Gaius Marius

Passing the Threshold: A Tale of Lutaumancy 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 The young shaman observed closely, both out of nervous caution and his affinity to learn every motion and utterance of his teacher, as an older shaman broke into an ecstatic tremor. The teacher broke into a sweat as his motions became more fluid and he bounded on each foot in an eclectic series of poses and twists. To the young shaman's chagrin, his teacher's vocabulary became unrecognizable - the Old Blah articulated sounded like a foreign language. The elder shaman practiced Lutaumancy, the spiritual practice of communing with the ancestral plane and its inhabitants, acting as a conduit between the presently living and their dead ancestors. The Lutauman went through all of the necessary rituals and practices to reach the ecstatic state necessary for his soul to be tethered and for him to commune with an ancestor. "Throm'ka Kor! Latz let us pass? Mi an' mi student Kes'Izig are requestin' passage!" Kes'Izig found his Lutauman offering an outstretched hand. Kes'izig extended a hand to grasp his teacher's, hesitating for a moment as he noticed his own hand quivering with anticipation. Kes'Izig gripped his teacher's hand and shuddered as the color before his eyes drained and the contour of his teacher's body seemed to fade into a darkening background. Kes'Izig gripped his teacher's hand harder, the only reassurance he had as he went through the swift experience of traversing to the Gundar Broshan - the Plateau of Arrival. The Lutauman and Kes'Izig reappeared upon a basin of jet black stone whose features lacked such definition save for the a jade green abutment for a grotesque bridge that seemed to stretch for miles. Though the ground underneath them lacked any texture to suggest what material composed the plateau, a thick smoke hung in the air and soot collected on both Kes'Izig and his Lutauman. "Latz stay wit' mi, we make way for Doraz agh Kor," the Lutauman sternly advised his student. They both turned towards the bridge, beyond its ramp laid an endless horizon flanked by anchorages and towers whose fissures glowed jade green and its remaining architecture colored a ceaseless jet black. The sky above them, an emotionless grey, shifted here and there and cracks of thunder could be heard faintly in the distance. The Lutauman led the way with Kes'Izig following closely behind as the two discussed the epiphany of an experience that the student felt.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Shouts of alarm and anguish slowly roused the shamans from their slumber. The growing din of frenzied movement alerted the waking orcs and caused them to get up and stumble about with growing concern. Orta'Dom lifted himself out of his makeshift cot still clutching a book against his chest and stepping towards the entrance to poke his head out. A rush of hot air and smoke filled the tent and urged the shamans on and out of the tent. Orta'Dom turned to find much the encampment burning; wood splintering and disintegrating under heat and tent canvas tearing away into ribbons of flame. Infantrymen and archers gathered into formations before the shamans, looking around and anticipating attack. Cavalrymen chased frightened war-boars across the burning encampment. Orta'Dom barked orders to the shamans, sending some to salvage equipment from burning and others to facilitate an organized retreat from the encampment. A number of cavalrymen corralled their steeds and rode off in different directions scouting the surroundings as the Dom & Lur Orcs made an escape from the ruined encampment. Orta'Dom called down gusts of air to buffet the desert sands around the retreating host, using the drifting sand in the air to veil their movements as they moved at dawn. The elderly shaman, enjoying the quiet of the early morning, turned his attention to the book he had on his person. His grip loosened on the book as he eyed an unfamiliar spine and cover; the book eventually slipping from his hands and falling to the desert floor. The other shamans slowed to a crawl, looking to one another in growing horror. Orta'Dom looked to each of them with despondence, then back down to the unfamiliar book partly buried in the sand. Fury replaced his despondence, but he knew he had little recourse in retrieving his proper tome. Besides his fellow shamans, no other Orcs knew of his forays into subjugating spirits and his research being made public would cause a scandal that would dissolve confidence in his clan. The Orcish party continued traversing the desert while the encampment, still burning, glowed like a mirage in the distance. A gang of goblins, climbing down from their hiding places among date palms, departed from the same encampment in the opposite direction.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 A new moon, absent of any reflected light, loomed over a darkly veiled plain. Orcs and goblins scattered across the plain, peeling undamaged armor from corpses that littered the monotonous landscape. Carrion birds of all sizes began to circle ahead, eyeing the denuded dead. Warlord Tythor'Rax gathered a group of goblins, speaking with them in the midst of the somber activity. The goblins turned to one another, nodded in the affirmative, and bade the warlord farewell and departed from the main group of Orcs. The goblins began by looking for divots in the earth, kneeling and tossing clumps of grass aside as they found the tracks of war boars to follow. The tracks eventually led to the edge of a desert, with sand blowing and burying the grassy plains underneath it, and the goblins paused to reassess where they needed to go. Gusts blew granules of sand away from the imprints of foot and hoof embedded in the desert sands, but the goblins following the tracks found little difficulty in discerning them from the rest of the monotonous landscape. Between the slowly disappearing tracks and the occasional dung left behind by war boars, the goblins remained true in their tracking. They came to a stop upon sighting the silhouette of an oasis in the distance; campfires casting their glow over an abundance of palm groves and other vegetation. The goblins took to the nearest elevation and pressed against the ground on their stomachs, attempting to hide while they surveyed the layout of the encampment and waited until the activity in the camp died down. The goblins eventually found a row of date palms with enough shade and low foliage to provide adequate cover that led towards the center of the encampment. They crept through the encampment, each goblin surveying a different direction to ensure their safety, until they came to the end of the palm grove. The goblins studied the various tents and shanties and sent one of their own from the palm grove that they hid underneath. He pressed his hand against each shanty door and pulled back the flap of each tent to peek through, loitering little between each stop. He returned to his companions after a few minutes and sent them deeper into the palm grove while he returned to one of the tents and entered discreetly. An aroma of sage and myrrh within the tent's confines greeted the lone goblin; his beady eyes darting around and inspecting the group of shamans resting in various positions and the items littered around them. He became fixated on a tome firmly gripped in the hands of one such Orc, darkened nails pinching creases into the cover of the tome. The goblin looked around for another book, thinner than the tome in the Orc's hands, and tucked it underneath the tome. He took his time, gingerly prying each finger from the tome and sliding the tome away from the Orc with a deft motion. The Orc began to shift in his sleep, his hand clasping the book left in the tome's stead and gripping it tightly. The goblin watched his footsteps, pacing away with surety in each step. The remaining goblins outside had stripped a few of the date palms of their fronds and set them up along the sides of a few shanties. They gathered the means to create a fire and waited for their companion to finish his confiscation. When he returned from his mission, the goblins set their fires and retreated to the nearest palm grove. The goblins hoisted themselves up into a few of the date palms as the fires grew and began to eat away at the shanties and tents. The sound of alarmed Orcs and grunting war boars soon drowned out the roaring flames and the camp erupted with disarray.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Internecine skirmishes between Clans Dom & Rax made up the first two years of the First Clan War. Partisans for both Clan Dom and Rax waged war while both clan grandfathers sought support from the greater Orcish population. Both Orta'Dom and Tythor'Rax spent much of their time entreating other clans to their cause. Clan Dom received pledges of support from Warlord Veruk'Gorkil and his clan while Clan Rax received the same from Clan Lur. The increasingly volatile division between Orcs led to total war in the third year of the First Clan War; the clans involved raised armies and maneuvered across the desert for the perfect positions. Clans Lur and Rax decided to sally out of San'Maghaan to avoid being besieged. The clans eventually met along the plains south of San'Maghaan and picked their positions; their cavalry skirmished and protected the movement of the infantry. Clan Gorkil's cavalry consisted mostly of Orcs mounted on war-boars while those of Clan Rax rode atop their scaddernaks. Orta'Dom and his fellow shamans kept pace with the infantry as they marched across the plains. Before them, tall columns of dust and kicked up dirt seemed to chase each other as Gorkil cavalry flanked the main host and batted away skirmishing Rax scaddernaks. The infantrymen and shamans would stop periodically as a stray javelin let loose from an enemy skirmisher made its way into their ranks only to find a shield or an occasional body to stop its course. Clouds began to gather and bunch up in the bright blue sky as the Orcish hosts danced across the flat plains. With no hillock or depression to make a difference about positioning, the Orcish hosts of Orta'Dom and Veruk'Gorkil made their final decision and stood their ground. Infantrymen armed with axe, spear, and sword closed ranks and tossed what javelins they had on their persons at enemy cavalry that rode past. The shamans began to chant and read from their tomes, calling upon what spirits they revered and looked to the sky above. The forming clouds began to slowly morph, taking anvil shapes and growing darker with fury. The Rax cavalry, busy with dodging and maneuvering, paid little attention to the sky until the first lightning bolt lashed out and caught an unassuming Orc and scaddernak alight with a brilliant flash followed by the smell of charring flesh. The scaddernaks around the victim let out a shrill cry as they scattered like lizards exposed to the desert sun. Those infantrymen under Orta'Dom and Veruk'Gorkil cringed with consternation as more lightning bolts fired off and the claps of thunder followed suit. The shamans, however, looked on with intrigue and fascination as Orta'Dom led them in their prayerful concert. Veruk'Gorkil and his cavalry used the moment to rout the remaining Rax cavalry with minimal losses. As the lightning storm brewed above, the remaining Rax and Lur infantry retreated back to San'Maghaan. The hosts separated, with Clan Dom and Gorkil the victors, and the victorious armies went about raiding merchant caravans and pillaging mines operated by their enemies.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Embers floated in the air around the Orcs like gnats, fluttering about in their dying moments in the faces of those leaning over the firepit to keep warm. The night fell after the pleasantries and feasting between the parties of Orta'Dom & Tythor'Rax and the two elders sat on opposite sides of a burning fire in one of the courtyards near the palace of San'Maghaan. Orta'Dom & Tythor'Rax traded heated exchanges while their partisans sat scattered across and listening to every word with either nods of affirmation or grumbles of discontent. "Latz can nub continue with this arrogant pursuit if latz wish to remain part of Krugmar!" Tythor'Rax asserted, his face curling with a growing anger. "Latz nub in any position to decide what I pursue, just as latz can nub command the clans Gorkil & Lur," Orta'Dom retorted with a stern tone. Orcs are no stranger to heated debates; they appreciate assertiveness and posturing more than the other races. This argument, however, still elicited more concern than excitement or haughtiness. One of the main contentions between the clans Rax & Dom was the study of the spirits in hopes to subjugate them. Orcishkind recognized spirits as archetypal entities who governed various natural and magical elements in the world. They named and revered spirits based on their lives, their professions, and their experiences. They developed a separation between the living and the spirits and culturally adhered to a respected deference to the spirits who they understood had overwhelming power over their specified elements. Clan Rax, a more overtly martial culture, knew little of the magical arts besides the normative mythology surrounding the spirits and the fascination expected of natural occurrences of magic. Tythor'Rax, through espionage and internecine conflict, learned of Orta'Dom's ambitions and feared the worse. The premise that one could enslave the spirits and instruct them from one's will seemed an eerie prospect both for those Orcs who engaged in the enslavement and those Orcs around them. Tythor'Rax looked at Orta'Dom with exasperation. His face once looked sage, his forehead creased like a parched land, but grey streaked each crease as if blighted. Tythor'Rax feared what appeared to be consuming his once-lauded companion and found it in himself to challenge Orta'Dom. "Latz are trying to conquer the hallowed spirits ob Krug," Tythor'Rax tersely stated, leaning back and folding his arms in defiance. Orta'Dom face thinned into a sly smile at the sound of silence. The fire, now smoldering, cracked like thunderclaps and the Orcs around him either glowered directly at him or looked away with unassuming looks. Orta'Dom reached up to his face and scratched a discolored nail against his cheek; smiling mischievously all the while at Tythor'Rax. Some of Tythor's partisans who sat closest to him began to grasp the hilts of sword and spear with anticipation. "How come you accuse me of this? Latz must have some proof if latz mean to dishonor my name?" Orta'Dom asked, feigning insult in his voice. One of the partisans of Tythor'Rax jumped up, cursing Orta'Dom and the remaining Orcs around Orta'Dom & Tythor'Rax launched themselves up in protest with one another. Tythor'Rax stood up first with a forlorn look in his face and issued instructions to escort Orta's delegation out of the city. Scores of Rax partisans began to form phalanxes to discourage the Dom Orcs from becoming combative and the delegation exited San'Maghaan.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 The sandstone towers of San'Maghaan stood upright in the distance, the crenellations of each tower looked like goblets which the sun above poured its blinding sun rays into. The delegation of Orcs made their way between winding sand dunes, relying on the shade covering the base of each dune for temporary relief from the midday sun. The delegation consisted of a motley of armored Orcs armed with spear and sword, mounted Orcs atop wolves and Jabbernaks, and a single elderly Orc who walked in the center of the procession with staff and tome in hand. The delegation slowed as they neared the portcullis and entrance into San'Maghaan and waited to be greeted. The delegation spied Orcs peaking from behind the portcullis and inquisitively surveying those outside the walls. They looked down to find the portcullis raised and a party coming to receive them. The elderly Orc paced to the front and hailed those coming from the portcullis. "Thromka," Orta'Dom greeted those receiving him and his delegation. Those Orcs making their way to meet the delegation outside the city gates slowed down upon finally seeing Orta'Dom. A few of them glanced around nervously to one another seeing Orta'Dom's staff and tome in hand. "Thromka Orta, latz are welcome by the great warrior Tythor," one of the guards mustered up the courage to reply. Magic, in its raw and incidental form, fascinated Orcs since the beginning of time. The earliest Shamans were those Orcs who tried to deduce patterns in the natural occurrences of magic and made claims & judgments based on their deductions. In recent decades prior to the first Clan War, a number of Orcs set out to explore the potential of both harnessing and manipulating magic. Orta'Dom, chief among those Orcs taking a greater interest in the magical arts, made great progress in developing a primordial utility of the magical arts. The legendary duel between Krug and his kin against the Daemon Iblees affected Orcish cosmology and, in particular, gave reason for consternation towards the growing shamanic class including Orta'Dom. Many Orcs thought that the manipulation of magic imitated the Undead that Krug had warred against and, particular to Orta'Dom, his use of lightning astonished those Orcs who rejected the magical arts as a profane mimicry of the demonic powers of Undead necromancers. The early separation of Orcishkind into the clans of Dom & Rax happened on the basis of whether or not magic should be studied in the hopes of harnessing and using it. Orta'Dom looked back at his delegation and motioned them forward as the portcullis opened once more to let both parties outside in. The soldiery on both sides followed each other's movements with anticipation and tension; Orta'Dom & Tythor'Rax found each other amid the mob of Orcs and approached each other. The mob thinned and made way for the two elderly figures to meet. Orta'Dom tucked the tome he carried underneath his arm and braced himself with both hands against his staff and watched as Tythor'Rax sheathed his sword and extended the same hand. Orta'Dom grasped the hand firmly with one of his and slid his hand until both Orcs had each other's forearms in a firm hold.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Tales danced in Mugdul'Yar's eyes; the reflection of the camp's flames painted each scene vividly for the Orcs to witness. Mugdul'Yar stared into the fire a few minutes more, recollecting his memories and preparing to regale his guests with a passionate retelling of lore & legend. Both the elder and the junior of the crowd sat with enraptured attention and leaned forward to indicate their attentiveness. "Latz come to hear the stories of yore, of ancestors old. Latz seek to take some comfort or wisdom from these stories told. I will retrace the ancestors' first footsteps, may my memory remain firm. I will instruct you of both the heroic and of the vain for their merits you must learn." Mugdul'Yar jabbed his finger into the sand beneath him and traced words made apparent with the light of the campfire. Rax. Dom. He folded his arms and looked to his audience. He looked for any eyes to light up with acknowledgement, but only found faces darkened and eyes glancing left and right with embarrassment. "Latz can't be ashamed for not knowing the oldest stories. We begin with the first Clan War between Rax & Dom," Mugdul'Yar shouted, having stood up already, beating his chest and riling up the interest of the Orcs sitting around him.

MFW when I started a horde in 2015 and missed out on Surge 1.3.0 for dope cavalry mechanics.

[Will post my application as soon as I am able to]

((HMU on Discord if you need any prose written. I like the premise of this group.))

Any place on the Tech Team for a JavaScript developer?

Real talk, there was a meme video years ago using this same script, I think about some war with Humans. Does anyone have it?

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 The Orks knew better than to put up a phalanx before the dulk as it raked at the hunters with its trio of horns. Mugdul'Yar dove to the side and tried to prod the dulk and fell back as it turned to face him. The spear-armed Orks continued to spread out and try to surround the behemoth; poking their spears out to put distance between themselves and their prey. With the dulk stunned momentarily with frustration at the different angles of attack at its body, sword-bearing Orks set out from the sides and behind the dulk to swipe at the softer belly underneath. Bloodlust consumed the less disciplined Orks and caused them to grow less coordinated in their effort. The dulk caught one of the Orks' foot underneath its hind leg and caused the Ork to yelp in pain. The dulk, feeling the Ork's foot trapped underneath its own, lifted its hind-quarter and kicked out the same leg launching the Orc a couple of feet away. Some of the Orks grew exasperated with the disarray and began to throw themselves at the dulk in heroic charges. Mugdul'Yar reached out and yanked one of the youth who braced with daring; wanting to imitate the reckless combatants trying to take on the dulk individually. The leader of the hunting party tried to recall the few forlorn hopes who tossed themselves into individual assaults, but to no avail. The dulk cut down bodies like a scythe trimming wheat stalks. The leader, in his own feat of daring, launched himself onto the dulk and grabbed on tightly just below the head. The remaining Orks either watched with suspense or tried to distract the dulk by thrusting spear & sword in its direction. The hunt's leader braced his legs around the neck of the dulk and proceeded to drum his fists furiously against the skull of the dulk. Mugdul'Yar watched as the dulk tried to fight against fatigue, both from exerting itself trying to buck off its assailant and the concussive result of the assault. He took advantage of the dulk weakening to encourage the hunters to close in and stab at its abdomen. With each blow to the head and piercing lance to its abdomen, the dulk's thick legs began to buckle and fold. Orks worked together to catch their leader as he leapt off the dulk before the dulk collapsed onto its side with a series of agonal gasps.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Molonym Puerithsanan traced his fingers along the page of the book he had open in his hand and read the following lines: "Ullral iyl'fin narneyae. Indor vull kae wyl sanan reweiler. Kae annyer ilu'aeloran ehya kae adonter medier" He heard stirring in the library and his intuition mentioned suspicion. Molonym closed the book with a quiet fold of the hand and looked over his shoulder. He paced between the aisles and leaned over to peer past corners and down the maze-like rows. The early morning hour which he chose to visit the library during may have provoked a fellow Elf to come inside and investigate the candlelit at the entrance. Molonym shrugged to himself and turned back to the book cradled in his arms. He thumbed through pages, trying to find where he had stopped his cursory reading. A bookcase came crashing down atop Molonym with a sudden force. The book fell from his grip and slid along the floor feet from his outstretched hand as a cloaked Elf launched from where Molonym laid and snatched the book by its hardcover. Molonym cried out for help and drew his legs against his torso to kick the bookcase off his body. The other Elf threw himself against the wall adjacent to the entrance of the library, peering out across the city street. The Elf's cloak fell away from his head and revealed the Mali'ker's tribal tattoos. Molonym picked himself up and found the Mali'ker darting out of the library. Molonym felt conflicted, knowing he didn't have a fighting bone in his body. He threw himself halfheartedly after the Mali'ker and ran out of the library. The town began to stir, Elvellyn men and women peering out windows and ducking their heads out of their doors to find a Mali'ame pursuing a Mali'ker in the early morning. Molonym's courage only grew with each sight of the stolen book tucked in the cloak of the Mali'ker he chased.