Hatred

[Narthok 10416]

 

Hatred

 

Spoiler

The good part from Vogel im Käfig slowed and extended

 

 

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Thrall had never met the truth speaker. He had arrived in the land of his people after the human oath-breakers had shattered the treaty of the south. Yet around the campfires of Lurak, and the drink-halls of the various Horde-Tribes, he had heard the tales of the first Hordespeaker. 

 

The story-weavers said that he had been killed in cold blood, the Hyspians breaking the terms of the treaty, refusing him his free movement and ambushing him with the armies of their Haenseni masters. Witnesses said it had taken ten human warriors to bring him down, his shattered escort retreating as the overwhelming weight of the human herd bore down upon them. They claimed that the Hordespeaker had been tortured for sport. The servile Hyspians delighting in any opportunity to inflict pain upon their betters. None could fathom what horrors had been visited upon the Uruk Chieftain behind the walls of their fortress. For no member of the Horde had been present when he died, and any with wisdom knew that the word of a Hyspian could never be trusted—a race as duplicitious and vile as the serpents of the desert, children of the lie-speaker himself.

 

During his short time in the Horde, Thrall had heard much of the ideals of the dead Chieftain. They said he had dreamed a great dream, a dream of more. Of the children of Krug, free at last of their ancient curse. No longer slaughtered for sport, drowning under the innumerable numbers of brittle-bone herds whenever the brittle-bones grew tired of the lie-games they called ‘politics’. He had been captured in his infancy, kept as an amusement by nobles—a pet boar on two legs. Thrall was new to the ways of the Urukim, he had not been raised amongst the ways of his people. Yet from his earliest memories he had always been ‘other’. Finally he had found his people, a place where he could belong. Yet immediately he could see it threatened.

 

The brittle-bones viewed them as animals. When allied, the Urukim were barely sentient monsters good enough for throwing into a freshly opened breach. Disposable meat shields whose corpses would pave the way for the real heroes.

 

When enemies, no, perhaps that was giving them too much credit. When an Uruk BREATHED, they were viewed with either fear and disgust, their alien traditions too foreign to translate into the cultural vernacular of the brittle ones. Either as a threat to be eradicated or sport to be hunted. Thrall had seen it in his old life, and he had seen it in his new life. Some things never changed. Even amongst their ‘allies’ blades were drawn on them, insults muttered behind raised hands, sneers and revulsion plain of the faces of those who resented feeling small in the shadow of Krug’s own. 

 

The elders said that in the early days of Grommash, when he had first taken the mantle of Hordespeaker from the Olog-Rex, that he had been called mad, soft. To welcome home the exiled clans, to empower the shamans, to involve the Urukim in human wars. There were none who would voice such opinions now, not amongst the Horde, not after all that had occurred.

 

Grommash had known the hearts of men, he had seen their tongue-dancing, little wagging pieces of flesh sharper than the finest blade, dripping poison. He had known that these people were dangerous. No matter the pact forged, no matter how they draped themselves in shining words, the day would eventually come when they would turn on the bonds they had forged in spoken word. Where they would betray their oaths.

 

What solution could there possibly be? To be born of the-blood, to be born a child of the Firstborn was to live a life shunned and hated by the world. ‘Orc’ they used it like a slur. The Lie-speaker had done his work well. The First Liar had always poisoned the world against his enemies. And who did the Lie-speakere fear more than Krug himself. The great bane of the one who should not be named. So to was it with the mortal realms. The lie-speaker poisoned hearts against the children of  Krug; using the very curse he had inflicted on the blood of the Uruk to poison the world against them. Clever.

 

The Grommash had seen this seemingly insurmountable mountain, and he had taken the first step towards the summit. Surely of the mortal-realms it was not the Uruk alone who were hated and despised. Who were outcast by those who played the lie-game. 

 

If the great dream was to ever come to fruition, then the children of Krug had to CHANGE. No longer would the Urukim be slaves of the blood-curse. Monstrous savages unable to control the dark impulses of the curse. Nor would they be so weak as to act as the tongue-dancers did. Let the Horde open its arms; let them welcome those with no other refuge. Let them protect those with no protection. By struggle, by suffering, by raw  FORCE OF WILL, a new tomorrow would be forged. Surely this was the way of Krug, the Kru’un of which he had heard so much. 

 

The Horde of Many Tribes… This had been the Great Dream of Grommash. And they had butchered him like a dog. Grommash had demanded that the Urukm be more than their curse. That they overcome the cursed fire in their blood and live as their forefather Krug would have lived. Lives of honour, of strength. No one said it would be easy. Thrall had not known the Chieftain, he had not fought next to him, he had not seen him fall to the tide of flesh. Yet still, the manner in which one of the best of Krug’s children had been slaughtered enraged him to his very core. 

 

The Old Hatreds

Thrall stood in the middle of a great field. Corpses decorated the ground. Blood soaked the earth. A great battle, now ended. His massive warhammer hung loosely in his fingers. Before him gasped a human warrior. The breast of his cuirass caved in by the blow of an immense hammer. His raiment bore the blood-soaked colours of Hyspia. He was dying hard and slow. A bad death.

 

The Uruk warrior looked down on him with a cold hatred. There was no roaring, no hollering; the victorious warriors of the league were off celebrating, comparing trophies and recounting tales. But many Orcs simply stood silently in the field of the dead. They did not care for dynasties, the squabble of which human shaman would serve as shaman of shamans for the cross-spirit. They had been hired as mercenaries, one of the few ways the Urukim could scrape together some coins . But the war was personal now.

 

The land-stealers, the treaty breakers, they had taken Grommash in the most dishonourable manner possible. The allies of the Holy-League might whine each time a Hyspian prisoner of war was put to death, but they did not understand. They would never understand. The Urukim had trusted. The Urukim had compromised. And the Urukim had paid the price.

 

The dying Hyspian looked up at the Orcish warrior, begging for water. His pleas were left unanswered. There would be no celebration from the Urukim. No grand festivals. No boasting of great deeds. For it was not proper to celebrate a tragedy. 

 

The covenant had lost hard; their lines had folded like wet paper before the charge of the Holy League. The war was over. It was just a matter of time. They had broken their oaths, violated the treaties, slaughtered the only Uruk who had been willing to compromise. For this?

 

The treaty-breakers would pay. That was the promise each Urukim had carved into their heart. In grim silence, the warriors of the Horde combed the field for the warriors of Hyspia. There would be no Hyspian ‘wounded. ’ Not by tomorrow. They would learn the meaning of Hatred. The Horde would teach them.

 

[Smallest_Cloud 19]

Over fifty years ago, Urug had answered the call of the Urukim to join the Horde in the great Midlands Wagh. Overnight Urug became a veteran soldier, fiercely loyal to the Horde and it's ideals. Once the war had ended, he returned to his self-imposed exile, for the lie-speakers were too numerous for the Horde and its lone ally to defeat. And so, he made his way to the desert cliffs, where his home awaited.

Now, for a second time, Urug answered Grommash’s summons to return to the Horde. But this time, things were different. There was war looming once again, but unlike the past, there would be no pink skins to tether them to a distant conflict, no deceitful politics to bow to. This time, the Horde rose not for the whims of others, but for its own purpose—one that all Uruks could unite behind, a purpose enflamed by the death of it's Architect, Grommash.

A watered field of blood stood before Urug, he'd had slain the enemies of this day and threw them from their feet into their broken lifeless state, a grim testament to his hatred and the hatred that surrounds all Uruks in the aftermath of the death of Grommash. The enemies who had grown comfortable in their insolence and dishonour had dared to stand against them. They had cast them down, their bodies broken and lifeless, left in the wake of their wrath. Yet Urug and the other Uruks felt unsatisfied, the cold hatred lingered around them. The Hyspians would taste defeat and death a hundred times over before they might grasp a tenth of the loss the Uruks felt over the death of Grommash, his dream of the sacred homeland of our people cleansed from their pestilence will come to pass. Grommash tried to make peace, and was killed for it. There is no quarter for any Hyspians, men, women and children, they will either leave the Desert back to their masters in Haense or meet their end decorating our walls.

Edited April 1, 2025 by Smallest_Cloud
grammar

[Samson Option 9652]

 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

The soldier's eyebrows hunched, clearly distracted. His eyes counted the stones Zilzibin cobbled together in an outline around his hips & folded legs where he sat. His forehead creased with concern as Zilzibin began to build small slopes out of the stones he stacked to rest against his chest & shoulders. His head felt heavy as someone struck him beneath his ear, teetering drunkenly with vertigo. The double & triple dopplegangers of the dancing Hobgoblin taunted the soldier as his head spun. The dervish-like trance of Zilzibin grew in feverish rhythm where it mesmerized the soldier who began to stare in a catatonic state as if administered a wine too strong & overwhelming. His eyes looked glassy as Zilzibin stared into them in between pauses to his swaying & spinning, daring the soldier to raise complaint or cry out in defiance.

 

Rotmendur'Kur & Ghoraza joined Zilzibin now as they stamped their feet and called out for those tools which they had become comfortable being afforded by the spirits. Traces of salt, soda ash, & natron skittered along the floor at the base of the entombed soldier. Each particle seemed to jump with an instigated excitement like that of iron shavings made to vibrate by a magnet. Slowly, slowly, the salt & natron pooled against the feet, buttocks, & hips of the soldier in his struck stupor. As the particles washed up against the entombed body, it sapped what little moisture was aloft in the air and trapped in the clothes. As the particles met skin, the skin turned wafer-thin and taut against whatever bones laid beneath it.

 

The soldier woke from his stupor, his eyes darting down to watch the tide of soda ash breaking against his body. He looked up to find the shamans violently dancing & cajoling forth Bregthar's device against him. His mouth had barely opened before the natron caught the low, wincing scream that he was about to call out with. Within seconds, the soldier sat stone-still and silenced with salt & soda ash. His body tensed in calcified rigor mortis and his skin ran bone-dry & parched of all water. A scaly grey-brown hue replaced the healthy pink and the skeleton that held him altogether looked more pronounced then. The pink that had previously colored his skin colored puddles of sweat & water that had pooled at the base of his feet & bottom.

 

Zilzibin slowed his dance, his own body swaying more from fatigue than fury then. He looked upon his foe and took heart in what his exertion had resulted in. He turned then to the other two shaman who had assisted him in his ritual.

 

“Brothers, my Grizhvow remains unfinished & unsated”

“The blood of Grommash's killers will run dry & be dissipated”

“I will cast them in an obelisk of salt & soda ash”

“I will entomb the King of Hyspia & his deceitful hand azh”

“I will slay an entire generation of their adults”

“I will raise their children beneath the obelisk like colts”

“They will grow into horses well-trained & defer to my hand”

[Narthok 10416]

14 hours ago, Smallest_Cloud said:

Over fifty years ago, Urug had answered the call of the Urukim to join the Horde in the great Midlands Wagh. Overnight Urug became a veteran soldier, fiercely loyal to the Horde and it's ideals. Once the war had ended, he returned to his self-imposed exile, for the lie-speakers were too numerous for the Horde and its lone ally to defeat. And so, he made his way to the desert cliffs, where his home awaited.

Now, for a second time, Urug answered Grommash’s summons to return to the Horde. But this time, things were different. There was war looming once again, but unlike the past, there would be no pink skins to tether them to a distant conflict, no deceitful politics to bow to. This time, the Horde rose not for the whims of others, but for its own purpose—one that all Uruks could unite behind, a purpose enflamed by the death of it's Architect, Grommash.

A watered field of blood stood before Urug, he'd had slain the enemies of this day and threw them from their feet into their broken lifeless state, a grim testament to his hatred and the hatred that surrounds all Uruks in the aftermath of the death of Grommash. The enemies who had grown comfortable in their insolence and dishonour had dared to stand against them. They had cast them down, their bodies broken and lifeless, left in the wake of their wrath. Yet Urug and the other Uruks felt unsatisfied, the cold hatred lingered around them. The Hyspians would taste defeat and death a hundred times over before they might grasp a tenth of the loss the Uruks felt over the death of Grommash, his dream of the sacred homeland of our people cleansed from their pestilence will come to pass. Grommash tried to make peace, and was killed for it. There is no quarter for any Hyspians, men, women and children, they will either leave the Desert back to their masters in Haense or meet their end decorating our walls.

Spoiler

Read this again, such a banger