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(Music)

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An orc sits before a pyre of flesh and bone impaled with a family heirloom, from his place he plays a small hand-drum with bloodied palms. 

He was weak - not physically, but mentally, and spiritually, lacking honor - this orc was untouched by the curse, not that of Iblees’ doing, being unhinged anger, but instead the curse of utter ignorant obedience, the omens had shown that the stars would align, though no immortal was to credit such signs, instead - the orc knew truth, his very own ilk, be it brother or grandmother had laid such hints before him, and as an orc of little purpose, he knew his only option was to heed the words of a long since unspoken maw. 

 

He had ingested copious amounts of shrogo mushrooms and cactus green, leaving his senses overwhelmed, he could feel the wind gently pierce his skin, as if it traveled right through him - a tingle overcoming his physical form, leaving him in a relaxed state of sedation.

The smoke from the pyre began to shift, as if it was it’s own entity, swirling and distorting, smoke rings often floating within the air like a lone music note held unto it’s utter climax in which it would finally dissipate, leaving the stage for yet another in its wake. 

Soon colors saturated his vision, the orange hues of the pyre warming earning the unaltered focus of the drum-playing uruk, it was almost as if he played for the flame itself, as it formed to /dance/ with the wind that coincidentally would pick up as the drumming grew more intense..

Eventually - the uruk realized the otherwise silent audience that was the forest around him, was hushed no longer, beneath the echoed drums, crackling pyre and whistling wind, was a soft hum radiating from the trees, plants and fungi spread throughout, such a sound played in well with the feeling of utter static which had consumed him from the stomach down, as if his own vessel spoke back to the whispering jungle. 

 Before he the orc could take in his surroundings, he began to notice fractals forming upon his beige hide, showing themselves where the moon and fire shed light, changing in unfathomable ways, getting smaller and smaller, larger and larger not one shape was alike, and not one shape was anything he had before encountered. 

 

 

 


Finally, a faint ringing began to fluctuate around the uruk, one which he felt within his horned skull.. The pyre began to change yet again.. Though  this time, not in sync with the drumming which the uruk had somehow fought to maintain throughout this state of altered consciousness. 

Beneath the pyre within the dirt sat a stone bowl of scarlet ichor, which he had drained in offering from his very form, to accompany the gift of flesh from those slain and left within the pyre as fuel alongside the now charred oak and marrow. 

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The blood began to bubble whilst it’s shade deepend, and whilst the uruk seemed unphased, a cold chill came over his spine, nearly halting his playing.. Although,  as to ward off those he did not seek to entertain, he kept on for instinctual survival. 

Soon, the pyre had began to fade, leaving only orange coals in its absence, one’s which flickered and distorted similarly to the fractals upon his arm.. Which - he had finally realized, were not constrained to just his body and the remnant pyre, but now - they were displayed all upon the observable landscape.. And whilst this was something to leave him within awe alone.. His calls were finally received..

Something seemed to rise from the bowl, mixing within the less violent smoke rolling from the vanquished bonfire, more distorted than the shapes which warped his very reality.. But soon it became clear, as if his eyes were opened by the entity.. whom revealed itself;

 

A figure now stood before him, phantasmal and unbound, manifesting in place of the stone bowl, a familiar uruk stood before the overwhelmed.

Above this orcish brute’s image was a rhino, one missing an eye, not unalike the uruk it towered behind. 

The drum playing Uruk (Ixula) lifted focus now unto the figure, ceasing his playing finally.. It was now he was truly frozen, unable to speak nor think freely, it was when realization came, that he understood who had displayed the omens and every bone within his body were consumed with simultaneous dread and shame.

 Tears welled within the eyes of the weakened uruk began to drip down his tan skin, recognition sprayed amongst his scarred and grizzly visage. 

His own father - long since fallen, stood now before his offspring, with a cold, disappointed and yet - plainly stare, one sharp enough to make any child drop this head. 

His father was a beast of the Horde, having fought his way through Vailor and beyond - losing an arm in battle for his clansmen of Braduk, whilst too bringing valorous honor unto both his Braduk, and Dom ancestors, even if not simultaneously doing so.

 

He had given an eye unto the spirit of Ixli for forbidden knowledge, bled himself to near death for Enrohk and slain hundreds of drui’ in the name of Leyd, this brute had accomplished much, even if unblessed by the rest of the spirits for his disobedience - this uruk was everything that embodied the pride, yet restraint, dominance yet honor, that every orckin sought after. 

 

And so his failure was immense, to be the son of a great orc, with nothing accomplished for himself, two centuries had been his thus far allowed existence, horns sprouted from his cranium, and yet still - no honor nor greatness deserving of such a crown. 

 

Tears continued, whilst words remained choked upon - all which he could muster, was a broken and scratchy  - “Popa..” limbs far too heavy to lift  from the goat-skinned drums, his spine locked up and leaving him beneath his superior ancestor, whom finally spoke..

“Weak..this is what they say.. Your brothers have died outside the walls fighting for honor, whilst you’d prefer to rot from within them.. Do not call unto me if you do not seek change.”

The spirit spat out, pacing now around his son, the image of the rhino following. 

“You bleed not fire, but instead lard, you grow fat and lazy, leaving your bloodlust to control you, whilst your slaves do your labors.. Be this the way of the orc?”
The spirit shook his head at his own question, extending his blade-arm out to the chin of his successor, one which - while immaterial, felt colder than the night-air which bit down upon the  unmoving uruk’s flesh. 

 

“You are Ikrizh, born of blood and ire, made to conquer and sustain, your honor is your shield, and your wisdom your sword, and yet you’ve replaced it for the warbow which is your bloodlust, hiding behind the walls, whilst allowing luck to place your shots fatally upon the enemy.. And yet you are no Lur who masters the art of such weaponry, you are a pig with an elf’s toy, and be it as it must - it has weakened you..”

“I am all things you can be, and yet none of them. This is your doing, your failure, but too is it your redemption - I was conquered in the end, half a 
millennia of war with the immortals left me free to their lies, I consumed their lessers like you do cactus, and it began to take my strength, and my sanity.. This is not your path.”

He called now, standing before his son with a small pile of charred bone procured from the pyre.

“You are to grow past this, we live not to honor the immortals, but to unite our ancestors for union, hear throat bound songs, feel the heartbeat of their drums, and do not lower yourself to them, for we are ORCS, and bow to none but our own curse if allowed to consume our very being.. You will praise none but those who walked the path before you, they will show you the path to honor, they will reawaken all that has been lulled into slumber, and your senses with it - shall return, you will not forget the ways of Kulgarok that I have taught you, the druids will one day know of your strength, and soon after the spirits, immortal and ancestral, will know your  truth, even if the former ensures nothing but turmoil in its wake..”
The bone turned to ash then, blowing off in the wind..
“You will sacrifice your slaves, and begin.. Call unto Ixli for the wisdom a final time, grant him an eye, for even a small glimpse of their wisdom is costly, after this - every honorful kill will be given unto
Leyd or the ancestors, you will not bow to none other, and be you to disobey - you will die long before your horns kill you from the inside out.”

“Your fire shall burn longer with each honorific trait upheld, every heart offered, and through the scars you gain, you will display truth, you will become a mural of strength and valor through them, and use them as experience to avoid your next meet with Kor,  do not fail me kub.” The orc finally ceased - old blah rang through the younger’s mind like water from a stream, he had only grasped it’s meaning from his upbringing, but held onto such teachings so that he could forever understand and speak to his ancestors - even when such words are not returned.


Ixula now knew his purpose, freed from dishonor for a final time, he would begin to consume the knowledge his father once did.. Leaving his pyre after his senses returned.. The uruk began, knowing watchful eyes were held unto him at all times.


 

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