Rusted Armour, Faded Red

[Moby_Derp 163]

 

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXbKAL4hwzA&ab_channel=LuisAlbertoAldama

 

 

A lonesome Uruk, clad in pale-red steel. Once youthful, vibrant, and naive. Now weary, tired, and wise. Though he had met many enemies throughout his long life, he knew that time would always be his greatest challenge.

 

He made his way down the winding path towards Krugmar, having once again decided to return home - just to visit one last time. Though he could not call himself the most loyal of Orcs, he still knew - deep in his heart - that Krugmar: a land of blood, combat and death, would always be where he came from and where he would return to no matter what.

 

Though his vision faded, and the world around him continued to turn black, he urged onwards towards the gates of Krugmar. Lifting his helmet, now just a bucket of rust, off of his head: he dropped it to the dirt beneath him. Onwards he stumbled. Unclasping his trusty chestplate, he allowed it to fall behind him like a snake would shed its skin: feeling free for the first time in many years. Onwards he stumbled. His back would bend no more; he could not find the strength to remove the rest of his broken, fragile armour. So, onwards he stumbled.

 

He gazed around at the many heads decorating the bridge to Krugmar: his eyes matching their petrified gaze, with their mouth agape - serving to remind him of the life he had led, like many other Uruks. He coughed once, blood seeping onto his red skin as he tried to cover his mouth: attempting to keep any remaining vitality inside his wretched body from leaving. His ears perked at the sound of a roaring forge, not far from the gates he had just entered. Onwards he stumbled, his gaze and mind affixed upon the open forge: its smoke rising into the night sky.

 

Making his way down the steps, slowly, he found himself looking around for any fellow Uruks: perhaps intending to rely on his brothers for once in his lonesome life, but found only the comfort of cawing crows and the call of the fire ahead. Onwards he stumbled, finally finding himself where he had spent much of his time. Kneeling down before the soothing orange flames, his arm resting on the anvil beside him to support his aged bones.

 

He stared deep into the flames, as he had many times before, but for once he thought not of crafting; not of steel; nor of blood. His mind raced as he instead thought back on his companions. His teacher, Shagarath. His friend and respected warrior, Wud. His first and most respected Rex, Kharak. He frowned as the faces he conjured in his mind faded: struggling to picture those who had grown alongside.

 

“I’m sorry, brothers.”

 

He could feel his heart beginning to slow. His eyes begged to rest, but he continued to vigilantly stare into the fire of the forge. His back slumped, but his head continued to face forwards as it had always done.

 

“I’m coming… To reunite with you all at last.”

 

His heart slowed and performed its final symphony: one last slow beat. The colour in his eyes had now faded, overtaken by the bright orange of the forge.

 

Gukdan was finally home.

[herculean_wud 3656]

Leydluk welcomed the aged Raguk with open arms and received him at the great table. There, many familiar faces sat, the fighting of the day having ceased to make way for a night of feasting, "Broshan, brother." Said the thrice-Rex as he poured him a tankard of grog and set before him a bowl of steaming ambrosia, straight from the Grubgoth's pot, "Welcome to eternity."

Edited July 7, 2021 by grubgoth_wud

[Cheezzy_Garlik 502]

The mighty Wargoth of Clan Raguk stared down at the corpse of his fallen kinsman within the forge. A look of sorrow and defeat crept across his vise as he moved towards it. He placed a hand on the fallen Raguks head and turned it over to see his pale, red face “May lat fynd zatizfakzhun in latz lyf agh go tu Ztahguzh’Ztroh tu klomp furevur.” The goth picked up his kin once more to prepare a burial for the honored warrior in rusted steel.