Answers From the Hall

[_Jandy_ 3192]

Spoiler

 

Stargush'Stroh circa 164.

The Ruzob Ukûnûrlug was without a doubt the greatest feat of architectural design devised by orcish minds. The structure was surrounded by 13 distinct biomes which were each studied by scroll carrying goblins who spent their days taking notes on the soils, fauna, flora, and weather patterns. The structure was a colossal dome that reached 250 feet tall and the spire pierced the clouds for another 30 feet into the air. This place within the orcish afterlife was home to those with boundless curiosity and those who let pride plague their wealth of knowledge. This place, and its endless alleys of scrolls and books, was known as The Halls of Endless Study.

 

A mortal shaman trudged past a bundled up hobgoblin who studied the frozen tundra. Confusion struck the Lutauman as he thought ‘This ancestral earned his eternal reward and spends it with his knees in the snow..’ Grothzark’Dom despised the wickedness of the snow. How his ears burned, his fingers numbed, and how the wetness seeped into his boots. He rushed to enter the oversized dual doors which were flanked by braziers that burnt blueflame. Such oddities failed to phase the shaman anymore, the spirits had shown that their domain was unlike that of the mortal world a hundred times over. 

 

Grothzark entered the halls and found himself at a reception desk where he idled. Nobody seemed to be attending it. Hours passed and so did many unhelpful scholars. Hunger gnawed at the shamans stomach and weariness weighed at his eyes. He knew better than to enter the depths of the halls without permission - spirits were strict, litigious, and unforgiving. The shaman rummaged through a stack of tomes on the desk [The Rexdom of Rex’Rix’Rax Volume VII] [Ledger of Atheran Trog Transactions] [Veluluai and Dom: An Unlikely Friendship] [The Origins of Halflings and Their Long Lost Ferocity] [Narrative of the Life of Malgunuz’Raguk]. The Uruk sighed and went to pick up the history book on halflings before a tiny pink hand cracked a cane down upon his head “Don’ be touchin’!” barked out a big chinned halfling from behind the reception desk.

“Bobo’Lur..” commented the grey-skinned uruk, rubbing his forehead which began to redden from the blow

 

“Ya sure aint tellin’ me nothin’ new.” said the ancestral spirit who was clad in earthtone robes “Wha’s a mortal like you doin’ here anyhow? Always lookin’ for something. Can never jus’ be patient like the rest’o us.”

 

The lutauman jested “Mostly waiting zo far..” 

 

“Only a fool expec’s a spirit to be mindful of time!” hollers the tiny Lur “When ya got all o’ infinity before ya the days an’ hours seem to blur.”

 

Grothzark cackled “Zuppose zo.” a pause filled the air, which seemed to make the crackling of open flames pop louder “Elder Bobo, me be heyr wiv da intent to learn ob da mysteries ob Da World Kaktuz. We mortals have no zeeds from da previous realmz.”

 

Bobo rubbed his grotesquely bulbous chin “You’ll be needin’ a proppah scholar o’ historikcal shamanism, hmm?” he seemed to scan the surrounding venue, lifting himself onto his hairy tip-toes, as though one might be passing by at any moment “Old git Thurak is warden of da Yar Gallery. To get there go you’ll have ta go down under the librareh by takin’ the bone staircase.”

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It took quite a while but now that the shaman had some direction on where to go he felt somewhat reinvigorated. The bone staircase turned out to be hidden within a glimmering redstone sarcophagus which, when opened, revealed a winding stairwell which had its steps made of rib bones. The shaman wasn’t sure but he suspected the bones to be of straddoth origin. With each step upon the bones they rang out a distant macabre caterwaul that was so pained that it led Grothzark to suspect that it was the last sounds that the beast made before it met its end. The temperature cooled as the shaman descended into the depths of pitch black stone though that very stone, in time, opened up to a foyer. The foyer had a mosaic floor which depicted a white turtle that swam through a golden pool. Standing over the intricate floor was a bloodsteel gate with Old Blah text etched into the bars - what laid beyond the gate was obscured by a thick cloth veil which was woven into the pattern of a zodiac. A dozen ancient desert beasts chased each other in a circle as the sourceless wind blew and caused the drapes to ripple.

 

The shaman stepped forth, in an abundance of caution, around the depiction of the turtle. He neared the bars of the gate to study the Old Blah inscriptions, translating under his breath so as to whisper out 

 

“Gold that won’t glow.

Grains that don’t grow.

Earth that shall blow.

What I am, do you know?”

 

The Dom rubbed his forehead in annoyance. “Ob courze there’z a riddle involved.” A groan escaped him before he took a deep breath a reread the riddle to himself “Word-danzin’ globz.” He touched the bars of the gate as he spoke the answer in the Old Tongue “Rar.”

 

Upon the words being spoken the gate began to lift up into the ceiling and the grin that pulled at the uruk’s face could not be denied. He stepped forth with pride past the veil to find a circular chamber with two figures within it.

 

As the mortal entered the two ancestrals looked up from the tomes they studied to scan him over. The male, dark green skin and spectacles rested upon the bridge of his nose, spoke up “Throm’ka.. Who enterz da Gallery ob Yar?”

 

Grothzark stepped forth, placing a hand on his chest as he introduced himself “Grothzark’Dom, Waghbozz of da Horde, Lutauman of da Lodge-”

 

The fe-orc, possibly not of pure orkish descent, cut him off “Cub of Nazark’Gorkil.”

 

“Lat must be Elphaba’Gorkil-Yar.” The Lutauman responded “Renowned healer of yore.”

 

Pride was the weakness of all spirits that the shaman had met and the flustered grin that settled on the woman’s face proved such to be true yet again.

 

She responded “Welkome to da gallery, mortal. Wub is it that lat seek?”'

 

Thurak scanned the Dom up and down, unsure of him “He haz lost something.”

 

The Lutauman nodded in admission “Da Horde has lost all seedz ob da World Kaktuz agh seekz answers on how we may enjoy it’z splendor once more. Old Bobo blahed zomething about searchyng heyr to find scholarz ob more ancient shamanic practicez.”

 

Thurak stood, pushing up his glasses and tossing a sheet over the works which laid upon his desk. Grothzark caught a glimpse of a kind of golemic construct and an intricately carved crimson tablet that both disappeared under the sheet. The old Yar, who stood at what seemed to be the height of a Braduk, barked at him “Lat of mortalz all should hav an understandyng of how diz kan be done. Did latz popo teach latz nothing?”

 

Grothzark did not flinch as the old man’s spittle crashed into his chest “He did nub believe it waz hiz place to teach me to be a shomo. It muzt be earned by merit, nub by blood. Da orkish way.”

Annoyance overwhelmed Thurak’Yar, so much so that he pulled the spectacles from off of his nose “Nub, dumbskah. Ramakhet.” he said, as though the one name would explain things. Grothzark stared at him with a blank look which drew out another exasperated groan from Thurak - that groan, in turn, drew out a snickering giggle from Elphaba who sat behind him. “Ramakhet, da spirit ob da desert. He iz nub well known because to be drawn into hiz realm direktly iz death. It iz zo unforgiving that the windz alone would eat lat to da bone before lat had da chanz to draw a coarse breath.” A forest green finger shot up into the air as if to indicate that his lecture was not done “Yet.. Az Nazark dizkovered, wholly by accident, da lezzer spirit ob oases may protekt latz within da realm ob Ramakhet… Her naym iz Ytris.”

 

Grothzark furrowed his brows at this “Zo lat want me to go into Ramakhet’z domain agh convince diz merciless dezert spirit to give uz the power to grow a world kaktuz?”

The shaman had asked one too many stupid questions and Thurak blitzed him, although the ancestral spirit appeared like an old geezer the speed at which he moved proved that to be wholly false. A right fist found the Dom’s ribs, doubling him over right into a left uppercut that met a tusk and dazed the lutauman. “Find da lezzer spirit ob Ramakhet, Sorghal. Spirit ob Cacti.”

 

The battered shaman, still doubled over, looked up to the old Yar and took a deep breath. “I will devote da tome dat rekountz zuch aktionz to the both ob latz.” he explains “Zo lat may add it to da Gallery.” 

 

Tusked grins sprouted in unison from the spirits at this.