An Unfinished History

[Ilikefooddude 430]

A gasp of fresh breeze swept through the shuttered window of the Uruk’s blarg, setting his assorted crystals to spin and catch the sun prettily on afternoon rays. In the distance, the noises of complaining livestock set the scene with a pleasant business, and the thick reek of manure had long since settled about the walls and rustic furniture of Or’ta’s secluded home. And yet, the young Orc was in no mood to appreciate of the blooming Sun’s Smile day. With a groan, he threw down his bone-carved scalpel and slumped over his workbench.
Gajol, the Uruk thought with a sulk, sending tattered scraps and notes of parchment scattering with a long, tired exhale. He’d been at it for days; toiling over his desk with little reprieve and less success. His was a simple enough premise. With his previous successes in the field, why should this small step be any harder? But that’s where Or’ta found himself; stuck on some unknown formality.
Grumbling, the uruk shuffled his hand through the various crumpled papers that littered his study. He’d hoped to find some form of answer in his teacher’s old lessons, but in truth Or’Ta wasn’t fully certain they held one. Dom had been a wise enough shaman and a half decent mother, if a bit strict, but in matters of bold endeavors like his own she had known little and less. Half heartedly, he swept a suspicious glance over another length of parchment, reading the crude cursive with as much enthusiasm as a studying Uruk could muster.
‘... -n Uruk by the name of Ghorash. Stumbling into my blarg, she pleaded for my help. No Feuruk would find a mate as a cripple, and without her arm there was no hope for the youngest of her cubs. Reluctantly, and without promise, I agreed to the attempt. Her own limb had been lost in the klomp, so I improvised with that of a dead Feuruk I’d preserved from last moon. Despite my doubts, with the aid of Akezo the torn flesh of the woman stitched and fused back together; accepting the new limb no doubt with thanks to the prompting of the well-meaning spirit. The attachment was simple, however several more precise blessings were required to aid Ghorash in her finer motor controls.
Unfortunately, I forgot my limits. Nothing may last forever, and to change and warp flesh is to take control of the fate of nature. The blessing Akezo gave was only temporary, and weeks later the limb grew fetid, and the Feuruk died.’
Grinning, Or’ta held up the parchment reverently; reading the yellowed scrap with a fiendishly pleased glint in his eye. If this could be done, why not more? Beaming with ecstasy, Or’ta shambled to his feet; letting out a sharp, tittering laugh, “Maybe lat’ll live after all, Shara!”
From an old, leather rocking chair by the corner of his blarg, a piteous whimper trailed off. The man Or’ta had gagged and bound was beginning to struggle in his irons. Or’ta snatched his scalpel and slinked forward, beginning to chant.

 

Meanwhile, the Spirits were gathering. The meeting place known as the Traf was shared between the three planes of the Elemental, Immortal and Ancestral Spirits, and the embodiments of each were taking their places around the circular hall in their given sections. The Elementals- the oldest, and most traditional of these beings, took up the north wing, and had arrived long before any of the others. At the meeting they numbered in the in the mere dozens, but in truth their count rivalled that of any of their Immortal or Ancestral brothers; only those of importance, the Greater Elementals, had arrived today, and they scattered their seats in their desired forms as varied as any artist’s palette. There was Skathatch, a flaming wolf which held power over all the Spirits of Fire, who crouched on his hind legs beside his brother Fiazra, the Greater Spirit of Air. Fiazra’s form was that of a brilliant albino hawk, and he gazed over the crowd of spirits with a passive eye. Their counterparts Akathro and Bregthar, of Water and Earth, sat on the opposite ends of the wing and took the shape of a great azure fish and a stalwart desert tortoise. Akathro’s tail swam as a blue puddle in the air, and Bregthar simply sat with a slow, pondering expression spread across his hard features, towering ten feet high and as passive as a mountain.  
The Immortals had packed their seats within moments, and the lesser of their kin were left to squabble back in the Immortal Plane. The greatest of the lot presented themselves in the front row of the south wing, each one representing an aspect of the mortals’ culture. Votar, the giant, bloodied wolf of The Hunt, snapped at his brother Freygoth, who held dominion over all things wild and natural, to quieten, and as the great stag bowed his head the other Immortals fell into place. Wodanaz, a young minor spirit who represented the mortal power of Magic and the Arcane, ducked his way to the front of the crowd, sitting beside his ancient master Theruz, the spirit of Intelligence. Theruz had called the youngling to the meeting specially, for it was he that knew more about the subject they had gathered to discuss than any of the others.

Lastly, the Ancestrals took their seats. These were not like the Elementals or Immortals, who belonged to the realm of the spirits and that realm alone. The Great Sieve, of which none, not even the oldest of the Elementals, knew of its origin, separated the departed souls of dead mortals as they flew into the afterlife. Those of wicked nature passed through, but souls of kindness, honour and renown were offered the opportunity to ascend to Spirithood, and even now a great bulk of these Orcs, Elves, Humans and Dwarves shuffled around the hall, waiting impatiently for the meet to begin.
It was Dom who opened the discussion, sauntering into the middle of the hall with her staff held high at her side. She was the daughter of Krug and his greatest lifemate Grahla, renowned by the Spirits and Mortals as second to only her father himself in terms of her skill in the Shaman’s arts. The stragglers quickly hushed as she brought her staff down upon the sand, grains flying around her toes like soft, golden sprites.
“Bruddahs, somethin’z goin’ down.”
She let her fierce ember eyes settle on the crowd for a moment before continuing, voice stern.
“Latz’ heard ob Khaana’, da fire spirit, agh Staagan, of earth,” The collective murmured softly at the names- some bowed their heads with troubled expressions, while other gritted their teeth or bore their tusks. They had heard.
“Ramakhet joins them.” Dom said softly, her voice sharp like steel on scabbard. The Traf’ erupted.

“Hush!” Boomed Bregthar, setting the north wing trembling with a lurching stomp, “Dom blahz.”
The Feuruk craned out her tusks in thanks, continuing.
“Disappeared like da rest. The Shomo’z heard his screams last moon, agh since then nub’ash has peeped him. Who gruks anything ob dis?”
Wodanaz swished forward, accompanied by a rush of arcane aura. It circled around him slowly like a cloud, hiding his true form deep below. As all eyes turned to him, Theruz spoke up.
“Wodanaz has felt ah change in da mortal’z mojo. Blah, nub’kû.”

“Ah… Ah- Da mortal’z- Da Urukz, dat is-”
“Blah,” Theruz and Dom chorused flatly. The young spirit flinched, falling into another fit of stammering before recovering and beginning again.
“A new mojo haz been birth’d.”
Dom’s brow crinkled. Therus grunted, his pruney features giving it their all to look surprised. Meanwhile, snickers rattled from the depths of the crowd. Wodanaz stood forward, clearing his voice with a crackle of arcane lightning.
“I mean- dat’z what took them. A mortal’z mojo took them.”

[1 1393]

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