The Cog still grinds

[PraiseTheLord 868]

[!] A tune fills your mind. . .

 

THE COG STILL GRINDS

[Forums are scuffed, no image.] 

[X] A Ragukian warrior, angered upon hearing news.

The sun screened across the desert’s landscape, calming in it’s afternoon haziness, yet it’s calm ambience was overridden by the thumping of sabatons, and the wrapping of chains. Krukleyd’Raguk, son of Wargoth Leydluk’Raguk, was dropped before a pit of flame. His brawl against a duo of uruks had brought him down low.

 

Golden pupils focused on the Rex, and the ork felt the razoring of an axehead scraping across his neck, hanging dormantly and awaiting the Rex’s -of whom stood before Krukleyd now-, orders. The Ragukian, however, did not see fit to abide to orders, nor did he see fit to die chained.

 

“Murak’Gorkil, Rex of Krugmar. I have lived a life many consider dishonorable, yet allow me to do this; allow me death in combat, as Leyd would have sought it, an Honorable death. Repent.”

Murak agreed swiftly, they were placed in the arena of which the bricks were first placed by slaves.

As the Bloodsmith flicked his eyes across the vast architecture of the structure, he came to a realization, and understanding. This was to be his final moments. If he emerged the victor, he would be maimed for being a whitewash. There was only one exit; that of the afterlife.

“I march on my way to the Gates of Kor, and already I hear the cackling from the Death-wolf. My axe, in life, was sharp, but it will be sharper in the halls of Leyd! However, my Ragukian brothers will not receive such a pleasantry, as their swords are sharpened to the tune of my death! To the tune of wagh!”

 

This was followed by cries of war, and fists cascading against flesh. Krukleyd began strong, grappling the Rex and delivering a hailstorm of blows to the jaw; yet his brash rage would be his undoing. A technique of art, Murak slipped from his grip and delivered a strike to the temple, collapsing the Ork.

 

As he peered down onto the setting sun, with dusk’s first stars blooming over his physique and chrome tattoo’s, he would only manage a bloody cough; and bloody were the words that followed before his death, aswell:

“Bahaha. . . The cog still grinds, brothers. . . The cog still grinds!”

[herculean_wud 3662]

Leydluk clenched his fist, sat high and mighty upon his throne of skulls. Imp had brought him the news: it was news he feared, given the nature of his son. In a sense, he was a relieved, for it was one less Raguk to endure the drudgery of such a time and one more for the halls of Leyd’s realm. But then again, he was an ork, and blood would be had:

 

 

“Blood will be had.

Blood for da blood Frum;

Ang Gund Griish!”

 

 

He pounded his chest and looked to a new Raguk amid his ranks: Butrakh’Raguk – a young but fearless Olog warrior of formidable proportions.

“Da tik am nub right, not yet, but soon it shall Butrakh, and when Leyd shows me that it is, hot fury shall be rained down upon these cowards.”