The Beast Within

[Narthok 9213]

The Beast Within

Spoiler

 

 

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It has been a long day. An understatement if ever there had been one. The siege of Brasca had been a hard and bloody affair, the tide of manflesh washing over the ramparts of the fortress after what seemed to be an eternity of bombardment. Truly Horen must have been part rabbit, such was the fecundity of his descendants. 

 

Yet the Orcs had stood in the ground. Eight foot tall warriors clad in black steel each doing the work of ten men. Great ologs sweeping the ramparts clear with each swing of their monstrous weapons. So freely did blood flow that the earthen ramparts grew muddy, having drunk too deeply of that red wine of life. 

 

Grommash grunted as he remembered the warsong from earlier in the day. The screams of the dying, the cleaving of flesh, the clang of metal. His dreams had been filled with the warsong these days, in the rare moments of respite where his eyes were allowed to close for a moment.

 

It was moments such as this if he wondered about his choices. His dreams had proven truer than he could imagine. A war of this size had not been seen for many years. Many had died, many more would die. As he sat beside one of the innumerable cooking fires of the hordelands that harsh fact was all too real. 

 

Even now his warriors limped back from the battle. The sands were laden with funeral pyres, giant shrouded corpses arrayed around them, each waiting for their turn in the flames.

 

Had he made a mistake?

 

The thought haunted his waking hours. So many warriors sent to die for another human war. Daily he received missives from the innumerable princes of the midlands. They promised steel and fire. Death for all orcs. 

 

Whenever Grommash closed his eyes he could see flashes of the battle. He remembered the great Gorom’Vinteki roaring in pain and fury, human pike man stabbing at him as he dealt death with his massive club. He remembered his keshig, Klog and Apek dragging him from the battle field as he battled against the blood rage that consumed so much of his life.

 

He remembered watching proud orcs fall one by one. Mountains of human corpses at their feet. Some laughed as they died, impaled by spears and arrows, having earned their good death. Yet despite the slaughter many Orcs had conducted themselves well. The venerable Falum’lur and Kho’Gorkil slaughtering many foes before rallying to the war horn of the Rex.  Brasca had fallen, but they had managed, somehow, to fight their way to safety.

 

Grommash remembered his spirit walks with the wizened Falum’lur, the wisdom he had gained from the old Rexes of the past. Yet still he could feel the scare of his Grandsire deep in his soul, For all his discipline, all his learning from the wise elders, the curse of Krug always lurked.

 

Snarling he rose to his feet, stalking past the wounded and the corpses he made his way through the shifting sands and oases towards the black gate. The last of the Horde’s rear guard were finally arriving, accompanying the early rays of the rising dawn. Yes there were dead. Yes there were wounded. But there was so much more. Grommash watched his warriors returning home and his heart stirred.

 

Straight backed and heads held high for the first time Grommash saw pride in his people. Despite suffering a set back in their first battle an even greater number of orcs had answered the Rex’s call for the second battle. With each day a great number of Krug’s children rallied to the banner of the Hordespeaker and his Chieftains. 

 

Perhaps here was a horde finally worth fighting for, worth dying for. 

 

Perhaps this was some small glimpse into what it meant to be orcish. Cursed as they were by the mark of Krug, so vulnerable to the beast within, theirs was the path of hardship. Through rigorous training could the beast within be confronted, suppressed, mastered. The children of Krug would not be animals. They would not be slaves to the rage that burned within each of them. 

 

As the warriors returned to the Goi they set about their tasks with grim determination. The Ruka’s under the supervision of the Minto’lur already laboured in the mines, the foundries and on the walls. The warriors of the Krughai forged by Grimruk’lur and honed daily by the training of Klog ad Apek were already returning to their brutal training regimen. 

 

Grommash turned from his warriors, heading into the city to meet his Goths at the Gothklamor. 

 

The spirit of the Horde had been hardened. The tide that bled was coming for them. And unlike so many others, they would meet it standing. 

[wolfdwg 1497]

Spoiler

So zkahing zvazed. Good read.

 

[moosehunter123 351]

An old Olog would march upon the sands of Krugmar

 

"Tubbo!" he would roar out as the call has been given to all Orc's of the horde to assemble. "Tubbo gib trubute." he would nod as he wanders back into the horde his large wooden club at his side his mouth salivating for grub once again. He would once again search for a goblin to sit upon his shoulder to give him guidance.

[_Jandy_ 3193]

Grothzark'Dom found himself reminding his brothers of the fleeting nature of this mortal life and of their destined eternity past Kor's Gate.

"Da firzt momentz ob latz eternity in da Stargush will be a long forgotten pain - remembered only by da proud embrayz ob latz anceztorz."

 

[creamynoteblock 2433]

By a pyre, the Dominus Kho'Gorkil sat, a shaman tending to his wounds acquired through the battle. He reminisced over the charge, his desperate yet infinitely exciting maneuver that lead to greater damage to the coalition than whatever call some short-lived human would make. Old eyes shifted over the young Vinteki orcs that paraded into the land, feeling equally glad at their arrival and envious of young orcs. Once he was mended enough, the Gorkil perused towards the young Rex.

 

"Wub ahm lat grukkin, Grommazh?"

 

"Many urukz will flat in diz wagh."

 

"It'z better dan flattin' from old age." 

 

Beneath the night sky, the two orcs laughed - a symbol of agreement.