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A WAR OF RETRIBUTION


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High Prophet Norli reads the declaration of war at the Starbreaker forge, wondering if Krugmar would ever heed the words he had written to them in the last war. He grumbles before setting it to the side at a safe distance from the fire, and raises his hammer to continue his work. "Fix yer damned culture."

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Amaesil's eyes widen as he reads the declaration. "Oh. Oh."

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Toffee looks back towards the mountains far off. She hopes her kin are safe, even if she cannot return to fight for them.

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The Silver Lubba sits low deep in the ground on his keep, seemingly drawing up blueprints of some sort, though he is interrupted by a messenger who places the missive on his office desk. He looks over such a missive with a slight grin forming upon his face as he finally gets another contract to work on.

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“My my! The urukin are making it far easier for me to get a tax compensation. Keep it up greenies!” states the humble alchemist. He is truly relieved to pay cheap taxes for such a small favor of slaughtering foul beasts.

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Elsil'Ceru beamed faintly as she read over the declaration of war. "Rally the men," she weakly instructed of her elder brother. "Fight in my name. Slaughter the orcish pigs." @__Clocky

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Caelan de Joannes prepares to take Sla- Some wins, from the Orcs! "I can't wait to join the fight- OORAH!"

Edited by Lickspittle
Spell correction
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Adreniel Elibar’acal watches from afar, pondering what to do next. 

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Fleiver Horen sharpens his blade, preparing to defend Kolaz'Lak and his compatriots from the enraged dwed!

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Porkpie Grandaxe caught wind of the brewing war whilst playing with his newly acquainted friends snake in the midst's of the hollow. The news carrying to him rather quickly by mouth; immediately the words twisting an absurdly wide grin on his face. "Mi bellehh will squash em all!!!! An' 'den oill cook em for suppah!" The dwed cheered, his war-esc cries soon accompanied by a signature shimmy. Though a rumbling of his belly symbolised the final call he needed to return home. The journey back being filled with wardrums played off his belly and the repeating words of  "Weh are teh brea' kingdom, weh are teh bes'! So go away smelleh smelleh orcies, or oi'll makeh sure yew can't... talkies!"

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"Wonder if Krugmar will still want to speak with me now..." Athri said, yet again alone. "I hope they do, it's entertaining."

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The Lord Justiciar sighed, having just ended a trial involving slaves and slavers, he would happen upon a missive attached to his door. Upon reading the missive, he would give a smirk:

 

"From umri slavehs teh bloodeh Orkish ones. Least t'is toime o'I can deal wit' it in steel. Toime teh get teh werk." He'd say, dusting off his old set of armor and sword once more.

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Held up his necklace of Orcish tusks, each one carefully bleached and waxed with a unique Grimgold name inscribed upon them, their roots dipped in liquid gold to allow them to be strung from the thickly corded ferrum chain. With the sigh of a laborer preparing for their daily job, he tied it around his neck and prepared his heavy hammer.

 

”Les’ get to work.” We’re the only words upon his lips as he kissed his beloved wife and children. The Clan Lord prepared his people for a time of blood and steel.

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Skaatchnak'Izig reads the missive, confused on how the actions of a whitewash from years ago affects the Krugmari people, and all ignorance to his talks of peace with the Dwed. Perhaps Bakir should've avoided digging under Krugmar with his lackeys if he did not want to be shaved.  He tosses the missive into the fire, musing how the dwarf's beard was shaved and yet reemerged instantaneously. 

 

"Retribution before was an orc and four tusks, now you want a war?"

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