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THE BATTLE OF SAN'VELKU


herculean_wud
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THE BATTLE OF SAN’VELKU

11th of the First Seed, S.A. 32


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The historic standard of the Krughai

 


 

Deep below the city of San’Velku, the uruks of Krugmar -- silent in mourning and prayer -- prepared the body of a fallen brother for his arrival at Kor’s great gate. The process was bittersweet -- bitter because the passing of a brother never came easy, but sweet because they had heard tall tales of what waited for him in the afterlife.

 

As this brother’s lifeless corpse drifted ever onwards towards the Stargush’Stroh and made its final passage, a low drumming disturbed the uruks. It was slow at first. Slow and steady -- like groundwater escaping from a stalactite. But it grew louder and louder, until the prayerful brothers were disturbed from their silent contemplation. Eventually it was too loud to ignore. Some brothers recognised it instantly, others -- starved of combat -- strained their ears so that they could deduce what it was. It was the sound of boots marching in lockstep -- and the gruff highland drawl of Dwarven warriors.

 

Rogue uruks displaced by the instability over the decades, or indeed those who had turned their back on Krugmar, had wronged the honourable men of Urguan. But the residual hubris of previous conflict guided the Dwarves’ feet and their hearts -- they brought swords where they should have brought words and understanding. It had been decided before they even stepped foot on Orkish soil -- they wanted blood for blood.

 

Thus it would be, as it had been for centuries! A battalion of Krugmar and a battalion of Urguan stood before one another -- evenly matched in men and arsenal. The King and his Generals on one side, the Rex and his Targoths on the other. With a raucous cry, the good men of Uruk and Dwarf kind clashed -- just as their fathers had done before them, painting the square blood-red with the essence of the fallen.

 

The warriors of Krugmar emerged from the fray and claimed their victory. Bittersweet, but a victory nevertheless.

 


 

GF and thanks for the sportsmanship!

Edited by grubgoth_wud
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Hu-din's head drops as he thinks about the wasted lives of today's conflict. "Nub'hozh, nub'hozh. Why did da world have to kum to diz on zuch a zad day alreadi. Maybe da ztoutz will zee wub wi fayce each day. It iz da tik to end racizm."

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Bakir Ireheart comes out of the Krugmar woods covered in blood, his left hand holding a dozen orcish heads severed from their body "What? Orcs winning a battle? But they sacrifice a dozen of their own? Horrible trade off!"

 

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GF and thanks for the sportsmanship! :^)

 

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10 minutes ago, Elite_Snipes_ said:

Bakir Ireheart comes out of the Krugmar woods covered in blood, his left hand holding a dozen orcish heads severed from their body "What? Orcs winning a battle? But they sacrifice a dozen of their own? Horrible trade off!"

 

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GF and thanks for the sportsmanship! :^)

 

 

A HUNDRED YEARS IN THE FUTURE...

 

uL5zOBe0vVyQ-XBcVKSvcjO_OD9RP0E2yc-yi8woqlSUrXOjLxdIBJwtudVdHPDlOJJKQc8X3xwxwhseyiIw4XyhURVSiDdQ2tDmQndCgg2rNbnQ8J2zYx2jE2qwMi5LUP9_1rOe

The Preserved Footprint of a Fleeing Ireheart

 

Elven archaeologists made twisted faces at the bootprint embedded in the sediment of the Krugmaric jungle. They knew it was of Dwarven origin -- but it was a strange place for one, in the heartland of where the Uruks once called home. After mulling over records they soon deduced it was from the Battle of San'Velku and belonged to an Ireheart dwarf of insignificant standing who turned and fled at the might of uruk kind, never even landing a single sword blow!

 

((i didnt catch you at the fight elite! such a shame you waited 2hrs nearly and didnt get to click :/ maybe next time...

Edited by grubgoth_wud
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Glizzi’Gobbla’Raguk Happily resides within his forge, melting down the Dwarven steel to create his own, of stronger make. Talking to the spirits out loud “Bruddaz mayd kwik werk uh deez ztowtz Dey did uuh huh!”

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A grey orc looks over the blood-stained plaza in silence, brow furrowed in thought. Slowly, the Rex paces around the bonfire, solemnly closing the eyes of those who had passed in battle. Weapons are gathered, bodies arranged to better reflect their status as respectable warriors instead of being left sprawled amongst the dirt. All the while his blood soaked form leaves a trail of crimson stains, the vital red hues of both dwed and uruk mixing upon the battlefield. Only when the six cooling corpses are composed honorably does he break silence with low, gravelly mutters. 

 

"Azh avtur azh, nubhozh tydyngz kaym tudey. Dwedz wur nub dah kin curzed wit Bloodluzt, doh Kor'garr wuld'av grukk'd uderwyze vrum der mizplayzd angur. Agh now der az bin'ag needlezz battul bitween peepulz uv honor. Valze akyuzazhunz vrum dah ztowtz led tu der vlattyng... Buht alzo dah lozz uv anuddah bruddah."

Dwarven bodies are laid to rest while a solitary orc passes to the afterlife. A bittersweet victory, for how could five dwarves be worth the cost of a single brother? Yet the Rex smiles, preparing to celebrate both the victory of Krugmar and the life of a fallen orc.

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Amidst yawning bellows, scorching flames, and lumbering stone giants, the former Grand King, and former Clan Father of the Starbreakers stirs, hammering an axe to shape upon his anvil. He works silently, expression grim and hardened. Pity Utak was not here, he thought, for no doubt Urk blood would be shed in vengeance soon enough.

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Word reaches Krawz on his big think of the glorious battle and the Fallen Brother Khan. Krawz does not frown at this grim news, instead he smiles, satisfied to know that Kor’s gates are opening for a hero. “Hozh klompin, evereh victoreh iz anuddah grudge , agh evereh grudge iz anudda chance to entah da Ztarguzh’Ztroh.”

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The Orcish Dominus Al-Uk'Lur once finally having emerged from the spirit realm wanders uppon the bloody sight not having participated in the battle but certainly had heard for it a grim look uppon his visage as he spoke 

 

"Mi rimembahz ah tik dad Orkz wehr lyke Kin tu dah ztowt agh dah ztowt lyke bruddahz tu dah Orkz.... Hohw dah tikz hav cheenged" 

 

The Dominus sighs as he shakes his head digging his staffs end in the dirt below to sully its end with the blood of the dwarves likely to be used in a future shamans curse 

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