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[PK] The Death of an Uruk

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Keshig Mograh’Yar watched from an archer’s nest in Helena as battering rams and trebuchet shots peppered the gates. Humans stood in the distance, the size of ants, trying to bust into this city that she might have decided to burn herself had it not been the circumstances. She wasn’t sure why she was on the side that she was on, but her government and her gods had guided her to this point, so she fought with zeal despite her utter indifference to the conflict. She nocked arrows and fired blindly at the swarming humans, their forms becoming larger as they approached the keep and scrambled over rooftops to reach her nest. Cursing, she lined up a shot for her newfound opponents only to hear the whistle of a heavy stone being chucked through the air by a trebuchet. Before she knew it, her armored form was flung from the nest and into a recess between homes. As she hit the ground, managing to tenuously do so on her feet, she heard and felt a snap in her ankle. She didn’t care to figure out what had happened, her only interest was survival so she called incessantly to be freed by ladder.

 

The day waned on as no-one came to the Fe-Uruk’s aid. However, someone did find their way into her prison of rubble- an Orenian. He swung at her from above, jabbing down with his blade but only scratching her across her betusked face. Roaring in fury, she slammed her mace into his kneecap, sending the young man tumbling into the mud alongside her. The Orenian scrambled to his feet, keeping his buckler raised. This did little to help him as she bludgeoned her way through his shield, mercilessly spreading the poor man’s brains in the mud. The clash of steel and splintering wood had gained someone else’s attention, and with a soft prayer to the spirit of luck she looked up to see who it was.

 

Lucky for the Snagagoth, it was a Renatian with a rope ladder. He lowered it for her and she managed to clamber onto the debris riddled roof of a building alongside a small detachment of Renatians. Slowly but surely, they made their way across the rooftops toward a section of wall which had been taken by Orenians. Arrows rained down on the group but she managed to escape their whistling, biting wrath. Quickly, the Orenians seemed to vanish from that section of the wall. Mograh, however, had realized she had trapped herself on this section of roof.

 

She carefully made her way toward the ground, a section of alleyway primarily devoid of any sort of conflict but relatively close to the bottom floor of the keep. She trudged through the mud toward a ladder which lead out into the conspicuously empty, fortified street. Slowly she made her way up it, peering out to see a handful of men doing battle. Carefully, she slipped past them with minimal damage and made her way into the first floor of the keep where she and several Renatians would make their stand.

 

Breathing a heavy sigh before beginning to catch her breath, her sprained ankle caught up with her. She sluggishly crept to a ledge overlooking the street and nocked an arrow, beginning to take a few shots at some of the Orenians making their way up the street.

 

To the Yar Elder’s surprise, there went from naught but four or five Orenians to a full force, as if flood gates had been opened. The defenders were quickly overwhelmed, pushed back to Mograh’s newfound archer’s nest as the attackers worked their way in. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, the Fe-Uruk crept back while swinging wildly at any Orenian who approached her. The pain in her ankle vanished as she fought tooth and nail to keep them back, but it was to little avail. Even after putting down one man, she still found herself on the far edge of the room. The heavy metal gates on one side of the cobblestone chamber slammed shut, but Snow Elven and Orenian soldiers still flooded in through the opposite gate. She fought with a small number of Renatians to keep them back, but was forced up to a narrow and short tunnel in the roof.

 

At this point, all she could think of was not survival but revenge on those that would seek to bring her to her now inevitable demise. Every time one of her adversaries made their way up the ladder, she swung her mace down to keep them down. This plan did not work for long as the tunnel was soon filled with what was left of the Renatian defenders and a handful of snow elves. The fighting was bloody and Mograh began to accrue more and more bruises, cuts and scrapes.

 

Her nose broken, her eye black, her teeth missing, her armor and flesh torn and several fingers missing and bleeding, she and those in the tunnel with her finally managed to push back. By some twist of fate or luck, she managed to slip out and into where most of the fighting was occuring. It was like a sea of soldiers, the Renatians outnumbered but fighting bravely to the bitter end. She let loose a warcry as she hurled herself at the foe.

 

Even with her body broken and the blood of a freshly killed Orenian on her hands, her mind strayed to thoughts of home, of her clan, of her children- these are what she was fighting for. As she realized her purpose of being here, of slaughtering men and elves until she met her demise, she was struck in the side of the head by a mace. Sent toppling to the ground, she was trampled and buried under debris and mud. In this moment, she was no longer Elder of Clan Yar, no longer Keshig of Rex Burbur, no longer Snagagoth of Krugmar. No, she was just a young mother lying in mud, ash and blood.

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Glottgut’Raguk readily welcomes another orc into Stargush’Stroh.

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Hearing of the news, a goblin retreats to her room in the gob’goi, her eyes moist as she curls into her blankets. 

“Wi wun dah battle, but foh wub kozt? Dah bluud uf our bruddahz ahn ziztahz zpill becuz uf pinkeh politikz.”

She closes her eyes, liquid dripping onto the straw, murmuring to herself.

“Mi hohp lat rezt well, Mograh. Lat lived well ahn klomped well, ahn zometik dat bi da bezt wi kan du.”

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Korgahk would wipe sweat and blood off his face, looking over the devastation of the Battle of Helena... He would walk on the ground gazing at the bodies of the fallen Renatian and Uruk solders, he would then find the body of Mograh, Dead and lifeless, He would sigh as he knew her since he was a cub, He would mumble to himself “May lat rezt in da Stargush’Stroh, Mi gruk lat flatted with Hunur” He says moving on looking for more bodies of his fallen brothers and sisters.

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An old snaga feels a shift. He looks over to the river from his calm river-valley home, and he feels the scars on his back and the scales on his front.

 

“One of the damn good ones.” he murmurs to the cold air. “Shame, never really got to tell her that as much as I wanted to.”

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After his cry of victory, Torgath’Gorkil surveys the bloodied, and ravaged battle field, taking trophies and justa looking through the slain foes, for particular humans who caused him anger. While rummaging through the lifeless husks of the dead, he comes across the body of Mograh. Sighing he would say “Meh lay rezt en da halls uv Stargush’Sroh ziztur” Finding her mace, he would set it in her arms, and walk away saying “Mi am zurry lay had tu pazz en a wagh uv dizhunuble pinkaz"

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Loras, wherever he is, in life or death, mourns the loss of a great Uruk. Mograh knew honour; through a rare and wonderful blend of strength and love – the ex-snaga and dishonourable elf respects the life of this one.

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Murak arrived back at the Goi when he was told the news.  He wasn’t one to show his emotions, although any joy he may have had from their victory was removed.  A loyal Orc that had served him in Atlas and was one of the few to choose a life of action over politicking. 

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Malohk’Yar awoke to the familiar scent of blood. He didn’t remember how he got here, the opposite end of the trench from the position they’d been holding. All he remembered was the order to get down and get in and that’s what he’d done. He quickly checked himself over, but it didn’t feel like anything had been broken or shattered, he was just bloodied and bruised. He readied his Krugmar-issue sword once more, just in case, but the only ones he could see standing were those of both Krugmar and Renatian colours, he gripped the sword, just in case, and made his way back to their defensive position, keeping an eye out for the Rex or any of his other Orcish brothers.

 

As he walked through the wreckage he saw an all too familiar sight. His friend and clanswoman, Mograh’Yar’s treasured mace, lying mere inches from the mangled hand of a not-looking-too-good Fe-Uruk. Grinning, he sauntered over, picking up her mace and placing it in her hand. “Lat dropped diz. Lat’z nub gunna bi abul tu akzidentuhlly mawl mi wivowt et,” he chuckled, taking a seat in the dirt next to her. “Nub gunna lie ziztah, latz peepen liyk zkah.” After a moment of her not responding to his jibe, he gives her a quick nudge; she doesn’t usually stay passed out for nearly as long as he does.

 

“Ziztah? Iz nub tikh tu bi zleepen, wi wohn! Agh mi peeped lat klomp wehl, toniyt wi zelebrayt!” he cheers, nudging her again. Only then did he really take in just quite how bad she was looking, her missing teeth, broken nose and the broken and missing fingers. His victory grin faded as he quickly began to panic. “Mograh? Kum, mih’ll tayk lat bak tu Krugmar, mi momo wihl fikz lat uhp hozh,” he reached out his hands to lift her to carry her back, but brushes over her wrist with one hand, feeling no pulse, no warmth, no life.

 

His disbelief turned to sorrow and he felt his eyes begin to well, but he had been taught from a young age that Yars do not cry, and so instead he took her mace and slammed it repeatedly into the nearest enemy skull he could find in an act of unadulterated rage. Once the former enemy had been made unrecognisable to his or her own loved owns he turned his attention back to his clanmate. “Whi ziztah? Lat kan nub leev mi. Whu iz gunna zayv mi lyf aht da nekzt huhnt? Dub tikhz lat have zayved mi nowh...zurely deyr iz zum whey mi kan ztill zayv lat...” but his words fell on deaf, dead ears and he himself knew it was too late, she was already gone.

 

Resolved to at the very least return her body to be given an honoured Yar funeral he empties his quiver of it’s remaining arrows and carried her mace in it instead. Then he lifted the heavy Fe-Uruk over his shoulders and began his long trek back to Krugmar, with nothing in his mind but reaching home and perhaps paying Mograh a visit in the Stargush’Stroh, to berate her for leaving them in person, and to say farewell to his childhood friend.

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