DRAWING BLOOD FROM STONE

[herculean_wud 3662]

DRAWING BLOOD FROM STONE

KAMÂRAKOB NAAKH-ZA-BARASH

 

_______________

 

“Ye who lay vanquished at my feet,

Take not pity on thyself,

Nor on the resolve of thy station.

Rise like proud beasts to Nature’s call;

For is it not more honourable to serve

Than to wallow like pigs in the mud?”

 

Leyd, to Gazigash and Gentharuz

_______________

 

I

 

Thus came the chorus of heaves and hoes: a hundred dirtied bodies squirming over each other, scrambling to fill their baskets with rock. It pulsated as each man came and left – their harried voices an apparition of their remaining humanity; for had they not their voices still, they would be but husks – automata rendered from flesh; mere pack animals for their masters. The foreman watched on.

 

“Put ya back into it, ya squirmin’ gitz!” Grunted he, the Foreman, a newblood of the Krush gang – known for its savagery. But all voices hushed and all eyes turned as the Warboyz returned with a new body for the all-consuming Machine. Gnargoth, flanked by Vrogag and Dugarod of the Krush boyz, thrust a shovel into his hands and ordered that they dig at the pleasure of the Warboss and the Spirits, and the silence once again made way for the groans of toil. He – an elf known as Neriel – began to dig.

 

He dug until his arms burned. But he dared not stop (for he had seen what happened to idlers – a young man in his twenties had his skull dashed across the stone for pausing to catch his breath), until gravel yielded and slivers of blue hit him in the face. Light. He scrambled to it; clawed at loose rocks and flint until his fingers bled, tossed them aside; tore what stood in his way asunder like a feral dog, until the dark cave was aflood with blue light. The Sons of Nagg looked on in awe, but Fishbref took the helm and descended the steps, the blue light cresting him as he went deeper. What greeted him shook him: the bloody hall of a Temple to his gods, in all its regalia.

 

“A GIFT FROM THE SPIRITS!” He cried, “A BEAUTIFUL GIFT!” And the Shaman Fizzard wrought his magic upon its central chamber, and the slaves’ throats were cut to fill it. Neriel, too, was bled - but he was spared his life for his discovery. The uruks bathed and were confirmed in their faith, for battle was nigh, and as such, so too was a feast for Gazigash.

 

 

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II

 

 

Wisps of smoke rose over Lower Petra and teased out the rising sun. But the sun seemed to lack its normal lustre, as if whatever moved it to it’s morning place had foreseen the events of the day. No eerie silence gripped the men of Oren, nor the legions of the Tripartite who had stationed themselves in the town of Sedan. War had trampled through fields so close to home that jingoistic tracts had not been given the distance to be sacralised as their platitudes passed from soldier to soldier, and drifted on the wind to peasant hearths. 

 

The Blood Army - Frumpaak I

 

Life continued as it had. The washer-woman still scrubbed and the tanner still tanned; the banker still counted rounds of gold, the smith still hammered steel, and the barkeep still poured lousy pints. Men who had the day prior taken to the fields to bring in the harvest just beyond the city limits now bore arms. Many of them were green - for such was the transience of human life, and they joked and laughed and traded tall tales of bedded wenches and drunken feats performed, never having known the horrors that awaited them. Rifts would be made between them.

 

Among the legions of Man were the Sons of Nagg. Life, too, was transient among the Kin of Krug, perhaps moreso than tucked between the sturdy walls of grand cities, but in a way possessed a groundedness. For where man succumbed to his curse of a short life, brothers still lived who had fought in far flung lands in wars that ended hundreds of years ago. Battle was life for those following Nagg’s creed – and so they rejoiced, albeit inwardly. They gripped their arms with a discipline unusual to their race, and as the armies of Man and Dwarf clashed, fought with a vigour that had gone undisplayed for decades. 

 

Daubed with chrome paint, Aki the Engorged charged into the bloody fray swinging his greatclub, sending many shortfolk and Haeseni alike with wide swoops of his terrifying weapon to the grave. But, overwhelmed by the hordes of men and their swordblows, was felled and ravaged, letting loose a bloodcurdling death rattle. The Spirits had noticed the war-beast, and granted him the relief of the Stargush. 

 

“Witnessed.” Muttered Fishbref as he watched his dimwitted friend meet his bloody end, but nevertheless took his men forward, the brazen Hoplites of the elf who goes by Anaxagoras  that formed the auxiliaries of his band taking the front with their spears poised head-on. There – with the legions of Oren – they held the bloody square, where the gnarled Bloodwood tree grew, and looked unto doom. But by the will of the Spirits they held it, and lived to tell the tale.

 

GAZIGASH HAD TAKEN HER FILL

ANG GUND GRIISH

[Ardory 2978]

 

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcS1SF66NfM

 

Prelude to the Slaughter

 

Fizzard’Raguk watched as the slave dug away at the gravel with the crudely made shovel. He stood to the side of the Warboss silently, his arms crossed as the tireless slave put shovel-load by shovel-load aside. He eyed Fishbref with an eyebrow perked, skeptical of the purpose of bringing the elf all the way here to simply dig gravel, but decided against speaking out, returning his gaze to the work, watching on.

 

With a final chunk of gravel cleared, a pathway opened. The goblin uncrosses his arms, narrowing his eyes as Fishbref took head into the depths, Fizzard followed in suit. Before them lay a temple of elder design, filled with offerings and sacrafices to the pantheon which the Raguk clan held dear. However, one thing caught the goblin’s eye, a pool filled with crimson blood which nestled into the side of the temple.

 

The shaman approached, kneeling before it and gingerly placing one hand within the red blood. A vision came to him at that moment. A vision of a young goblin submerging himself within a small pool within the sands of an arena. He recognizes this scene and smirks to himself, out of both joy and nostalgia. The vision faded from his mind as he stood and announced,

 

“A GIFT FROM THE SPIRITS!” He cried before the gathered group, “A beautiful gift! We can bestow the boon of Gazigash upon our brothers once again!” The goblin raises his hands towards the sky in praise as he prays “Lup’Gazigash-hai! Gothlob ob Grish agh Azht!”

The Slaughter

The noon sun was cruel upon Lower Petra, Fizzard charged mercilessly with his battle brothers of the Sons of Nagg into the fray of the bloody battle at the square, overseen by a tree. The goblin fought with all his might and all his strength. His bones ached and his muscles screamed as the battle felt like days, perhaps months.

As the battle ended and the dust cleared from the square now splattered with the blood and carnage of all descendants. He noticed Fishbref kneeling before a large figure, Aki. The shaman removed his bone plated helmet as he knelt next to the Warboss. The goblin felt a tear roll down his face for his former battle brother. The shaman simply looks to the rest of the battlefield, then to the blood gorged tree which witnessed the battle. He lets these words slip his cracked lips:

 

“Gazigash-hai, Gothlob ob Grish agh Azht… Is this enough?”

[SteppeNomad 1624]

A hoplite, his head heavy with his ordeals, he finally returns to be gathered once with his brothers in arms. To find those others engaged in great ritual. For vast wagh was coming.

 

Engaged he had been, in the many separate circumstances. The trading of 'serfs', the taking of privilege by the tip of a spear, the training of new hoplites, elections, and the many battles his times take him to and from. He found himself once again, at peace, amongst the raucous fellows, and lads of this Black Symposium.

 

 

"Oh how I yearn to bring my brothers so they too may take of vast glories so easily taken"

 

"But this fight? You are outnumbered and outgunned?" spoke a slave

 

"Yet not outskilled." He spoke as this slave was drained of blood

 

Confident in victory despite seemingly jarring odds, those warriors in skins of glittering bronze stood alongside their brothers in arms. Glorious, beautiful, powerful Urukhiim warriors.

 

Together they struck out not just to face enemies, but to fight brothers in great combat. May their weapons clash.

 

And indeed, did his spear meet his brothers that day. Through the frontlines he saw Aki fall, though still he fought. As the tears ran down the face of the mask of his terrifying ancestor for the rest of that fight.

 

Long did they spill the Blood Wheel under that crooked tree, those frontlines shifting as too did their formation. Effective and hardy, those heroes who stood besides him at the end of the fight? Those bronzed warriors? Truly worth their salt.

 

[DrunkPapaBear 2295]

Borok, fighting of the other side of the war, to assure the possession of a frat house the orcs deserved, spilling the blood of the lessers races, humans and elves. 

As the fight progressed, the tall uruk spotted the Wargoth of clan Raguk in the distance, charging towards him with bloodlusted eyes.

The Targoth roared in extasy as he crossed blades with the Admiral of the Land himself, Fishbref. The old against the new, no anger, no quarrel, only the pleasure of showing their strength to the other. 

Their duel went on and on, Fishbref was slowly pressing Borok against the wall and finally made him fall to his knee with a decisive blow. The orc of Krugmar closed his eyes and muttered "Ztarguzh'Ztroh.." Waiting for the final blow given by a brother.

Borok openned his eyes after a few seconds, he was now standing in the square of the orckish capital, San'Velku.

"Wub da zkah...?" Stolen from the Stargush'Stroh by the Skygods, left alive on this cursed land. His life saved, for a greater purpose.

 

[Inferno_Ougi 1454]

Spoiler

 

 

The fresh air of the savanna filled his nose. Mighty walls of wood and stone, gnarled and twisted to any foreigner but any uruk knew it was made to last. Mokh-Uruk hummed with the thrum of orcish life— weapons and arms were beaten into shape, orcs young and old sparred one another in the klomp pits, and commands were yelled out by an ancient, scarred uruk. Clad in crimson steel, he prepared the legions of Krug's kin for battle. Not in the name of the Warnation— nay, for he had established that they were not worthy of the name. Until they could prove themselves in the eyes of Krug and The Pantheon, the Warnation of Krugmar would not be, and could not be.

 

Vintas. A sandstone city among the plains, it was no more than an stone's throw away from the city of orcs. An upstart city of humans, it was an eyesore to the orcs. For Leydluk, it was an opportunity to invigorate his legions and to venerate the spirits with blood. Constant raids and attacks were launched against the city, a constant source of slaughter and joy for the urukkin. The Lord of Vintas, in fear of the bloodthirsty orcs of Mokh-Uruk, parlayed with Leydluk in hopes of peace. But Leydluk did not want peace. Putting forth an offer that any self-respecting being would deny— to suck his toes— he had expected the Lord of Vintas to leave in anger. But to the surprise and disgust of all, the Lord got onto his knees and moistened the wizened orcs feet. Leydluk was a child of war, but also a son of honor. Respecting it, no more attacks were to be held against Vintas.

 

But Oren would not take such humiliation lightly. Mobilizing their Imperial Army, the human legions made their way to Mokh-Uruk. Leydluk had assumed the Emperor would act as such, and he was correct. A human spy that had wormed their way into the Imperial Court had reported every word that the Emperor said. And thus, Leydluk gathered his elite and marched them to the Lowveld. The Vintasians rallied alongside an elite outrider force of Orenians, and the two armies would clash.

 

Spoiler

 

 

Aki'Raguk, a young olog, was among Leydluk's elite. He saw Leydluk as a father, albeit not in the way that other descendants understood. Kindness was not taken lightly, and the olog looked up to the orc with great respect and veneration. He loved his clanmates, for they had fed him, and were red like him. They brought him to battles, and it was a great joy to see Aki smash humans, elves, and dwarves into pulp with swings of his greatclub. Thus it was no surprise at the Battle of the Lowveld, that Aki's charge was followed by the rest of their forces. Plunging into the enemy ranks, the helmet Clan Raguk had forced onto his head had driven him into a pain-driven rage. Despite this, it was a joy for Aki to reduce heads to bits of gore. Few died on the side of Mokh-Uruk had died, and all that was left of the Vintasians and the Orenian elite were mangled corpses littering the battlefield.

 

Despite this, Mokh-Uruk was still sieged. The hordes of humans was ceaseless and unending, and even the slaughter of fourty-thousand could not even dent Oren's legions. The orcs fought to the last man, contingents of them holding the walls and others holding the castle. But the difference in numbers was too much. Leydluk, fighting upon the walls, was stabbed in the back by a human, his corpse being buried by rubble. An ironic end for a bringer of war.

 

Aki fought with all of his might, but it was to no avail. Knocked out, he arose from the aftermath in fear. He searched the grounds for any of his kin, and all he could find were corpses. None were Leydluk, the one that had guided him since he was just a cub. Assuming he was still alive, he left the city and spent centuries wandering, searching for Leydluk. On his own, the olog feasted on livestock, and avoided direct contact with other descendants. Those unfortunate to cross paths, he feasted upon. His search for the boss was futile.

 

In Almaris, it was by pure chance he had found Fishbref, the warboss of clan Raguk. Tired of hiding, the olog reintegrated with orcish society and the clan. Fishbref had broken the knews that Leydluk was dead, and the centuries old olog was filled with great sadness. Memories of battles past were now memories he could only see when chewing on cactus-green. But it was a hole in his heart. Still, he continued his life with relative glee, continuing to kill and eat, now reunited with his kind. He disliked Fishbref for being mean to him, but liked everyone else for giving him food, so it was okay.

 

Making new friends, fighting new battles, the olog had found meaning in his life once more. And when the Sons of Nagg prepared for the Battle of Lower Petra, he was found among the legions of Raguks and allies, towering over them. He dove into the Tripartite's ranks, with a force not seen since his younger days. He felt reinvigorated, laughing and roaring as he once did on the fields of the Lowveld. He rampaged through, slaughtering many dwarves, namely Jorvin Starbreaker. But as the battle drew on, the olog began to tire. The pain and stimulus was too much for the old olog, and he began to black out. Rage swelled with every strike and blow against the olog, and he continued to fight on pure instinct. Alas, a spear had found its way through a previous wound, inflicted on him in the siege of Mokh-Uruk. Letting loose a final roar, he fell.

 

Surely, Gazigash must be satisfied!