Shaman

【❂~❂】 The last of the Uluamirzgai, the Bear, found herself at the edge of the honored lands. She traced the length of the missive, and as she gazed upon it, a sly grin painted itself upon her lips. As she looked up from the parchment, her eyes locked onto the distant silhouette of San'Briu, the capital of Orchood upon the new continent. It had hosted a thousand orcs, and acted a symbol of honor, tradition, and unity among the clans - but the fallen shaman knew that the time for tradition was over, and the shadows of change were only creeping in. With determined steps, the Bear began her journey towards the capital, heart heavy with both trepidation and anticipation.

Accepted. Moving to Implemented Lore.

The Yargoth traced over the missive with his eyes, absorbing the words that conveyed his brother's aspirations. He nodded in acknowledgement, the support for the proposed change within the Lur's leadership was evident in his demeanor. "Wit' ztrengh, honor, agh bub'hozh integriteh." he would state, followed by a nod that echoed the-same sentiment. The transformative winds continued to whisper throughout the sandstone corridors of the capital-city.

The remnants of ancient Beleth are scattered like forgotten memories across the expanse of these fabled dunes. Here and there, dotted indiscriminately amongst the grain, gnarled and petrified trees stand as solemn monuments to an era long passed. The skeletal remains of what were once vibrant and lush plants now form ghostly outlines against the harsh desert sky. A keen observer might notice patches of stubborn greenery, clinging to life against the odds. These pockets of life are like emerald oases in a sea of endless sand, clinging onto the memory of the lush jungle that once thrived here. The writhing sands have covered the jungle's floor, leaving behind only traces of what once teemed with life. Fossilized remains of plants, long extinct, are now embedded into the arid landscape, whispering a silent tale of what once was. The wind whispers through the skeletal branches, carrying echoes of an age lost to the world. It is a haunting reminder of the cycle of life and death, where nature, once abundant, now stands as a testament to the relentless marring of time. In the heart of this desolate wasteland, an oasis emerges like a mirage against the barren landscape. This strange site mirrors the ancient jades and giants that once thrived in this very place, a reincarnation of the past in the midst of the present ruin. Tall, verdant trees with lush foliage stretch towards the sky, casting a cool shade over the sanctuary. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the soothing melody of unseen birds. Patches of vibrant, green grass carpet the ground, contrasting sharply with the surrounding arid sands. Crystal-clear water flows gently through the site, forming meandering streams and serene ponds. The water reflects the azure sky above, creating a mesmerizing tableau of natural beauty amidst the desolation. Colorful butterflies flit from one flower to another, adding splashes of vibrant hues to the bleak backdrop of the sanctum. One lone shaman knelt before a mass of stone and moss, his erudite figure casting a long silhouette against the backdrop of greenery. His form was unwavering in its purchased-foothold, and the rhythmic cadence of his whispered prayers merged with the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of the waters. The stalwart idol, a formidable representation of the Jungle Spirit, stood as both guardian and guide, its features carved with the utmost precision. Moss and vines clung to the stone, weaving a living curtain that seemed to connect the idol to the flourishing oasis around it. The spirit, invoked by the shaman's prayers, resonated with the pulse of the freshly rejuvenated land. This site, with its vibrant flora and rejuvenating waters, acted as a haven touched by both the forgotten past and the coming future. The contrast of life amidst desolation symbolized a deeper connection between the son's of Krug and the primal forces of the jungle.

Zagbal Spirit of the Jungle (Lesser of Freygoth) "Dargizub blûg ir gazh rar, agh traumuk lab kranklûkz agh kranklûbz gazh gîthurz-ogh." Amidst the thick foliage of a primeval jungle, Zag stood side by side with an elder of his bloodline. The air hung heavy with the thick humidity, carrying with it scents of exotic flora and the distant roars of untamed beasts. Towering stalks with sprawling canopies created a verdant tapestry overhead, dappling the ground with sporadic beams of warm sunlight. The elder, a figure battered by the coming of the times, navigated the jungle floor with a deliberate grace, as if intimately acquainted with the ancient rhythms of this wild, untamed realm. Vibrant colours of flora and fauna painted the canvas that surrounded them, a stark contrast to the arid landscapes of The Iron-Horde. The ground, it was soft beneath their feet, covered in thick layers of decaying vegetation that hinted subtly at the cycle of life and death in this untamed wilderness. Beneath the murk at their feet, something seemed to stirred as, in the distance, a creature emerged - a creation bearing a gorilla's torso and a crocodile's maw. It regarded the pairing with an inscrutable expression, as if assessing the purpose of their presence. "Lûk'ob krul grish, gor'ob krul bot. Lat zaugthrak'u'izish gazh turu, zatal za lat khahn nau gazh auru. Krampza, agh izg golm izub naahk ihn lab mazauk'u zkaat."

The Harrowing of Wisemen Declared, on the 17th of The Grand Harvest, Year 150, of the Second Age. In heeding the serpents, the revelations of your dishonors have surfaced, and there is only one punishment fit within our clan for those that succumb to the pitfalls. To Toad’Yar, and his lifemate, Glasha’Yar, I address this; I. For his weakness and complacency, Toad is considered harrowed - banished from the clan. He is, as tradition states, sent to the lands of Mor’Ghuun. II. For her duplicity and thoughtlessness, Glasha is hereby harrowed - banished from the clan. She is, as tradition states, sent to the lands of Mor’Ghuun. III. All lands, assets, and titles owned by these two individuals should be, under good faith, afforded to the Wargoth for redistribution amongst the clans. <(O)> Signed, Zag'Yar, Goth'ob Gazh-Doraz, and Wargoth of The Yar.

The Iron-Horde, extending endlessly in every direction, laid beneath the scorching heat, with rocky deserts and hills forming a barrier that separates the Western World from the Honorable Lands. There was solace, for a time, amongst the confines of a lone tent. Plumes of smoke rose, out from the height of the canopy, merging with the desert winds that carried it across the dunes - originating from a single paper, split between those few in attendance. "Agh, zoh, dah wheel maykz ah'nuddah turn..." one individual utters, thick fumes rising from beneath their cowl. "... yet dah kunnin' 'ob elvez ihz tiklezz." the figure rasps, eyes filling with the echoes of a forgotten conflict, tracing all those present. The thoughts of strife and enmity swirl, for a moment - the marrow of their ancestory stirred in response to the presence of those who bore the legacy of Malin. "Gazh-Nûlanz." they affirm with a guttural tongue, the weight of such a designation being understood by the occupants of the space. After a final toke, the apparatus was sent right, as tradition detailed it should.

Zag, son of Yar, prepared the Ogh-Doraz for the conflict that would, inevitably, find itself at the doorstep of the Rexdom.

"Wi', dah zonz agh daughters 'ob Krug, ztray further agh further awai' from dah Old-Father wit' each Rexdom daht rizez, agh inevitably fallz." Zag, son of Yar, proclaimed. The words produced from his maw carried a deep sense of concern for the fleeting connection with their ancestral traditions. "Dihz change zpeakz toh dah rootz dah't all Urukim zhare - ah return toh dah old wai', dah ryght wai'." The Yar emphasized, knowing well the path painted, one of profound transformation and absolute dedication.

=~= Contemplations =~= Who are we? The term ancestor leaves behind a flavor of coziness, a sense of belonging far remote and long ago, of security and venerable memories shared. For all intents and purposes - the more remote the ancestor, the less sense in the particular nostalgia they carried. Perhaps this is the crux of the plight that afflicts the orcish peoples - the old-father, Krug, and the traditions and values brought with him, have never been more distant from his peoples than in the second age. To many of us, the first settlers upon Asulon from the Old World would have seemed outlandish indeed. Two thousand years has effected great changes in what an orc expects of himself. In one dissertation, the sardonic antiquarian of Horen's descent once told of historical association that most of the early settlers of the war nation "could neither read nor write... They are a untamed, uncouth, coarse and most of the time intoxicated crowd. Often draped in the skins of felled beasts, not too far removed from the wild animals surrounding them." If they were to enter the halls of the modern Rexdom every orc present who boasts of Krug's descent would make haste to the door, squawking in terror. Much of this general coarseness came about as a result of the trials and tribulations that reared them in the Old World. Though it is possible that some of it was likely reflected in the particular personal aspirations that has sent these specific individuals and not others to new lands upon the sundering of the previous. The rest, likely a result of immersing such transplanted peoples in a foreign environment that necessarily led to some rapid and delayed reactionary efforts. Similar considerations could be applied elsewhere, in different terms appropriate to each and every other cluster of early settlers from the Princedom Malinor to The Trade Kingdom of Alras. Disregarding the language - and even there you would encounter a series of dismaying changes in pronunciation and vocabulary - you would have felt more at home in San'Kala than you ever would have in San'Har. Krug and his children may very well have been amongst those you claim as ancestors, but they are far from your people. The establishment of this truth does not, however, imply another extreme - the absolute alienation from them. They were not your people, yet in terms of their own era, they were people, and when you pricked at them, ichor flowed from their wounds as much as it does from our own. Many of them wore pelts and sheafs of bark, as we no longer do. But their reasons for doing so were the same as ours in donning steel plate, and like all uruk, they stepped into their armaments one leg at a time. Now, I will place upon you a task - to any and all of those who will hearken to these words. The landscape may have changed, the cities evolved, and our customs refined, but the core of orcish identity must remain steadfast. We cannot afford to be strangers to our own heritage. The complexities of our modern existence should not obscure the simple truths that had defined our ancestors in the Old World. So, for as long as we claim Krug as our old-father, we should ponder if we are living up to the legacy that he left us. Within the simplicity of our identity lies untold strength - therefore I ask that we consider, in our actions, if we truly embody the principles and virtues that that he held dear. ~Razghuul You find this missive painted across several sheafs of rotting bark, scattered across the dunes surrounding The Iron Horde.

What’s the deal with Kurag? Is there any intent on writing the final chapters of his story?