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Corporatocracy

Hark!

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HARK!”

 

Earlier that evening, an odd goblinic figure had shuffled into the Uzg. His back was crooked, his head unusually large; wisps of hair trailed down from the sides of his head and his eyes - all three of them - glowed with an intense vigour. And now there he stood, upon a crate, in front of a small night-time audience.

 

“THE END TIMES ARE NIGH, BROTHERS!”

 

He threw his arms up in big and wild gestures, to punctuate his doomsday harkening,

 

“And You! Blasphemers, tricksters, fools, disbelievers as you are… are destined only to doom! For all throughout these lands, foul magicks are at play. Like purple djinns they dance through the sky and threaten to tear at the very fabric which holds up the heavens. And when they do, nubflat and ghosts will descend upon the mortal realm, but so too shall the spirits in all their might and glory, and so too shall Krug to wage an all but familiar war, and reign as Rex over all orks, as he did thousands of years ago...”


 

He paused, but only to fill his lungs with the temperate, evening air of the savannah before continuing with the same conflagrant vigour,


 

“But the spirits themselves will suffer… they too will be consumed and rended by the foul magicks that threaten us. All but the Pantheon - Gazigash, Leyd and Gentharuz. For millennia ago, they themselves fought a bloody war. But from it came a pact to last for eternity. United they stand to face the evil foe, and assume hegemony behind the mortal Throne of Krug when the time desires…”


 

And then his tone turned to poison. He spat and cursed and bore his tusks like a viper,


 

“...But you! O ye fools and blasphemers, o ye who do not accept my teachings and the fellowship of the Pantheon - you too will succumb. And you will not receive the sympathy of the Pantheon whom you have not accepted as your masters in the spirit realm. You will be turned away and left to the devices of the evil that threatens us! Lest ye convert and be brought into the fold…” 


 

He stepped down from his crate, beside which a rusted bucket stood alone. Within it was thick, red blood - since congealed somewhat. Zealously the goblin thrust his hand into the bucket and began flicking it into the crowd,


 

“All who seek guidance, seek the name Gahk-eyez!”


 

And with that, and the undoubted furore of hecklers and orks of a different spiritual conviction, he made off deeper into the Goi, off towards Raguk road where he would find his kin.

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Fizzard’Raguk listens intently to the ramblings of the priest echo through the great halls of the goi from his shrine room in his blarg. As the doomsayer finished, Fizzard looks to the shrine of three gears intently, hoping for some sign of this rambling to be false. He waits for a bit, but to no avail. Fizzard looked out the fenced window to the sky. He needed to know more.

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     Skorkon’Gorkil, Dominus to the Rexdom, was one of the few to converse with old Gahk-eyez as he preached upon his pedestal. As mad and delusional as the three-eyed orc seemed, deep down Skorkon knew there had to be truth in his words. But perhaps Armageddon could be avoided, the spirits he so desperately revered could be preserved for another millennia. With a strengthened resolve the elder gathered his arms and armor and set out to do battle against the Tear alongside the rest of the Descendants. If he empowered the spirits and did nothing to anger the Pantheon, his kin would continue to thrive. But first, he had to put an end to these foul magics which corrupted his Uzg.

“Da end iz nigh? Nub, da end’z end iz nigh.”

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The Rex pondered the doomsayer's words. Though they were that of a rambler, the ork would stop at nothing to secure the safety of Krugmar, and even the hint of such an armaggedon had to be investigated. Skalp returned to his blarg, deliberating. 

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Fiil’Yar recalls the three-eyed goblin, recalls her urge to open her mouth to say “Um, actually...”

 

But Krugmar isn’t the place to be a know-it-all. Be humble, Fiil. Don’t spout lore to people who didn’t ask. DON’T DO IT. STOP.

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