Harvest

[Narthok 10416]

 

The corpses of Hyspians litter the floor of the Arena, having been forced to fight each other to the death

 

Harvest

Spoiler

 

---

 

The best hunter was the patient hunter. This was the ancient wisdom of the Urukim. Shared from elder to youngling since time immemorial. When seeking game that was fleet of foot or cautious beyond measure, the best hunter would wait. For the Urukim could not outrun the swift deer, nor could they outhide the rabbit. But the Urukim could wait.

 

And wait they did.

 

The tribes of Brittlebones were such fascinatingly alien organizations. So much talk of blood and honour. So much talk of oath and piety. Yet behind the golden words? Screams of fear and fast-beating hearts.

 

They had been patient. The trap had been well set. The routes well prepared.

 

When the horns had rung out from the peaks of the Horde-lands, it had not just been the Krug-blooded clans of greenskins who had answered the call of the Hordespeaker and his Warmakers. From their oases in the wastes, the warriors of the tribes had answered the call. Silently filing into the cavernous maw of Lurak clad in their exotic finery. The glowing warriors of Heavensward, the masked Brigands of the Alamo, led by their theatrical chieftain. Even some mages and mysterious cloth-wrapped warriors had arrived. The Horde of Many Tribes was not what it had once been. One had become many, and many had become.

 

But perhaps most surprising of all, the distant cousins of the Krug-blooded, the Oni and their Oyashiman companions, had arrived in overwhelming numbers. Their Chieftains spoke of punishing those falsely claiming overlordship of the Farfolk.  They had come for blood.

 

So gathered, the many coloured host thundered out of the great cavern of the Horde across the star-lit desert. News had reached them that a festival was to occur within the lands of the treaty-breakers. Perhaps they had not learned. Or perhaps they had been allowed to enjoy several festivals without interruption, all in preparation for the swift hunt. 

 

As the host approached the looming walls of Hyspia, a chieftain of the Oyashiman whistled to the gathered warriors, motioning for them to dismount. This was a hunt that called not for speed but for silence. Silence and patience. 

 

With uncharacteristic silence, the assembled warriors slipped into the city. Some whispered that rebellious Hyspian citizens had left the doors unlocked, an act of vengeance against the selfish royals who had doomed their people to an unwinnable war in service of Haense. Others said that a goblin with the deftest fingers in all the lands had gone ahead of the party and ensured that the route into the city was unlocked. Whatever the truth may be, only the Gods would ever know. Hyspia now played host to a large band of very unfriendly warriors.

 

Once more, the party resumed creeping—their plates wrapped in cloth to prevent their clinking. Armour lathered with dust and mud to obscure its shine. Many times an excessively loud Orc was slapped in the back of the head by his Chieftain. By some miracle, they had, unnoticed, arrived. Their target was just beyond a great gate. Yet the gate was closed. All that remained was a series of rusty iron doors. Cautiously, somehow remaining unnoticed, Azhug, Hordespeaker of the Hord,e pushed at the door. It swung wide. Unlocked. 

 

All pretense of silence and stealth was abandoned as the warriors of the Horde and the Shogunate flooded the festival. Patience. The trap had been strung. The fattened prey had been caught at the watering hole. And they were too slow.

 

Screams and whimpers erupted, yet none of the Hyspians even thought to reach for their weapons. “Domesticated” Thrall thought with disgust. They pretended to be children of the wastes, but they were water-fat. Well fed, well rested. They bore none of the gaunt alertness that was carved into the faces of the desert children of the Horde. Expressions earned from a lifetime of harsh living, never knowing if they would see the next Oasis. If the neighbouring tribe would swoop in in the night, leaving them with nothing but ashes and grief. Grommash had brought them out of the wastes and made them something more. But these soft Oath-breakers had killed him. 

 

Like Cattle, the Hyspians meekly allowed themselves to be bound and spirited away from the city. The warband could scarce believe the ease with which they had achieved their goal. How could such a weak tribe, a tribe with no fighting spirit, ever have hoped to survive in the wastelands of the south? They had built themselves a prison of satin and gold, calling it ‘’culture’ and ‘art’. Now they were little more than meek roped livestock, waiting quietly for death.

 

Soon, the Hyspians had been corralled into the fighting put of Lurak. The crowds of the Hordelands clustered around, struggling to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. Beside them, the warriors of the Shogunate observed, quiet behind their demonic masks of war. Under the watchful gaze of Azhug, the new Hordespeaker, The Alamo Chieftain dropped into the ring. Today, he would serve as ringmaster for this circus of vengeance. “Blood for Grommash,” the Orcs whispered in reverent tones. The martyrdom of the first Hordespeaker had begun to grow with the telling. Elders passed the tales of his life, some true, many imagined, to the ears of the younglings. Now were the days of blood and fire. Of steel and ash. Red indeed were these days.

 

Grim was the barter, and red was the trade. The Horde and their allies watched as, one by one, the Hyspians were forced to take sword to their fellow citizens. Some wept and sobbed as they plunged the sword down into the bodies of their companions, of their kin. Others fought with wild desperation. Hoping to win another minute of life, perhaps even their freedom. 

 

In the end, viscera and gore adorned the floors and walls of the pit. The prisoners had not died well. Their deaths came at the hands of their brethren. So desperate were they to live, so domesticated were they in the ways of the soft-lands, that they had not turned their weapons on their captors, but rather on their kin. The tribes of the Horde looked on with revulsion. Who could trust such a people? Who could join such a tribe? Yet the red day drew to a close. The harvest had been good.

 

A Hyspian Harvest

 

[Reckless Banzai Screamer 15456]

Ena made the serene face for the divine justice earned today for the Farfolk. There was only one Protector of the Farfolk, Ena thought to himself and it was Auntie A.

 

[Chimeraof1999 1190]

Spoiler

 

[EmiliainWonderland 2311]

Isabel Rostova received word on her distant trip of the slaughter of Hyspians at the hands of the orcs and the Oyashimans. "You cannot say I didn't warn you, for I most certainly did. Look at how it has ended, the death of many for your misplaced loyalties. You should've heeded my words, for I knew the consequences for if you did not." She turned back to her friends, tossing the letter she'd received of the news into the billowing winds as she proceeded to enjoy herself.

[Phoebe202 1057]

"DEATH TO THE HERETICS! JUSTICE FOR PAPA!" Chanted a newly-bloodthirsty Ravenmirian lass.

[Frisket 4538]

“It’z time Popo, I’m going tu make latz proud…watch mi”

 

FARAGH would ready herself for the next raid. 
 

@Narthok

[Navigator 4260]

Dûshrat, a growth-stumped Goblin, grinned; "Thingz be happenin'. . . Maybe mi zhoul' go back to 'em. . ."

[Samson Option 9652]

 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

Zoliz'in & Zilzibin studied the mudcloth banner bound at the top & bottom to its battle standard. The most prominent symbol, that of a stout mudbrick pyramid with Hobgoblins marching in a line in circumambulation, had just finished drying beneath words drawn in a flowing script.

 

“Layaali balaa nawm”

“Nights without Sleep”

“Is that what latz have felt since Grommash's death?”

“It is cousin, since taking my Grizhvow”

“Will tonight sate and fulfill it?”

“No, but it will reach its fever pitch”

 

Zilzibin took up the standard and propped it against his shoulder. They stepped outside of the Taunttongue estate to join ranks with the rest of the Krughai as they marched north.

 

 

It will reach its fever pitch. Zilzibin snapped out of his recollection, his eyes looked back down into the pit. The Hyspians therein shrank away, some recognizing him then as he placed his skull-mask back on over his face. Beneath the sun-bleached yellow of the prairie dulk's skull, two eyes looked like drops of mercury heavy & hateful. He spied a daughter of a family who confessed then that her head of the household, rather than respond to his offer, took it then to the Queen of Hyspia.

 

“You will regret the day your mother gave birth to you for the foolish act she took”

 

[Jadvig 4]

a hooded, masked figure read the report avidly, a crooked light in her eye. when finished she folded the paper neatly and tucked it away, withdrawing a ring of keys and twirling them on a finger, exceedingly pleased 

 

"A rebellious Hyspian citizen indeed" she snickered