Honour Unto Death

[Narthok 10416]

 

 

Spoiler

 

---

 

The city “of the Urukim bustled with activity. Warriors ran too and fro, returning from far flung mines with fresh ores for the forges. Labourers hacked away at the stones of the cave wall, making new improvements to the city. Yet the heart of this green-skin hive was the grand bon-fire located in the heart of the city. A roaring conflagration of coal, various lumbers purchased from the few brave merchants that were willing to cross the southern sands, and dried animal dung, gathered from the various herds that roamed the southern deserts.

 

Around the fire stood a scarred chieftain, upon his shoulders a shawl of hides, embroidered with crude depictions of hunts and battles, various carven-bone talismans swaying off of the hem. Several Uruk, Hob-goblins, an Olog, a strange hooded figure, and what looked to be a human were gathered about the chieftain. Unlike their warrior cousins, the gathered green skins bore remarkably lighter garb, mostly linens and hide, often crisscrossed by various bags and belts.

 

“Grommash speaks now with the voice of the Hordespeaker,” the scarred chieftain would rumble. “Scout Romeroh, you are to take your scouts out into the sands and finish what Scout Qahir began.”

The lithe Hob-goblin would nod. “Romeroh accepts the words of the Hordespeaker.” He’d reply with his characteristic whisper, turning and departing silently with his companions. The soft steps of the sand walkers were a stark contrast to the heavy tread of their armoured brethren.

 

Just as the scouting party departed, the sounds of galloping horses could be heard echoing up the ravine that led to the Lurak gate. Brittle-bones thought the Chieftain no doubt come to complain of some imagined slight or to speak more lies. It was always lies with the brittle-bones. They decorated themselves with fancy words but were terrified of truth-speaking, Grommash would never understand their ways. Nevertheless they threatened his people, thus the Kru’un demanded he treat with them, as much as their ways chafed on his patience.

 

A band of bloodied horsemen galloped through the great maw of Lurak’s gate, human, but not of the tribe of the invaders. Upon approaching the chieftain recognized the carriage of the visitors despite their various masks and bandanas. They were of the strange tribe of brittle-bone warriors from the greenlands who had offered to aid to the Urukim against the land-stealing invaders.

 

“Throm’ka” Grommash thundered, his warriors gathering around the gate to inspect the new arrivals “What brings the friends of the Urukim to the south, covered in blood?” he’d query 

 

“Some of our people have been captured” the Chieftain of the riders would gasp, his lungs heaving from their maddened dash south across the sands “Will the Orcs help us?” 

 

There it was.

 

 

Help us the words terrified Grommash. He had heard them many many seasons ago. A human had stood before him, bloodied in the same manner. Those two words had sent countless Orcish warriors to their deaths. And what had the Urukim gained for it. Some land perhaps, some glory. But the brittle-bones of Veletz had betrayed them in the end.

 

Alienating the other human tribes, failing to prepare proper defences. After all the Orcish blood that had been spilt for a stranger’s war they had rolled over and surrendered like dogs. Grommash’s lip curled at the memory of it. All the talk of honour and loyalty had disappeared like ash in the wind. The Urukim had been left alone as they always were. The survivors of Veletz had offered no help to the clans against the demands of the Shamans of the Cross-spirit. They had not given any support during the struggle of the Urukim against the land-stealing invaders.

 

But this was the way of the Brittle-bones. They would dance the tongue-dance and lie-speak to get what they wanted. Perhaps it was foolish for Grommash to expect anything more of them. After all, the blood of the firstborn did not flow in their veins.

 

The Chieftain’s closed for a moment, inhaling the cold air of the caven through his nose, calming the rising fire in his blood before he look at the visitors. “The Urukim owe your tribe a debt for what you have done for us. Grommash will help reclaim your people. BUT” He’d exclaim with uncharacteristic force “Grommash has made a promise to the Chieftain of the lands of the Cross-spirit. The Urukim will not make war until after Peace-Words with invaders are had infront of eyes of all the Chieftains.” he’d pause for a moment, considering his options “Grommash will go have words with those who have captured your people, Grommash will try and convince them to let them free”

 

The chieftain of the brittle-bones nodded, still unsure of these strange alien creatures from the southern sands, yet his people faced the hangman’s noose, and his companions had told them of the strange sense of honour possessed by the desert Orcs.

 

Soon a party thundered from the gate, a collection of bloodied vagrants from the green fields of the midlands accompanied by a world-weary chieftain and his warriors. Amongst the Orcs all held doubt within their hearts, they remembered the old wars. They remembered the ways of the brittle-bones, how their tongues would twist and their hearts would change with the wind and waves. Nevertheless they had made a promise, and the way of Krug demanded that they act according to the words they had spoken.

 

 

As the party crested the black cliffs and entered the green fields of the midlands Grommash was once against struck by the fruitfulness of the lands of the Brittle-bones. The cattle of these lands were fat from the lush fields. The rivers full of fish and cool clean water. The forests full of the song of birds, bustling with game. To have all of this wealth of earth and yet still insist on stealing the sun-blasted lands of the south. On poisoning the oases and driving the herds that sustained the green-skin clans way of life to near extinction.

 

Grommash did not understand how others could not see what was so clear. All of this land-wealth, this bounty of food for their tribes, Yet they continue to steal the lands of others. How could those who were not hu-man not realise the future. Not remember the past. The chieftain shook his head in disappointment, it was never wise to expect the not-bloods to think as the children of Krug would think. He would do what he could to save his people’s land, to save his people from starvation and invasion. But he would not condemn the-blood to wallowing pathetically like dogs, death was a more merciful fate.

 

Soon the gated town of Alba loomed before the party, the horses shuffled nervously, the palpable tension in the air clear for all to see. Grommash sighed, he could see the bloodlust on the faces of the human soldiers huddled within. He could hear the blood-thirsty screams of the spirits on the wind. Blood and death would be the fruits of today. Nonetheless, the demands of the Kru’un were clear. Grommash had given words to the Shaman-Chief of the Cross-lands: he must not bring war. Signalling for the party to remain behind, the weary Hordespeaker, Chieftain Azhug of the Gorkils and the Chieftain of the tribe of masked Brittle-bones approached the gate.

 

Grommash was greeted by a feeling of vindication when the jeers and threats of the herd of humans met his approach. Truly, the brittle-bones would never change. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his nose as he tried to suppress the rising fire in his blood, the pounding in his ears. His heart screamed for death and blood. To rip and tear these brittle-boned two-legged livestock who stood before him. Huddling like sheep dressed in silver lobster shells. The fire subsided, calm returned to the mind of the Hordespeaker. His long years in the desert were bearing fruit. Perhaps someday, the siren song of the lie-speaker’s curse would subside. But not this day.

 

“Throm’ka” The Uruk thundered, dismounting his tall-horse as to be less imposing on the herd of brittle-bones gathered before him. “Grommash has come for words” Silence. Perhaps they were surprised at hearing an Orc speak. Most brittle-bones exposure to Orcs was limited to war and raiding. “This does not concern you Orc” barked the presumable chieftain of the human herd. His posture and adornment marking him apart from his less ostentacious peers. “Grommash has come to trade for freedom of prisoners” The Orc would respond, ignoring the ongoing jeers and threats of the gathered soldiers.

 

The Chieftain’s lip curled, the brittle-bones behind the gate jeered and insulted him. Brandishing their pikes. Gromash remembered the pike, the brittle-bones knew that the reach of the Uruk was long and ferocious, so they kept his people at length with the long piercing spears. He recalled his warriors pierced with spears, laughing as death took them, surrounded by piles of brittle-bone warriors at Westmark. He shook his head, he would lose himself to memories of the past, not today.

 

The Orc returned his attention to the mutterings of the human “These are bandits, what interests do Orc scum have in their release?” the human Chieftain yelled through the iron grate “They have done a favour for the Urukim” Grommash responded “So I will do a favour for them.” The weary Chieftain paused for a moment, taking a look back at the proud young warriors that had returned to the Horde, who had so much hope in the future of the Urukim. He shook his head as he resolved himself, the Kru’un’s demands were not to be trifled with.

 

“Grommash will offer himself as hostage in exchange for the freeing of the prisoners” He’d offer sombrely. Without looking he could hear the gasps and shuffling of his warriors. To help those whom they owed a favour was one thing, but for the Hordespeaker to walk into the den of the brittle-bones, their faces carved with hate, their eyes alight with madness, suicidal. “We do not want you, we want to kill the bandits” one of the humans barked. “Brittle-bones needs to learn wisdom - As long as Grommash is hostage then mask-tribe will not make war - They owe Grommash favour and will honour the favour” The chieftain responded simply.

 

The human chieftain shook his head at the offer “No, we will kill the prisoners and kill all of you” he stated bluntly. Grommash sighed, just one time he would like the voices of the wind to be in error. Yet today, as with all days, they were vindicated, they whooped and hollered in excitement, spinning wildly above the heads of all gathered. Blood would be shed this death, bodies would be fed to the earth. The Hordespeaker offered no further words, he turned, remounting his tall-horse, spurring the beast away as the humans began to blow the clarion call of their horns, charging forth from the gate.

 

 

The battle was a blur, the song of war rang out upon the wind. The screams of the wounded and the dying, the wail of shattered horses, the orchestra of blade ringing on armour. They were outnumbered. The brittle-bones had perhaps three times their numbers. Arrows flew forth as the humans charged across the narrow bridge, no matter how many found their mark the flesh tide rolled forward. The great martial advantage of the brittle-bones, their unending tide of flesh. Again and again the Orcs and their Mask-Tribe companions wheeled shooting arrows back towards their foes. Grommash watched as Azhug’s immense war cleaver tore a brittle-bones warrior clean in half. He saw the immense skill of the Mask-Tribe’s archers, the arrows of their captain finding the mark in an exposed throat, sending another warrior tumbling into the dust. Yet he also saw his own warriors falling to the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. Today the earth would feast..

 

Suddenly Grommash was thrown from the saddle, the lance of a human knight having taken his horse in the chest, sending it and by extension him tumbling into the dirt. The Orc veteran rose, wiping dust from his eyes and he coughed the dirt from his lungs. The flesh-tide was charging, he had no horse. If he was to die, he would die well. Just as he had hardened himself for death he was grabbed by the back of the collar and dragged towards a horse. One of the Captains of the Mask-Tribe had returned for him. With a swift motion Grommash mounted behind the masked rider, who quickly kicked his horse into pursuit of the rest of their fleeing party. 

 

“THE HOSTAGES HAVE BEEN FREED!” the masked rider shouted at the Orc; without sparing a beat, Grommash drew his immense horn from his belt and brought it to his lips, calling the retreat. The hostages had survived, though it had cost lives to rescue them. They had killed as many as they had lost despite the massive disparity ini numbers, they had achieved their goal of rescuing the hostages. Grommash grunted, his people would always be outnumbered, but perhaps, with training and courage, they could become skilled enough to defend themselves.

 

Bloodied, bruised, lathered with the sweat of horses and the thick dust of the road the party made their way south. Despite the hardships Grommasah noticed that both his warriors and the warriors of the Mask-Tribe seemed to be smiling and laughing.. The Brittle-bones for all of their boasting had failed to stop them. Today was a victory. Today they would feast.

 

---

Spoiler

Today, the forces of happening prevail over the dedicants of the #nothingeverhappens cult. Thanks to all involved for the PVP, especially the Alba crew and the Salvans. Hopefully, the server can shake itself out of its TeaRP + Greentag DND larp stupor and get back to its roots of player-driven narratives. Not happeners, you are invited to concede TOTAL NOT HAPPENING DEFEAT by +1ing this post.

 

If you are interested in making an orc we would be glad to have you. We are going through a bit of a cultural reformation and would love to share that with as many people as possible. You can join our discord here: https://discord.gg/R8BE65me5q

 

 

[Pegleg_Bob 1107]

The Duke of Marna looks down at the teal mask he had stolen from the dark elf bandit. He scowls as he speaks, "I swear to God, I will find out who cut the binds of this bandit, and I will hear words." He puts the mask back in his pocket before riding back to the lands of Ravenmire, getting the Royal Army once more ready for the next bandit raid.

[Pancakehz 2279]

Azhug cleaned and polished his cleaver as he rested nearby the campfire in the city. "Azhug followed Kru'un. Is nothing more important than the path." The elder Uruk hummed an old tune he had heard whistled in wars past. "We try to speak peace-words, the brittle-bones wanted blood. Threaten Grommash and say they kill him agh prisoners just because." he shook his head "This is not honor."

[Smallest_Cloud 19]

" Urukim always outnumbered but will never back down to da honorless, nub matter how many they bring! " Urug would cheer around the large bonfire after the surprising underdog victory.

[Javert 9615]

18 minutes ago, Narthok said:

One of the Captains of the Mask-Tribe had returned for him. With a swift motion Grommash mounted behind the masked rider, who quickly kicked his horse into pursuit of the rest of their fleeing party. 

 

Said captain, who was in fact Robert MacBeth, the leader of the Free Daelish Battalion, reflected upon the events of the battle. It had been an intense fight, yet one that the Daelishman bathed in the glory of. The adrenaline that had pumped through his veins during the fight had been his fuel - his personal drug. However, despite the Daelishman's craving for glory and battle, he had still taken the time to rescue the Orcish Chieftain in the heat of battle even as the hooves of Alban knights bore down upon them. Part of him was uncertain why he'd done this uncharacteristic act of kindness, but another part of him was proud he had done so, regardless of who it had been that he saved.

[DrunkPapaBear 2292]

The old Raguk stared down the bloodpit as he remembered the events of the day before. A victory for the urûkhim, but a costly one.

Lûp-Gazigazh, bhûl izubu golm ahgrîsh.

The redskin cut his palm and spilled the honorbound blood into the pit of gore. The memories of those fallen dripping with his ichor.

Stargûsh’Stroh welcomes lat all bruddahs.

He then returned to the firepit to feast and celebrate the memory of the dead.