Narthok 9213 Popular Post Share Posted January 14 The Warsong Spoiler The word exploded in masonry and hot iron as another cannonball buried itself in the walls of the Stassion fortress. Grommash rubbed an arm across his face before returning his attention to the flame spitting contraption before him. The dust and sweat had congealed so heavily as to form a gritty paste across his entire body. Yet still the Orcish Chieftain laboured on. Another explosion. Another rain of stone and dust. Another explosion. Curses and screams, the siege was going poorly. Peering over the parapet Grommash could see the innumerable squirming figures of the army of eight. They swarmed over their massive earthen fortress like ants. Too many. Always too many. Gritting his teeth he cast an eye to his surroundings, many of the cannons had already been reduced to piles of twisted steel and burning flesh. Warriors of the Horde littered the forward earthwork. It seemed that the Urukhim always somehow found themselves in the vanguard. Through the fire and the smoke Grommash could make out the Cavalry of the alliance swinging wide across the hillside. Banners snapping cleanly in air yet untainted by the black pollution of Cannon fire, nor the screams of the wounded and the dying. An almost ephemeral beauty seemed to possess the column of shining cavalry as they advanced upon the enemy. Even in this charnel house of death perhaps beauty could still be found. Yet the brief scene was soon shattered as the Alliance cavalry met with the covenant outriders. Too far to hear, yet even from the walls the horror of the charge could be seen. Hearing screams behind him, the young Hordespeaker tore his eyes from the far away battle, One of his warriors had become trapped between the barrel of one of the massive forward siege cannons. Grunting, he’d move his massive frame to investigate. The warrior while battered and bloody did not seem crippled nor mortally wounded. The eyes of the two met, each knowing the mind of the other perfectly, having no need to exchange something so primitive as mere words. Life in the desert was brutal and hard. If a member of the tribe became crippled during war or the hunt, perhaps it was better for them to die. Better a death in the field than a life of ignominy, another mouth to burden the horde, a mouth that could not feed itself. The warrior's death was not written in the stars, not here, not now. The two exchanged anod before the young Rex braced himself, assisting the trapped warrior in shifting the massive steel barrel to allow the warrior below to wriggle free. More explosions. More dust. And… the tramping of feet. Once more Grommash peered from his position amidst the earthworks. Before him nothing but an obscuring storm of smoke and dust. Yet still he could hear the tramping of boots. The human tide was coming. Muttering a prayer to the Orcfather Grommash would pull his warhorn from his belt, raising it to his lips and from it issuing a deep but clear tone. The humans within the keep would have no knowledge of the horn's meaning. The humans without, astride their great destriers were perhaps too far to hear. yet the children of Krug would know the meaning of the horn well. It signaled the dyingtime. Some knew it as the warsong, others as the deathcaller. For when its mournful cry was sounded, the death and blood were surely etched in the stars. Eerie silence fell over the ramparts, there were almost no humans in the ramparts, those there were took their queues from the Urukhim comrades. Warriors made their peace with their warbrothers and their totems. Many closed their eyes, breathing deeply as they wrestled with the rising furor of the beast nestled deep in the heart of every child of Krug. To fall to the bloodcurse of the Urukhim was a great shame. To lose oneself to the rage and become as an animal was antithetical to the way of Krug. And so, as silence pervaded the ramparts, interrupted only by the crackling of fire and the tramping of human boots. Voices in the smoke; Commands, issued in the strange foreign tongues of the humans. The serenity was shattered. Innumerable screaming humans fell upon the ramparts. They were met with weapons as long as they were tall, arrows as long as their forearms and as thick as their fingers. Those who fell, choking on their own blood, bodies cloven in twain, throats gifted with the kiss of the arrow shaft, were quickly replaced by more. As the first of his warriors began to fall, the great Bull Uruks of the Horde surrounded and impaled with spears, the Chieftain called the retreat. His warriors were slow at first, many half consumed by the blood rage, yet they came nonetheless, soon clearing the forward earthworks. For a moment Grommash felt pride. When he had first become Rex the Horde had been a wild and wounded thing. There had been no discipline, little honour, none who would die for the greater good of the Horde. Even as he retreated Grommash saw the fire in the eyes of his warriors. An venerable warrior looked back, even as his massive frame was impaled by the hated spears and arrows of the humans. There was not regret in his eyes, only a surety, a grim satisfaction. Offering a nod and a fatalistic smile to the Hordespeaker, the warrior opened his massive fanged jaw impossibly wide, gouging out the throat of one of his interlocutors before the final lifeblood ebbed from his massive body. The warriors of the Horde fought a slow and grinding retreat through the shattered remnant of the human fortress. Grommash hated human fortresses. Walls thinner than a single stride. Endlessly mazes of squat tunnels. A horrible place to die. Floor by floor they retreated, each passing minute diminishing the number of warriors who yet stood with Rex of all Urukhim. Finally there was nowhere left to run. A mere handful of warriors remained. It was only a matter of time until the resting humans below brought ladders and fresh troops to the fore. Before the flood resumed its inexorable march. Far in the distance Grommash could see the swirling formations of alliance cavalry decimating the cavalry of the covenant. He could not understand. Almost the entire army had abandoned the fortress. Had abandoned the Orcs… How could they possibly hold off a force outnumbering them almost ten to one? The Warchief shook his head, bringing his horn to his lips once more he blew the mournful tone of the deathcaller. If the death of his people was written in the stars, then his journey to his ancestors in the Stargush’stroh would be announced in the finest way he knew how. By hornsong, and by the death of his enemies. The clack of wood on stone broke the brief lull in the fighting. They were coming. Grommash smiled, the fatalistic death mask of the Orcish warrior. He had earned his death. Smashing his massive boomhammer against the flat edge of his axe, he illuminated the roof of the castle in sparks, igniting the hammer that had been held by so many before him. He had earned his death. Opening his mouth impossibly wise he unleashed a blood curdling warcry before he’d charge towards the humans clambering up the ladders. If the tonguedance was the language of the human, then let the children of Orcfather be known by the wardance. Abandoning all pretense of safety, Grommash threw himself into the melee, the almost eight foot tall Orcish youth still entering his physical prime. His massive footsteps beat the drumbeat of war, each foot shifting and stamping as battle demanded. His twin weapons, the massive Rimesteel waraxe and his Boomhammer Dagalur echoing the beat of his footsteps. Thump, BOOM. Thump BOOM. First the axe would sink home, followed by the brutal finality of his hammer. Death was coming for the Rex, he would meet it gladly. Before him stood a human clad in finery and colour. One of their chieftains or Keshig perhaps.. Another soul to announce his arrival. The two met, weapons flashing as they met again and again. Yet without realizing it, Grommash had come to the edge of the castle roof, his foot slipping on the loose stones. As he fell the warrior’s blade pierced through his stomach. Falling. Noise. Darkness. The voices raged. COWARD. FAILURE. TOO STUPID TO EVEN DIE. The voices of the warsong, the whispers. More real now than ever before. Was this barren place the Stargush’Stroh? This field of blackened stone and magma? The world erupted in fire. Pain. Anguish. Sorrow. He had failed. So many warriors had died at his command. He clung to ‘the path’ but what had that brought him. Failure? Who was he to deny the gift of the Urukhim. To look down on the gift given to the children of the greatest of the descendants. He must drink.. Drink deeply. No longer would his insults against the gift be tolerated. He must drink and become what he was always destined to be. To drink of the gift was not to become an animal, it was not to become ‘less’. It was to become so much more. To shed the pathetic chains of ‘honour’ and ‘morality’. To drink of the gift was to become was the Urukhim were always destined to be. Conquerors. A hand emerged from the roaring flames. Grommash had never seen a hand so perfect in his entire life. It shimmered beautifully, belonging to every race, yet no race simultaneously. In its dexterous fingers was held a beautiful goblet of the purest crystal. Within the goblet swirled.. Grommash could not tell. Blood? Fire? Liquid Gold? Everything and nothing. “Drink” the sonorous voice demanded. Extending a hand forward the Rex gingerly took the cup from the shining hand. Cautiously he would raise it to his lips. The world shook. The melodic voice screamed “NO, NO, NOT NOW, HE WAS ALMOST MINE” Silence. The fire faded. Grommash was overcome with indescribable feeling. The love of a father. Safety. Pride. Sorrow. Disapointment. Rage. "My son" boomed a voice that dwarfed the strong and infantilized the old "Go" The young Hordespeaker awoke amongst his furs. His small spartan chambers dim, the torches extinguished and the windows covered with yet more furs. His stomach skillfully bandaged. He did not understand what he had seen. What was real, what was dream The lines seemed to blur more and more with each passing day. His dreams becoming more vivid, the warsong growing louder, yet never before had he heard the whispering so clearly.. Weakly the Warchief pulled himself from his furs, leaning heavily on the walls and pillars of his chamber he would limp to the entrance. Emerging from the furs he would come face to face with one of his great armoured keshig standing stoically on guard, battered and bandaged, but whole. “Summon the lodge” the Rex commanded, his voice a hoarse whisper “There is much to discuss” 43 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
_mady07 1105 Share Posted January 15 Love this post. Good writing for sure. 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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