Pancakehz

Azhug took a breath as the news of this passing reached him. After Gutlug kneeled and yielded during their duel, rendering it complete and declaring Azhug the victor according to tradition, he feared that this might happen. He shook his head "Azhug offered you peace, offered to speak with you. Yet you continued to claim my kin were heretics and claimed to speak for Krug." he sighed, for it was always a burden on him when one of Krug's children passed on. Azhug took hold of the letter that was addressed to him and read it. As his eyes moved back and forth, he spoke to himself "I have been the only descendent of Gorkil for some time, strange to read such claims from one who knows so little of my grizh." he snorted momentarily before continuing on "Even in death, he cannot see that the Lur clan was never the issue. Only his wild tongue and disrespectful nature." he shook his head, folding the letter once more and discarding it. "Rest well, Brother Gutlug."

Azhug sat within the home of the Akaal. His hands traced over his books and ingredients as he searched for the ideal ones. Krug's justice will be had and Azhug would help it come to fruition.

W eeveelution lover (Umbreon da goat tho) W cyberpunk lover W star wars lover W Dodgers fan #bleedblue

Pact of Mirrors A cool breeze drifted over the Goi, a stark contrast to the blistering, arid climate that typically blanketed the Hordelands. In his home, Azhug prepared himself. Soft hums escaped his maw as he retrieved a freshly rolled blunt, packed tightly with the finest and most potent cactus green he had ever smoked. The Akaal moved from doorway to doorway, gathering his tools, before finally finding himself on the top floor of his tower. It was there that he chose to travel to the Immortal Realm. The Red Orc leaned forward, lighting his blunt with the flame of a nearby torch. He peered down at the embers gathering at its end before bringing it to his lips and taking a long drag, inhaling deeply. “Veist-û, lûpizg lat. Tûzg lat-izish ag trov.” he muttered, shutting his eyes as he breathed in through his nose, his mind and soul seemingly leaving his body. He drifted. Through nothing? Through everything? His mind and body felt weightless, and his eyes saw nothing but darkness. His gaze into the abyss was interrupted only when he blinked and suddenly found himself in the midst of a fiery battlefield. He peered back and forth, seeing bodies strewn across the terrain. His ears were flooded with roars and screams, echoing from formless beings that Azhug himself could not see. His nose filled with the scent of blood, death, and decay. His eyes traveled across the field in search of anything that could lead him toward his goal. It was there, atop a nearby hill, that he spotted a figure so towering and fearsome that even Azhug, a battle-hardened veteran, felt unease creep into his chest. He approached the figure, crawling through the mounds of blood, dirt, and debris. As he climbed, his foot slipped from beneath him. He peered downward, grasping at what he could to regain his balance. He peered up once more, the figure that was before him now vanished as if it were never there. Azhug took a deep breath. It was clear to him that his surroundings were not what they seemed. Something wasn’t right and Azhug felt unsure of what he could trust in this domain. He shut his eyes once more, “Za kul fîgû, baduzg-izish atâr.” he muttered before opening his eyes once more. His eyes were now set upon a vast desert. The Domain of Dazkur? Azhug shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He traversed through the dunes, feet sluggishly dragging through the sand as he moved onward. “Veist, baduzg-izish trovlab agh baduzg-izish atâr.” With these words, the sands began to twist and swirl around him. His lungs seemingly gasped for air and his hands found their way to his throat, clawing with desperation. His vision began to spin in tandem with the sand that swirled around him. As he struggled to breathe, the sand suddenly came to a halt, forming a reflective wall around him. Azhug took a long-awaited breath, inhaling sharply and gasping for what air he could find. As he peered around, he noticed sharp angles within the reflective surface. Each angle offered a different portrayal of himself. As he looked at each version of himself, he found that each wore a different expression. They blinked at different times, they breathed differently. This couldn’t be real, could it? He closed his eyes once more, “Veist! Thlûk za! Shum baduzg-izish atâr!” he exclaimed ferociously. “Hahehehahaha…” he heard a cackle surround him, seemingly coming from all sides. Azhug hesitated a moment before opening his eyes. Before him stood a being, a grin adorning his face as he looked into the Akaal's eyes. “Mirz kul lat?” the Spirit said to him. It moved around him in circles. At first, it slithered, then it appeared as a man, then as a beast. “Bugud-izub kul Azhug, ghashn-izish bugudlab Ilzgûl.” The Spirit looked at him silently, his grin never wavering as he watched the Akaal intently. “Bugudizub kul Hygerak. Amat lat skaat tul?” The two conversed back and forth in the language that both understood. “Skaat-izg u gimb-izg gothûrz Veist.” said Azhug, his red eyes following Hygerak carefully. Three apparitions appeared before him. Each one differed slightly, though all were a reflection of himself. Hygerak commanded him to identify the true copy. Azhug peered over each one, his eyes tracing each and every detail. The first appeared nearly identical, though his stature was a head shorter than Azhug himself was. He moved onto the second, a copy that stood equal in height and width. He studied the details of this one as well before his gaze landed on his arm, a hand missing. Azhug peered down at his own hands, both intact. He shook his head before pointing to the third. Hygerak nodded. The three apparitions faded away, returning to the air from whence they came. Hygerak turned his back to Azhug, moving further into the desert, Azhug following behind him. As they moved, the sands shifted as grass began to sprout from beneath the dunes. The landscape around him moved in unnatural ways, twisting and morphing into something new. Hygerak led Azhug to a solitary door that stood amid the landscape. Upon entry, it opened into a void with a mirror bridge. Surrounding him were shattered pieces of reflective glass that appeared to float in the air. Hygerak turned back to him, “Lat paash hon dushizub. Lat paash fitg gothûrz Veist. Ukh lat u nau dursh agh lûmp lat, za baduzg lat fitg dushizub.” Azhug nodded before he took a few steps forward, peering over the end of the bridge into nothingness. If what Hygerak said was true, this was his final test given to him by the Lesser of Veist. The Red Orc positioned himself before taking a deep breath and throwing himself from the bridge. As he fell, the cackles of Hygerak grew quieter, fading into the void that surrounded him. As his mind was violently thrust back into his mortal form, Azhug rubbed his temples. His mind was weary from the walk and the puzzles therein, but he knew that this pact would serve him well.

Azhug returns home to the Horde, bruised and battered. He sat in silence as the smoke from the mountain hold could be seen across the continent.

[!] The Halls of Khaz'A'Dentrumm echoed with the ringing of bells, signaling the arrival of another fallen Dwed. Paragon Gror made his way to meet the fallen warrior at the gates, for even if they thought themselves unworthy of recognition, he knows a true warrior when he sees one. "Welcome home, Tomrin."

Azhug read the missive. "Is always those who do nub carry a mantle that claim to gruk the most about how it should be done." he said. The Red orc set the paper to the side and made his way toward the throne room for the Klamor. "Lat did hozh Torosh. Now it is tik for a new Uruk to take lat place."

What has been your favorite memory? Can be RP related or friendships OOC

Rorry Irongrinder reads the missive. He confers with his father on what they are to do about the strange beast that roams the Urguanian wilds.

Azhug prepares himself to aid the Motsham in this endeavor. "Azhug will find out all that he can, will blah these to lat Motsham." he said to Maukurz

Happy to have known and interacted with you for so long Fimlin. You've been an integral part of the server whether it be as ST or World Dev. Best wishes man, thank you for all you've done.

Still couldn't conquer the world

Azhug of the Gorkils readies a band of Keshig and Urukhim hunters, setting out to track down and bring justice upon this evil being.

I think this is a very real conversation that should be had, and I applaud the initiative taken to actually come up with an idea on how it should be approached. +1 and much support from me.

Azhug sheds a tear for Gruul, he fucked around and found out. Azhug will miss his surprise stews, though he never was quite sure what the ingredients were.

Azhug'Gorkil beatboxes to this sick poem.

The Price of Honor “If I am to die, let me die with honor and dignity.” Gror Ireheart The sun sat behind clouds, casting a shadow over an otherwise exposed field, where two foes sat face to face. On their mounts, the duo stared at each other, tension so sharp it could cut through even the hardest rock. Neither said a word, but they already knew why they were there and what was to come. Gror Ireheart gripped his lance tightly as he prepared for the duel he had found himself about to partake in. The elder mountain dwarf rubbed his eyes, his frame and mind tired from centuries of battle, pale in comparison to when he was in his youth. Across from him sat Corswain, a young and hungry man, destined to become a great knight of the Empire of Man. Gror looked upward. He shut his eyes for a moment that felt like an eternity. “Gror! Move your feet!” In front of him stood an aged, bald dwarf with a brown beard and amber eyes. The dwarf looked down at him, Gror standing at a height much shorter than he was now. With a grin, the older dwarf kneeled to meet Gror’s eyes. “Well done. You will make the Clan proud, my son.” A feeling of warmth washed over him as he looked around. The green banners of the Ireheart Hall hung above his head. The fire crackled and popped, harmoniously singing along with the laughter and sparring of other Irehearts in the Pit. Gror took a deep whiff of the air around him, and a familiar scent of freshly cooked pork belly filled his nose. His father looked back at him and beckoned him to follow as he entered a door at the back of the clan hall. Gror placed a hand on the door, but instead of leading to another room, it took him to an open field strewn with the bodies of Dwarves, Men, Orcs, and Elves. He looked down and found himself wearing his old Grand Marshal uniform. “Gror! We need to press the attack! Send these Umri back to where they came from!” Gror raised his sword and called for a charge, the entirety of the army at his back pushing toward their enemies. Gror looked around him as they moved. His gaze was met with the faces of those he had called friends, some old and some new, some dead and some alive. Rhewen and Oyvind Frostbeard, Darek and Darid Irongrinder, Fili and Fimlin Grandaxe. As the armies clashed, Gror found himself face-to-face with an Orenian knight. They circled each other, ready to engage in combat, as Gror was suddenly tugged backwards. Suddenly, he was looking down at a gathering of Dwarves. “Narvak oz Urguan! Narvak oz Gror!” Gror reached up and felt the crown that sat upon his head. His mind flooded with memories of when he served as Grand King. To his right stood his old friend Darek Irongrinder, his right hand during his reign. On his left, his most loyal Kingsguard, Charles the Bald, a legend in Urguani history. The Dwarf, addressing him, rambled on and on. “Grand King, the Frostbeard rebels have aligned themselves with the newly re-formed Empire. They make for Renatus to seek an alliance. It is said the Emperor desires to see Urguan fall.” Gror furrowed his brow, and he commanded his scribes to draft letters to King Artyom of Norland, Lord Abdes de Savin of Santegia, and the Rex of the Orcs. If Urguan were to face the Empire, it would not be alone. He rose from his throne and began to walk down the steps. [!] His vision was interrupted as the thundering of hooves grew louder. Gror opened his eyes as Corswain began his charge. The two raced toward each other on horseback, lances braced and ready for impact. Truly, the only similarity between them was their determination and fortitude. With a hard, rapid clash, both lances struck their wielders. Dust filled the air as the two warriors crashed into the dirt. Gror gazed up with a groan, his right shoulder bleeding from scraping against the coarse dirt. As they both rose to their feet, they stared each other down once more. Gror threw his lance aside, as did Corswain, and they both reached for their preferred weapons. Gror donned his pair of handaxes, the Ireheart sigil engraved on their pomels. Corswain elected to use his longsword, a weapon he had previously shown great skill with. As the dust settled, so did the combatants. Gror made the first move, his Ireheart ferocity clearly having a hold on him. Gror lept toward Corswain, his axes swinging downward as he pressed the offensive. Corswain parried, his sword deflecting the oncoming strike as he stepped to the side. The man then pushed forward; he lunged forward in an attempt to skewer the shorter warrior. Gror responded in turn, bringing his right-hand axe to deflect the incoming strike. Back and forth they danced, the sounds of metal clashing, grunts, and cursing filled the air. Gror let out a hefty breath. He could not move as he once could, and finding himself up against a young man with a strong foundation in warfare was less than ideal. His movements began to slow; he swung his axe toward Corswain once more. The young squire parried the blow with his blade and, with a swift movement, sent a punch toward the Ireheart's face. Blood spewed from Gror’s mouth as his chin was caught clean with Corswain's blow. Gror groaned and blinked a few times, trying to steady himself. For a brief moment, he was somewhere else. “You betrayed me! You betrayed us! You are a stain on your Clan!” In his vision, an armored man stood before him. Upon his head sat the fabled Thorned Crown of Norland. The old dwarf knew this man to be Javier Ruric, once a friend, turned enemy. In his heart, Gror knew the truth. He did not betray Javier or his allies and one of his greatest regrets was that they died believing he had stabbed them in the back. Gror blinked a few more times. He was back in the field with Corswain, seemingly no time had passed. He spat at the ground, blood and saliva escaping his lips. He looked at Corswain, who was confident in his abilities, with a blank stare. This squire may have faced Dwarves before, maybe even Irehearts, but he had never faced Gror. He knew not the tenacity and crazed mentality in which he fought. In his mind, he faced another vision. “AaaAArrGgHHh!” The shout escaped his own mouth. Gror found himself unarmed and on a ship in the middle of the sea. Before him, a band of Corcitura pirates were attacking his vessel. He found himself flanked on either side by old friends. Darek Irongrinder supported him from the right as he always had. To his left, his nephew Bakir Ireheart was reloading his crossbow. Gror leapt forward in a fit of rage. The then-younger Ireheart tackled the pirate, and with a carnivorous growl, he bit into the jugular and the lesser vampire and ripped his teeth away, killing the creature. As the vision faded, Gror gazed at Corswain, his bloodied mouth curling into a mischievous grin. Corswain, though a sturdy man, faltered for a moment. It was clear he was shocked at the old Ireheart’s fiery vigor. Gror lunged forward, he sent his head at the nose of Corswain. With a loud crack, the Ireheart’s head met the nose of Corswain, who stumbled backwards before reaching up to wipe his nose, blood now staining his glove. Gror let out a roar, blood spewing from his mouth as he did. He lunged forward, swinging his axes wildly as he attempted to overpower Corswain. Corswain parried and deflected each strike, the two seemingly going back and forth. Corswain in a moment of desperation, attempted to interrupt Gror’s bloodthirsty rampage. After parrying another strike, he saw his moment and seized it. With a quick slice of his blade, the squire slashed at Gror’s leg. The blade cut deep into the Ireheart’s flesh as he fell to a knee. He let out a groan, and his face twisted into a grimace he had never worn before. Corswain took this moment to breathe. He looked down at the aging Ireheart, his previous expression of disgust and hatred replaced with one that offered a hint of compassion or respect. Regardless, the squire knew his duty. They were at war, and war is merciless. He hefted his sword high, then brought it down on Gror. The Ireheart lunged forward and drove a shoulder into Corswain's chest as his sword was raised. The blow interrupted his strike and sent Corswain crashing against the stone wall that surrounded them. Gror swung his axe downward at Corswain, the youthful man swiftly moved to the side, successfully avoiding the attack as the axe smashed against the stone. Gror expected as much, and he mustered what strength he could, sending a sidekick toward the knee of Corswain. A loud crack was heard, coupled with a scream from Corswain as his leg was severely injured. The squire struck back, gripping the blade on his sword and using the leverage to push Gror away from him. Gror stumbled backward, blood dripping from his injured leg. He looked down at his tartan, now bloodstained and torn in places. He grimaced again, then regained his composure and readied himself to press on. Corswain regained his footing, though limping and in great pain. Despite both of their injuries, it was clear neither would stop until one of them was defeated for good. Corswain pressed forward first; it was clear the tides had turned in his favor. With a strike that was less poised than before, Corswain swung with all of his strength at Gror. Gror raised his axe and attempted to deflect the strike. Though successful, his axe was thrown from his grip, leaving him with only one. Corswain pressed forward once more, swinging his blade at Gror. Gror brought his other axe up, deflecting the blow. With Corswain now off balance, Gror sent another strike of his own. He swung his axe desperately toward the squire’s head. Corswain tried to move out of the way but found it a fruitless endeavor. Gror’s axe grazed the side of Corswain’s head and slid across his eye. Blood spilled from the young man’s wound. He let out a cry of pain as his eye was blinded and inevitably scarred. Gror looked down at his leg, his clothes soaked with his own blood. Blood? His blood? His eyes glazed over for a moment. “Quick my kin! Through the portal!” Gror looked around. He was in a place he had only faint memories of. Athera? He gazed upon the gates of what had once been the Capitol of Urguan. By his side were many of his kin. They ventured into the city, then into the throne room. The surrounding area lay in ruins, left to the torment of time itself. Before him stood a rock drake, large in stature and menacing in appearance. The battle began. Irehearts, Grandaxes, Frostbeards, Ironguts, Goldhands, Irongrinders, Doomforged, and Treebeards fought side by side. A united Urguan, kin defending kin. Gror saw himself leap forth, this time from an outside perspective. Something was different. Instead of seeing his memories, he saw himself from the outside. He watched as his past self was willing to sacrifice himself for the defense of his kin and for Urguan. Gror watched himself slay the stone drake, selfless in his desire to see Dwarves and Urguan live on. It was only then that he realized his purpose. With a sudden jolt, he snapped back to reality. He stood before Corswain, his grip on his axe as strong as he could manage. Before him stood a young man, a man who had lived only a fraction of the life Gror himself had. He looked into his eyes, and a sense of peace was now apparent in Gror’s gaze. Blood dripped from his leg and mouth as he looked toward the hill behind Corswain. The squire looked back, saw nothing, and knew he had won. Gror, however, continued to stare at the mound of earth feeding into one of the farm’s rolling hills. In his own eyes, he saw the figure of a Dwarf. He stood on the hill, silently watching. His face was hidden by an iron mask, and he was adorned in black clothing. Gror grinned, for he had seen him many times before. As Gror looked on, the figure pulled a hood over his head. Gror knew what the figure wanted; he now knew his purpose and exactly how this was meant to end. The figure offered a nod to Gror. With this, Gror raised his axe and sent one final attack toward Corswain. The squire, already prepared, reared back his blade. He sent a relentless stab toward Gror’s stomach. The blade pierced the old dwarf with little resistance, and he dropped his last axe, now completely disarmed. “You have done well, and your clan is proud.” Gror heard these words, an echo of his father and of the figure that stood on the hill. This time, he encountered no visions. He faced only the present. His eyes stayed fixed on the hill and the figure that stood there. Gror smiled as the figure nodded once more, then turned and dissipated into nothingness. As the figure left, Gror fell to his knees. He looked up at Corswain. “Th-thank… you.” Gror’s words caught Corswain off guard. Before him sat an old dwarf, defeated and at death’s doorstep. He could not read Gror’s mind, but if he could, he would find a sense of peace and understanding. In his final moments, Gror finally understood his purpose. He understood what he had dedicated himself to for so long. Urguan. His home. His kin. His Clan. Gror fell backward, now lying flat on his back as Corswain's sword slipped from its position in Gror’s chest. As Gror lay there, he felt the blood leave his body and fill his mouth and lungs. He reached around with what strength he had, trying to find his axe. “M-my… axe.” he coughed up more blood “Please.” Gror reached around more until an unfamiliar hand settled on his own. He peered up as much as he could. His gaze met Corswain’s, who had one hand on Gror’s and the other holding his axe. Corswain placed the axe upon Gror’s chest. With that, the old dwarf gripped it tightly with his other hand. He stared up at the sky, the sun finally showing itself after everything had come to a close. He gasped and tried to take one last breath, muffled by the blood that flooded his airways. After a few gurgles and spurts of blood, Gror closed his eyes for the last time. Darkness greeting him like an old friend. He heard and saw nothing. Silence invaded his mind and being, leaving him alone. “Took you long enough.” Gror opened his eyes once more, but he was no longer in the field. He was somewhere he had never seen before. A hand was held out to him, and he took hold of it. As he was pulled to his feet, he recognized the face of the one who had helped him up. A Dwarf, adorned in Ireheart green. “Bastion.” he uttered before he looked to the Dwarf standing behind his kin. “Aldal.” Gror embraced his best friend, the one who stood beside him through everything. Reunited at last. Gror looked around. His eyes met those of kin he had lost until this point. He traced each and every one, studying them and remembering the life he had lived. He looked to Zahrer, who offered him a smile despite the differences they had in life. He glanced over to Midgor, a Dwarf he once called King, who gave him a nod and a salute. A hand was placed on his shoulder. He looked over and saw Vorstag, his Clan Father, who had initially seen the potential in a young and hungry Gror. His eyes drifted to Hogarth Irongut, a long time friend and one Gror confided in countless times. Finally his eyes were set upon Kerywyr Frostbeard, his rival for a significant part of his life. Once hated and despised, now on equal footing. They extended hands to each other, finally being at peace within the halls of their ancestors. “Come Gror, we’ve been waiting for you.” Gror followed his kin, entering Khaz’A’Dentrumm. Gror Ireheart 1400 FA - 266 SA 2016 - 2026

Azhug of the Gorkils got word of these actions. The old Uruk let out a breath of relief, "Torosh shows great mercy agh restraint. Even now, he battles the curse placed upon us and makes an example of how Urukhim should be." The elder Uruk returns to his quarters, where he readies himself to face the psychopathic tendencies of the Emperor of Man.

Gror's senses tingle, his blood boiling at the newly lit fire of his kin. The old graybeard began making his way back home, to spend his final days with his kin, Brathmordakin willing.

"Kill to casualty ratio?" questioned Azhug of the Gorkils

Azhug of the Gorkils locks tf in

"My kin have done well reestablishing our Clan." stated Vykk Eiriksson

I would disagree with this sentiment in that I think both mechanical combat and writing have an equal place in this server. I say that as someone who also supports 1.8 pvp. But I think the healthy incorporation of mechanical combat is important. While day to day RP should be text based, I think there are obvious circumstances where mechanical combat should take precedence through means of a cap. If those involved in the combat exceed a certain number (open to discussion on what the cap should be, idk what would work best) then it is beneficial to resort to mechanical combat. In my opinion, there is a plague on LoTC where some view losing as a negative thing or damaging to THEIR roleplay. I think players need to shift their view. Their roleplay should not take precedence over the overall storytelling. Nobody on this server is the main character. I understand this sentiment on an empathetic level, but losing also advances a story. This win mentality is toxic to the growth of the overarching story and sadly it is inevitable when it comes to Player on Player conflict interactions. In summary, I think that mechanical combat should be used as a tool to expedite the outcome of what should be considered RP conflict. Furthermore, I think that 1.8 is the best way to balance the incorporation of mechanical combat without having it take up so much time or drastically inhibit those who don't want to spend time learning how to 1.9 pvp.

Just wanted to add my two cents into an alteration to the stages option for wars. I would add warzones in as I think warzones are a good thing. I would alter how they worked in the past where they were just a filler episode to the GoT tier lackluster finale that we usually get. Make them matter, make the victor of whatever objective there is gain something that matters. Perhaps limit war claim attendance based on warzone performance. Perhaps the victor can bring 100 people, loser can only bring 70? I don't know, but I think it's worth a thought at least. The biggest problem with wars and war claims is the TPS and laggy nature of it which makes it hardly enjoyable for anyone. I don't know about anyone else, but I don't exactly want to spend every Saturday during a war sitting for 8 hours to just watch a slideshow. I personally think the gloves should be off when it comes to exploring different solutions or ways to limit war claim attendance through avenues that make sense IRP. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, we explore other avenues. However, I think the only path forward for the sake improvement, is to at least try new things, see if they work, and keep trying if they don't.

Tobias, the last Staunton, lay in a pool of his own blood. He stared at the ceiling of the keep he had so valiantly defended against those he considered oppressors. Truly a fitting end for a Staunton.