A Gorkil's Retirment

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The smell of beef stew wafted from the Gorkil clan hall, the light from the cooking pit from inside the hall illuminating the darkening streets outside. Inside, the cooking pit blazed, its flames licking the bottom of a cast iron pot and beginning to turn it orange under the careful hand of the leopard-wearing Uruk Nazark’Gorkil, who tended to the fire like it was his own baby. With one hand he prodded the fuel in the fire with a long iron rod, and with the other he used a ladle quickly stir the viscous mixture, never letting the assorted chunks of beef and potatoes sit still for more than a few seconds. He sat there in silence, the streets outside barren, and the only sounds around being the crackling of the fire and the sound of the stew sloshing around in the charcoal colored pot. Nazark had been so intently focused on the fire and his dinner that he had not even noticed that a rather short red skinned Uruk-his Wargoth, Vagud- had stepped into the hall and was watching him stir the stew until he let out a raspy cough after several seconds, causing Nazark’s hand to jerk back, causing the cauldron to slosh around and swing on its hook, a few drops of the broth spilling onto the cracked stone ring and sizzle from the intense heat. He quickly let go of the ladle, leaned back so he was out of the way of the pot, and turned toward the entrance.  “Mi did nub egzpekt to ged heeyur zo fazt.” The red Uruk said, taking a few more steps into the hall.

 

Nazark’s eyebrows furrowed and he cocked his head to the side. “Wub doez lat mean?” He asked confusedly, scooting over slightly so he was further out of the trajectory of the red hot cooking pot. And as soon as Nazark said that, a loud shriek came from outside, followed by a small brown hawk swooping down to the ground and landing near the entrance to the hall, a tiny note emblazoned with the Gorkil insignia-the dark red face of a war boar-was tied to its right leg.

 

Vagud glanced back at the hawk for a quick second and shrugged. “Mi zent a bird to give lat a mezzage to meet me heeyur. Bud...well, lat wuz ulredeh heeyur, to mi zurprize.” He glanced over at the roaring fire curiously, the dancing tongues beginning to turn a faint blue.

 

Nazark nodded. “Ah. Well would lat like zome grub? Mi wuz juzd makin mizelf zome dinner.” He gestured to the pot, which was still swinging slightly, but by this point mostly stayed above the fire. Vagud held up his and and shook his head.

 

“Rulg, but nub. Mi haz zumtin mi wunz to dizcuzz wiv lat.” The Wargoth said tersely and sat down on the wooden bench across from Nazark. Without a moment lost, he continued on. “Mi haz…” He starts, but almost immediately falters, shifting around in his seat for a second, before finally continuing. “Mi will zpare lat duh detailz agh keep diz zhort. Mi planz to ztep down az Waghgoff. Would lat be willin to take mi plaze?” He asks in an even keeled voice, his eyes trained directly on the leopard wearing Uruk across from him.

 

The gray skinned Uruk blinked, obviously caught off guard by the comment. The room sat in silence except for the now bubbling stew and the loud crackle of the fire for what felt, to them, like years, Vagud’s eyes trained completely on Nazark’s face, watching every tiny facial movement he could for some idea of what he was thinking, until finally, Nazark spoke.

 

“Ov courze.”

 

---

 

Thirty minutes later, night had truly set in and the sun had dipped down past the multicolored clay mountains that surrounded San’Torr, the only light on the plateau coming from the fire in the the horned building the Gorkils called home. Vagud dropped a bloody dagger onto the ground near the fire pit, and Nazark grimaced, trying to hold in his groans as his hand bled from Vagud’s lacerations. With the patience and steadiness of an archer, Vagud had carefully carved an oval and two curved lines into the newly initiated Wargoth’s callused right palm, the. “Nazark, wiv Krug, Gorkil, Angbad, Mogroka, agh ull ov latz agh mi’z anzeztorz az our witnezz, mi zhall beztow upon lat duh title of Waghgoff.” The crimson skinned Uruk boomed, his voice echoing throughout the mesa.

 

Nazark slowly peeled his eyes away from his bloodied hand and up to Vagud. He opened his mouth, but then quickly shut it, unsure of what to say in this situation. The comparatively short Gorkil glanced back down at the carvings in Nazark’s hand and let out a small sigh. Diz iz tradizionally a tattoo, but mi doez nub gruk how to make doze yed.” He mutters, quickly expecting his handiwork. The ceremony was done with little to no fanfare, just the two of them, a dagger, blood, all topped with the savory smell of stew and the sharp, distinctively metallic scent of blood due to the streams of blood pouring from Nazark’s hand and onto the ground and the fire pit next to them. “Id iz called duh Ojutai. Id iz a tattoo given to Gorkilz that have bikom Waghgoff ur even Rexez.” He glanced down at his own right hand and the crescent moon that had been carved into it when he had been initiated into Gorkil and smiled weakly.

The traditional Ojoutai tattoo

 

Nazark looked down at his still bleeding hand, the shining crimson red pooling on top of the much more subdued red floor they were on. “Mi likez it. It’z like tradizional Gorkil mutilazhun.” He said, pride creeping into his voice, beaming as he admired the intricate carving on his hand. The careful strokes of the dagger had been precise enough to have mostly avoided the bones, and the widened gashes around the center and tapered off at the edges of the lines that worked to make the make-do tattoo look as similar to an actual Gorkil tattoo’s thick, calligraphy-like style.

 

The former Wargoth popped a tiny smile, a tiny hint of pride in his eye from his handiwork. “Well, mi Waghgoff,” he says humbly, bowing his head in respect to his new Wargoth. “Mi zhould go agh alert duh rezd ov duh Waghgoffz. Iz dere anytin lat needz ov me bivor mi leavez?” Nazark simply shook his head, his eyes staring off into the distance. “Nub...Nub, dat iz all.” He mumbled.

Vagud picked the dagger up off the floor and bowed his head in reverence to Nazark. “Den gug’ye, mi Waghgoff. Mi will make zure dat newz ov diz iz zpread far agh wide.” He exclaimed and turned toward the entrance, stepping out into the cool night and heading straight to the Citadel, with orders for the news of Gorkil’s new Wargoth to be spread to every corner of Krugmar and beyond.

[L0rdLawyer 2272]

Hu-din grunts as he walks off, hearing the news of the new Wargoth. "Da uld wuz bub'hozh, da new uz bub'hozh."

[_Jandy_ 3519]

Nazark'Gorkil would begin his appointment of Wargoth by searching for his clansmen to celebrate with them and he would also search all likely places for clanless orc who may be worthy of the great clan. Gorkil will once again achieve its former glory by his leadership, he had sworn it to all who would listen, those who wouldn't and the spirits.

[Guest]

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

 

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