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OFFICIAL WARRANT FOR THE IMMEDIATE ARREST OF MINTO'LUR 13th of The Amber Cold, 167 S.A. By mandate of the resilient Rex Grommash, the Hordespeaker- Dominus Minto'Lur is to be arrested under the following charges: - SECRECY - OATHBREAKING - DECEPTION - DRUIDRY - INFERNAL OCCULTISM Minto, the halfling, is to be arrested and confined within the Underkrug until the time of his trial. This trial is to be deferred from the Rex to the representatives of the Shamanic Lodge, thus conducted by the sagacious Motsham Madoc'Lur. Henceforth Minto'Lur's appointed responsibilities, obligations, and privileges as Dominus of the Horde are totally suspended. The trial of the Otter Druid, Minto Townsend, Elder of Lur, will be a private affair of The Shamanic Lodge. Witnesses called upon for testimony must be approved by Motsham Madoc'Lur. If you would like to submit evidence or personally testify in this trial please send a letter or convene with either Madoc'Lur or Grothzark'Dom. ペ ~ Amul guide us. ~

Name: Grothzark'Dom Race: Uruk Type(s) of Shaman: Lutauman Teacher(s): Madoc'Lur

Stargush'Stroh circa 164. The Ruzob Ukûnûrlug was without a doubt the greatest feat of architectural design devised by orcish minds. The structure was surrounded by 13 distinct biomes which were each studied by scroll carrying goblins who spent their days taking notes on the soils, fauna, flora, and weather patterns. The structure was a colossal dome that reached 250 feet tall and the spire pierced the clouds for another 30 feet into the air. This place within the orcish afterlife was home to those with boundless curiosity and those who let pride plague their wealth of knowledge. This place, and its endless alleys of scrolls and books, was known as The Halls of Endless Study. A mortal shaman trudged past a bundled up hobgoblin who studied the frozen tundra. Confusion struck the Lutauman as he thought ‘This ancestral earned his eternal reward and spends it with his knees in the snow..’ Grothzark’Dom despised the wickedness of the snow. How his ears burned, his fingers numbed, and how the wetness seeped into his boots. He rushed to enter the oversized dual doors which were flanked by braziers that burnt blueflame. Such oddities failed to phase the shaman anymore, the spirits had shown that their domain was unlike that of the mortal world a hundred times over. Grothzark entered the halls and found himself at a reception desk where he idled. Nobody seemed to be attending it. Hours passed and so did many unhelpful scholars. Hunger gnawed at the shamans stomach and weariness weighed at his eyes. He knew better than to enter the depths of the halls without permission - spirits were strict, litigious, and unforgiving. The shaman rummaged through a stack of tomes on the desk [The Rexdom of Rex’Rix’Rax Volume VII] [Ledger of Atheran Trog Transactions] [Veluluai and Dom: An Unlikely Friendship] [The Origins of Halflings and Their Long Lost Ferocity] [Narrative of the Life of Malgunuz’Raguk]. The Uruk sighed and went to pick up the history book on halflings before a tiny pink hand cracked a cane down upon his head “Don’ be touchin’!” barked out a big chinned halfling from behind the reception desk. “Bobo’Lur..” commented the grey-skinned uruk, rubbing his forehead which began to redden from the blow “Ya sure aint tellin’ me nothin’ new.” said the ancestral spirit who was clad in earthtone robes “Wha’s a mortal like you doin’ here anyhow? Always lookin’ for something. Can never jus’ be patient like the rest’o us.” The lutauman jested “Mostly waiting zo far..” “Only a fool expec’s a spirit to be mindful of time!” hollers the tiny Lur “When ya got all o’ infinity before ya the days an’ hours seem to blur.” Grothzark cackled “Zuppose zo.” a pause filled the air, which seemed to make the crackling of open flames pop louder “Elder Bobo, me be heyr wiv da intent to learn ob da mysteries ob Da World Kaktuz. We mortals have no zeeds from da previous realmz.” Bobo rubbed his grotesquely bulbous chin “You’ll be needin’ a proppah scholar o’ historikcal shamanism, hmm?” he seemed to scan the surrounding venue, lifting himself onto his hairy tip-toes, as though one might be passing by at any moment “Old git Thurak is warden of da Yar Gallery. To get there go you’ll have ta go down under the librareh by takin’ the bone staircase.” ペ It took quite a while but now that the shaman had some direction on where to go he felt somewhat reinvigorated. The bone staircase turned out to be hidden within a glimmering redstone sarcophagus which, when opened, revealed a winding stairwell which had its steps made of rib bones. The shaman wasn’t sure but he suspected the bones to be of straddoth origin. With each step upon the bones they rang out a distant macabre caterwaul that was so pained that it led Grothzark to suspect that it was the last sounds that the beast made before it met its end. The temperature cooled as the shaman descended into the depths of pitch black stone though that very stone, in time, opened up to a foyer. The foyer had a mosaic floor which depicted a white turtle that swam through a golden pool. Standing over the intricate floor was a bloodsteel gate with Old Blah text etched into the bars - what laid beyond the gate was obscured by a thick cloth veil which was woven into the pattern of a zodiac. A dozen ancient desert beasts chased each other in a circle as the sourceless wind blew and caused the drapes to ripple. The shaman stepped forth, in an abundance of caution, around the depiction of the turtle. He neared the bars of the gate to study the Old Blah inscriptions, translating under his breath so as to whisper out “Gold that won’t glow. Grains that don’t grow. Earth that shall blow. What I am, do you know?” The Dom rubbed his forehead in annoyance. “Ob courze there’z a riddle involved.” A groan escaped him before he took a deep breath a reread the riddle to himself “Word-danzin’ globz.” He touched the bars of the gate as he spoke the answer in the Old Tongue “Rar.” Upon the words being spoken the gate began to lift up into the ceiling and the grin that pulled at the uruk’s face could not be denied. He stepped forth with pride past the veil to find a circular chamber with two figures within it. As the mortal entered the two ancestrals looked up from the tomes they studied to scan him over. The male, dark green skin and spectacles rested upon the bridge of his nose, spoke up “Throm’ka.. Who enterz da Gallery ob Yar?” Grothzark stepped forth, placing a hand on his chest as he introduced himself “Grothzark’Dom, Waghbozz of da Horde, Lutauman of da Lodge-” The fe-orc, possibly not of pure orkish descent, cut him off “Cub of Nazark’Gorkil.” “Lat must be Elphaba’Gorkil-Yar.” The Lutauman responded “Renowned healer of yore.” Pride was the weakness of all spirits that the shaman had met and the flustered grin that settled on the woman’s face proved such to be true yet again. She responded “Welkome to da gallery, mortal. Wub is it that lat seek?”' Thurak scanned the Dom up and down, unsure of him “He haz lost something.” The Lutauman nodded in admission “Da Horde has lost all seedz ob da World Kaktuz agh seekz answers on how we may enjoy it’z splendor once more. Old Bobo blahed zomething about searchyng heyr to find scholarz ob more ancient shamanic practicez.” Thurak stood, pushing up his glasses and tossing a sheet over the works which laid upon his desk. Grothzark caught a glimpse of a kind of golemic construct and an intricately carved crimson tablet that both disappeared under the sheet. The old Yar, who stood at what seemed to be the height of a Braduk, barked at him “Lat of mortalz all should hav an understandyng of how diz kan be done. Did latz popo teach latz nothing?” Grothzark did not flinch as the old man’s spittle crashed into his chest “He did nub believe it waz hiz place to teach me to be a shomo. It muzt be earned by merit, nub by blood. Da orkish way.” Annoyance overwhelmed Thurak’Yar, so much so that he pulled the spectacles from off of his nose “Nub, dumbskah. Ramakhet.” he said, as though the one name would explain things. Grothzark stared at him with a blank look which drew out another exasperated groan from Thurak - that groan, in turn, drew out a snickering giggle from Elphaba who sat behind him. “Ramakhet, da spirit ob da desert. He iz nub well known because to be drawn into hiz realm direktly iz death. It iz zo unforgiving that the windz alone would eat lat to da bone before lat had da chanz to draw a coarse breath.” A forest green finger shot up into the air as if to indicate that his lecture was not done “Yet.. Az Nazark dizkovered, wholly by accident, da lezzer spirit ob oases may protekt latz within da realm ob Ramakhet… Her naym iz Ytris.” Grothzark furrowed his brows at this “Zo lat want me to go into Ramakhet’z domain agh convince diz merciless dezert spirit to give uz the power to grow a world kaktuz?” The shaman had asked one too many stupid questions and Thurak blitzed him, although the ancestral spirit appeared like an old geezer the speed at which he moved proved that to be wholly false. A right fist found the Dom’s ribs, doubling him over right into a left uppercut that met a tusk and dazed the lutauman. “Find da lezzer spirit ob Ramakhet, Sorghal. Spirit ob Cacti.” The battered shaman, still doubled over, looked up to the old Yar and took a deep breath. “I will devote da tome dat rekountz zuch aktionz to the both ob latz.” he explains “Zo lat may add it to da Gallery.” Tusked grins sprouted in unison from the spirits at this.

Grothzark'Dom takes the lower half of the torn missive from Wargoth Apek, reading the signature "Champion of Ogrol... Da spirit of despair?" He asks aloud "Figurez."

The cool air of the cave was shocking to the skin of the shaman as he awoke from his trance. He sat up, as did the uruk across from him, the new Wargoth of Clan Gorkil. Their souls returned from the Stargush'Stroh after witnessing The Planes of Fearless War. Millions of ancestral spirits partaking in war for the sake of it's rich fruits - camaraderie, legacy, honor. Bloodied hoofs, warcries, the stench of rot in mud all lingered in the mind of Grothzark'Dom as he lifted himself and mentored the young Wargoth. "Be in nub hurry to place latzelf within da ranks of our ancestors. Though go now agh liv latz life without fear." Night came and went within the Hordelands and with it came a new day. Within the desert goblins set off to conduct their alchemical experiments and construct their grandiose monuments that would ensure our foes would never march South. Uruks pounded away at steel over anvils and patrolled the desert in packs. Ologs wasted away, either turning grand machines or lounging and feasting. The wartime routine was all too common now and each member knew what they must do, only diverted from their daily tasks when the Rukagoth would select handfuls to go tend to the mines or clean the stables. The routine broke when a weary courier was intercepted by a band of the Krughai who watched over The Black Gate. "Haense..." gasped the short pink man "There will be no peace." * The Goths retreated to their tents to speak, much had changed since the fall of Drusco and many of the Warfighters had discussed avoiding future battles due to perceived incompetence of the Veletzian League to prepare their defensive structures - worse yet many Urukhim voices were dismissed under the claim that savages could not strategize. The Krugbloods were honorbound and with that honor came a grim dosage of pride. Grothzark'Dom trekked up the steep Rex-Rock and addressed the Horde as they learned that the war against Adria would continue. "Warfighters!" bellowed the Lutauman "I bring great news. We, folk of honor, are all to die." Many of those who watched the Dom from the entrance of the tavern began to murmur about the ravings. "And we are to be reunited with our lost kin, brothers, parents, elders, and, in time, our children and theirs and theirs so on. It is the gift that binds us, given to us by Krug himself, the mightiest of all the Ancestral Spirits. As you all know, the reason he is the mightiest is because he is the most known, remembered, and celebrated. I remind you that all spirits derive their power in this way." The elder paces the rock, scanning over the crowd who now seemed more willing to hear his words. "Is the Stargush'Stroh not your destiny as well? Are we not bound to honor our word to our allies in their most dire moments? Are we not here to be remembered?" The crowd began to rally to his words but one skeptic hollered out against him. "This isn't our war! We can live for another day and be remembered for other battles." Grothzark snorted at the thought of this, retorting "And this battle will rage on nonetheless! And the defeat of our allies, by men who hate them and us alike, shall only stain your reputation if you are too afraid to stand beside those who need you." A pause filled the air, the crowd was no longer interested in interjecting "We have sworn ourselves to the aid of the Adrians and although we are now released from our oaths I ask you this. Imagine if it were the blood of Grommash, of Kho, or of Madoc that the Haensemen sought. If our allies did not rally for them then how disgusted by their words would we be?" The speaker surveyed the familiar faces of those who now watched him, captured by his words. "Brothers and sisters, if you rally or if you do not, nobody will drag you to the field this time. Let it be known, however, that it is your actions that decide the weight of your words. It is your witnesses for those actions who will remember you when you've passed on. Fight not to die or live, fight for your legacy." "Fight now, for honor, and I will remember you for eternity!"

Grothzark'Dom would venture to see this shrine alongside the Motsham, Madoc'Lur. Appreciation for the new construction brought a smile to the Dom's face and he would lay an offering upon the altar - the leather of an old warhorse recently afforded it's rest.

Grothzark'Dom snoozes, dreaming softly in the woods away from Stassion - soon his rest wood be interrupted though.

In the mystical realm of Aevos, where the winds whisper tales of ancient lore and the trees bear witness to the secrets of the ages, a solitary orc named Grothzark'Dom embarked on a journey of both rest and fortification. The verdant woods, with their towering trees and the soft rustle of leaves, became the backdrop for a narrative that unfolded with a delicate balance between tranquility and industrious activity. Grothzark'Dom, a figure of strength and resilience in the orcish community, traversed the dense foliage with a purpose that transcended the mundane. The orc sought not only a place of repose but also a haven where the energies of the natural world intertwined with the ethereal essence of magic. The woods, alive with the pulsating heartbeat of nature, held the promise of a secluded sanctuary for Grothzark'Dom to rest and rejuvenate. As the orc ventured deeper into the heart of the woods, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves created a mesmerizing play of shadows on the forest floor. The ambient sounds of chirping birds and rustling critters provided a soothing backdrop to Grothzark'Dom's exploration. Each step resonated with a primal connection to the land, as if the very earth beneath acknowledged the presence of this formidable orc. In the midst of this sylvan paradise, Grothzark'Dom discovered a serene clearing, bathed in the gentle glow of sunlight filtering through the foliage above. The air carried a fragrant bouquet of wildflowers, and a gentle breeze whispered through the branches, creating a symphony of nature's melody. It was in this idyllic setting that Grothzark'Dom chose to lay down, the soft grass beneath serving as a natural bed for the weary orc. As Grothzark'Dom embraced the serenity of the woodland clearing, a transformation began to unfold in the surrounding environs. Unbeknownst to the orc, the very essence of the woods responded to the presence of a being in need of rest. The flora and fauna, attuned to the ebb and flow of magical energies, seemed to weave a protective cocoon around Grothzark'Dom, creating an ephemeral barrier that shielded the orc from disturbances. Meanwhile, beyond the confines of the woods, the orcish community rallied together in a collective effort to fortify their surroundings. The resonance of hammers striking anvils and the rhythmic chants of incantations echoed through the air. Every member of the orcish tribe, from the seasoned warriors to the skilled craftsmen and powerful shamans, lent their expertise to the monumental task at hand. The fortification effort took shape as a manifestation of communal determination and unity. Mighty walls, crafted from enchanted stones and imbued with the very essence of the land, rose to encircle the orcish settlement. Towers adorned with ancient symbols of protection punctuated the landscape, their presence a testament to the orcish commitment to safeguarding their home. Amidst this industrious endeavor, the orcish community became a tapestry of diverse talents and strengths. Warriors honed their skills, craftsmen meticulously shaped the fortifications, and shamans communed with the spirits of the land to infuse magic into the very foundation of their defenses. It was a harmonious convergence of individual abilities, each contributing to the collective resilience of the orcish tribe. Back in the woods, Grothzark'Dom, unaware of the bustling activity beyond the tree line, rested in blissful repose. The woodland creatures, attuned to the ebb and flow of magical energies, gathered around the slumbering orc, their presence a silent acknowledgment of the harmony between the natural world and the beings that inhabited it. As day turned to night and the celestial tapestry adorned the sky with twinkling stars, a sense of fulfillment enveloped Grothzark'Dom's resting form. The orc, connected to the very heartbeat of the land, found solace in the embrace of nature's sanctuary. Unbeknownst to Grothzark'Dom, the fortification effort beyond the woods reached its zenith, culminating in a formidable defense that stood as a testament to the orcish tribe's resilience. The night unfolded with a quiet majesty, and as the orcish community reveled in the accomplishment of their collective labor, Grothzark'Dom awoke to the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the branches. Energized and rejuvenated, the orc rose from the natural bed and ventured back to the orcish settlement, guided by an innate sense of unity with the tribe. In the first light of dawn, Grothzark'Dom returned to the fortified enclave, where the orcish community awaited with a mixture of pride and gratitude. The woods, now a sacred haven forever intertwined with the orc's slumber, bore witness to a tale of rest and fortification that echoed through the annals of fantasy. In the end, Grothzark'Dom's journey became not just a personal quest for repose but a saga of collective strength, where the interplay of nature, magic, and orcish determination shaped the destiny of a realm steeped in enchantment.

Grothzark'Dom finds a nice place to sleep while everybody else sets to work to aid in the fortification effort.

The lone Dom of the Hordelands muses as he repairs a pilfered shield "We are faulted for the felling of the elderly, the women, the infirm, the children... Yet who is it that armed them, commanded them to war, and then abandoned them?" He then turns to see that the goblin he idly spoke to had fallen asleep upon a hay bunk long ago. "They are the ones afforded the privilege of peace if they would only seize it.."

[!] Just hours later the Haense capital was ransacked with the King butchered and the Queen captured. Perhaps fear will now be made true within the hearts of these petulantly arrogant sharas.

Grothzark'Dom partakes in the victory parade from the defeated city back to Veletz. The newfound chorus of the warsong pounded within his head and drowned out the wailing and sobbing of the captured queen. His gaze fell to the blood upon his hands, royal blood. He tried desperately to pack the wound from an arrow. He saw him die in his hands and he knew the war was moments from over... If only he could have saved the enemy. His brothers would have known safety from future battles. But alas it seemed that they would still have to earn their honorable death. The shaman thought to himself now, in this time of monumental victory~ 'Who came for Haense?' and the answer came to him causing a roaring laughter to erupt from within him 'We did.'

Grothzark'Dom reads the sloppy missive, speaking to a nearby gobo at Krugmar's roaring goifire "Diz whitewash glob be blahin' about dishonor agh legacy? But he ztill does nub understand Krug'z only law. Da rite ob da pit. If he haz an izzue then he muzt challenge to mayk change - otherwize he muzt fall in line." he pauses "If he refuses Krug'z law hiz life iz forfeit."

Grothzark'Dom turns in his sleep, haunted by the unending warsong that echoes in his mind. His only solace was his memories of the Stargush'Stroh and the blissful lives of those who had died to earn their place in the halls of Kor's eternity. One day.. The warsong will be but a memory and he will have earned his great death. Perhaps Balianites will afford it to him, though he recalled their performance on the Westmark Fields and he doubted it.

Grothzark'Dom found himself reminding his brothers of the fleeting nature of this mortal life and of their destined eternity past Kor's Gate. "Da firzt momentz ob latz eternity in da Stargush will be a long forgotten pain - remembered only by da proud embrayz ob latz anceztorz."