseer to gaze through at the blackness of the cosmos above like gaps in a curtain. The Great Spirit hissed, tearing at another patch of this flesh with his scavenger's beak. He downed it with lurid relish.

 

"You feed me, Thurak."

 

"They feed you, Krathol."

 

"You all do."

 

Thurak knew where he was. He knew it by the smell- By the scent, by the hue, by the ambient screams, screeches, shrieks, all were ingrained in His realm- The dastardly one. The one Thurak had never known or cared to 'till now. He knew he was here.

Krathol's Plane.

 

"They want to speak to you, Farseer."

 

"Wh-"

 

Then, it all cracked.

There was a split- A tear, a death of all that was around him, and then again his world returned.

In front craned the faces of the old.

The Dead.

The Ancestors.

They smiled grimly, yellowed teeth and ivory tusks straining into the bleak resemblance of a welcoming expression.

And, slowly, they began to chant.

 

"AGH ULU SKAAT'UGA,

GLAZAGH'UGH AGH NAR'GOTL.
 

LUK'Z OB DOM,

LUK'Z OB OR'TA,

LUK'Z OB IXLI.

GRISH AGH MATUM,
 

STAAT'UGA- NAAN NAR OB GRISH'ULUB.

ULU KRAMP'UGA

NAR GRISH UR ULUB KU KRANKUKZ."

 

This was wrong.
This wasn’t just a battle.
Wasn’t just a war.


“This is the Precursor.”