.........

Malohk’Yar awoke to the familiar scent of blood. He didn’t remember how he got here, the opposite end of the trench from the position they’d been holding. All he remembered was the order to get down and get in and that’s what he’d done. He quickly checked himself over, but it didn’t feel like anything had been broken or shattered, he was just bloodied and bruised. He readied his Krugmar-issue sword once more, just in case, but the only ones he could see standing were those of both Krugmar and Renatian colours, he gripped the sword, just in case, and made his way back to their defensive position, keeping an eye out for the Rex or any of his other Orcish brothers. As he walked through the wreckage he saw an all too familiar sight. His friend and clanswoman, Mograh’Yar’s treasured mace, lying mere inches from the mangled hand of a not-looking-too-good Fe-Uruk. Grinning, he sauntered over, picking up her mace and placing it in her hand. “Lat dropped diz. Lat’z nub gunna bi abul tu akzidentuhlly mawl mi wivowt et,” he chuckled, taking a seat in the dirt next to her. “Nub gunna lie ziztah, latz peepen liyk zkah.” After a moment of her not responding to his jibe, he gives her a quick nudge; she doesn’t usually stay passed out for nearly as long as he does. “Ziztah? Iz nub tikh tu bi zleepen, wi wohn! Agh mi peeped lat klomp wehl, toniyt wi zelebrayt!” he cheers, nudging her again. Only then did he really take in just quite how bad she was looking, her missing teeth, broken nose and the broken and missing fingers. His victory grin faded as he quickly began to panic. “Mograh? Kum, mih’ll tayk lat bak tu Krugmar, mi momo wihl fikz lat uhp hozh,” he reached out his hands to lift her to carry her back, but brushes over her wrist with one hand, feeling no pulse, no warmth, no life. His disbelief turned to sorrow and he felt his eyes begin to well, but he had been taught from a young age that Yars do not cry, and so instead he took her mace and slammed it repeatedly into the nearest enemy skull he could find in an act of unadulterated rage. Once the former enemy had been made unrecognisable to his or her own loved owns he turned his attention back to his clanmate. “Whi ziztah? Lat kan nub leev mi. Whu iz gunna zayv mi lyf aht da nekzt huhnt? Dub tikhz lat have zayved mi nowh...zurely deyr iz zum whey mi kan ztill zayv lat...” but his words fell on deaf, dead ears and he himself knew it was too late, she was already gone. Resolved to at the very least return her body to be given an honoured Yar funeral he empties his quiver of it’s remaining arrows and carried her mace in it instead. Then he lifted the heavy Fe-Uruk over his shoulders and began his long trek back to Krugmar, with nothing in his mind but reaching home and perhaps paying Mograh a visit in the Stargush’Stroh, to berate her for leaving them in person, and to say farewell to his childhood friend.

The Yazgurtan Malohk’Yar sighs as he oversees the last groups of labourers finishing construction of the wall, some way away from the Rex’s speech. He could not make out what the Rex had to say, although the crowd’s cheers carry across the Savannah like war drums to his ears. He grins a toothy, tusky grin, proud to serve Krugmar in what would one day go down as a golden age of Orc triumph over adversity, before quickly resuming his work. It wasn’t the stone fortifications of San’Kala. It lacked the intense, dry desert heat of San’Khatun. But San’Strok was to be their home, and under Burbur’Lur’s Rexdom they would make it a goi worthy of Krug’s descendants.

Application: Name: Malohk’Yar Race: Uruk Age: 20 Discord#: BebbZ#2328

“Bruddahz agh ziztahz, huntin’ bi amung owr peepul’z prowdezt tradizhunz, zu diz zeazon wi honur Votar! Zharpen latz zpeerz agh mend latz netz. Prepayr trapz agh redi latz howlurz. Et ez nub zmall gaym latz am tu hunt. Zeek owt da bub’hozhezt agh mozt danjuruz prey lat kan. Da azh whu huntz da hozhezt beezt wull bi rewarded wif da honur uf bearin’ da Zkull Ztav uf Votar! Bi redi fur da komin’ kaktuz week uf Gazog Ztaun!” Malohk listened keenly to his grandfather. He was now at an age where it was time to prove himself. For Gazog Ztaun, the Wild Season, he decided to embark on a challenging hunt of his own. His first solo hunt. He wandered the desert and surrounding areas in the days leading up to his hunt, looking for somewhere full of prey, settling on a watering hole just past the desert, in the grassy steppes. Preparing a couple of heavy spears and a handful of throwing spears and learning from his mother, Nurena’Yar how to treat them to not break as easily he headed off to see what beasts he could slay for Votar. Though he’d been hoping to wrestle a bear, his options were far more limited and he settled on a majestic Ibex that would make for a glorious trophy. (Full screenshot of hunt below:) Following his first triumph he also participated in a family hunt against a ferocious Bull Elephant, which left injury after injury on the hunting party, but ultimately the united Yars were victorious with Malohk landing a crucial strike and finally piercing the elephant’s tough hide with his sharpened wooden spear, though breaking his spear in the process. This was however not the killing blow, though still a blaze of glory for the 16 year old. “Glozug Votar” muttered the young Yar as he held the broken spear in his hand. Much had he learned through these two great hunts, but he also had much still to learn. More importantly than that though, he desperately needed a more sturdy and more lethal hunting weapon or two.

Uztrak’Braduk sat alone in his room, taking a long and slow drag on some cactus green as he considered what had occurred in this ‘clan war’ to date. In the end the only scene on his mind was watching as Duk’Braduk’s life slid away from him, in the clan hall right there in front of his eyes. “Mi did nub gruk lat wehl, Duk. Agh mi uhnlee gruked lat az ahn enuhmy in wagh. Buht lat waz honurable in death. It wud have been an honur tu klomp alongzide lat. Enjuy Stargush’Stroh, Brudda.”

Serevik Isilioleth wiped his brow as he heard news of the Cantina. He frowns and continues his work at the forge, only muttering; "I didn't want to go anyway."

Forged in Flames The dream. The same dream again. He was in the Isilioleth Clan Hall – alone as always. No... He wasn’t alone. There was a shadow by the fireplace, Mali’ker, just like him. He could barely make it out, but it appeared to be the silhouette of Gillionel Isilioleth, his elder and wise still beyond his years. He blinked, painfully aware of the smoke clouds beginning to fill his eyes. When his eyes opened he was alone, no longer in the safety of his home, but surrounded by darkness and gazing into a steadily spreading fire that seemed not to illuminate the darkness at all. Suddenly it was as if the flames were calling to him, beckoning him into their grasp. Serevik took a step back, remembering the horrible fate that had befallen his kinsman – Varikas Isilioleth. Was this a sign he was to meet the same fate? A sign from the Spirits? If so he could not simply ignore it, so closed his eyes and went to step forward into the flames – a sensation of falling – and he woke up, sweating and breathing heavily, safe and sound in his bedroll. Immediately after waking up he searched for his lari’onn, his older sister, Arveia. She was busying herself in their small kitchen, tidying it up and finishing turning it from what just a few weeks ago could only have been considered a cupboard into a marvelous kitchen space. “About time you woke up. Now maybe you can lend me a hand in the kitchen?” Serevik blinked and gazed around, wondering how the room had transformed so much but still pondering the meaning of his dream. “I feel as if I hadn’t slept...strange dreams.” Serevik explained his dream, that he’d had the same before, but without Gillionel in them, and that he was never able to enter the flames. “Perhaps you should meditate on your dreams, before sleeping. Perhaps the Spirits are trying to tell you something. Maybe Zaniil or Gillionel could help. They know more about these things,” she told him, wiser in years than him. They discussed the use of drugs as a way of expanding the mind, and he made the decision to try it... Once he’d spoken to someone with many more years of experience than either of them. That night, the dream repeated itself, but this time there were two of his kinsmen at the fire before him, Gillionel and Zaniil both. They both looked at him and then returned their gaze to the fire. Again, he blinked and the world descended into darkness, just him and the flames. Once more as he approached the flames he woke up in a hot flush, no closer to the answers he sought. He tried gazing into a real fire, meditating in front of one, and even eyed up the hookah stands dotted around, wondering if his sister’s advice would yield results. He wandered around town, searched through the library and even considered asking one of the clever looking High Elves or Wood Elves that gathered by the fountain – perhaps they had experience with interpreting dreams. He had heard they had a reputation for sleeping around – surely they’d encountered something like this. However he knew it was unwise to ask strangers for help with one’s troubles. No, he would need to seek out the clan elders. They would know what to do. As luck would have it, on his way home and just outside their Clan Hall he finally saw the familiar face that was Zaniil Isilioleth. He was dealing with one of the neighbouring families so Serevik remained quiet and observed until Zaniil was free to chat. He explained the dreams he’d had, and his sister’s advice and Zaniil seemed to consider it for a moment, before agreeing with Arveia - ‘herbs’ to awaken the senses just before sleep was a tried and tested practised, passed down by their ancestors. He also left Serevik with what almost sounded like a prophecy. Take an item that has meaning to you and wear it at your neck as you sleep. Serevik went back into the Clan Hall. His sister was nowhere to be seen, he was alone. Or was he? Perhaps the Spirits were with him here, now, watching him. Judging, perhaps. He took some of his sister’s cactus green and began to cautiously use the hookah to ‘free his mind’. He coughed and spluttered, and probably ingested more than anyone would have advised for his first time, but no-one was here to advise him. He made his way to another hookah that seemed to have a substance in it and tried that, just to be sure as he was not yet feeling any different. The second hookah contained Iblees’ touch, and even a small inhalation of that seemed to take more of an effect on him than the green. He took his purple sash, a gift from his father, and untied it from his belt and wore it loosely around his neck and as the room began to spin and twist in front of him, he made his way to his room - if he was even taking the right way to his room - to think of his dream, to think of the Spirits, and to try to put meaning into what he was experiencing. He did not remember the feeling of his head hitting the pillow, however it must have, as once again he felt himself no longer in his room, his dreams beginning once again. Once more he was in the Isilioleth Clan Hall – the silhouettes of who he believed to be Gillionel and Zaniil this time looked away from him, looking at a third figure. One he did not recognise, but who had the deep crimson eyes of the family. The new figure looked at Serevik, looked him up and down and smiled. “It is time,” he said calmly, his lips barely moving, his voice familiar, yet not one he recognised. The stranger placed his hand firmly on Serevik’s shoulder, looked him square in the eye, then removed from Serevik the purple sash that he had hung around his neck. Serevik opened his mouth to protest but found himself unable to speak, unable to stop the figure from throwing the sash into the flames which begin to emanate a purple glow and uttered “Come with me, if you understand.” Before his eyes this time, everything disappeared but the purple flames, stronger and more fierce than they had ever been in his dreams, beckoning him with even more intensity yet repulsing him with even more heat. Gulping, he took a step forward and then another until he was engulfed in the blaze. The fire burned away the darkness around him, burned his untamed ebony hair from it’s roots atop his head, but it did not burn Serevik himself. Instead he stood there, bathing in the dancing, writhing flames as the black void around him turned purple like the night’s sky. As he gazed up, he saw the towering figure of the same Mali’ker that had thrown his sash into the flames, holding a large hammer above his head, and then crashing the hammer down into the flames, driving it’s force through the fire and into Serevik. The almighty blow caused Serevik to jolt awake and smell the crisp, fresh sea air outside. ...Outside. What was he doing outside? He looked around, he was still in Velunor...but while he was sure he’d been in his room when he’d drifted off, he was far now from the Clan Hall. Behind him he heard the crackling of fire and a burning sensation along his scalp, he reached up instinctively to his head and ran a hand over it, expecting to feel his bun – nothing but a smooth surface. He turned and gazed up to see that he had woken up in front of, no... Practically inside of, the shrine to the Spirit Gentharuz. Is that who he’d seen in his dream? ..No, of course not. Gentharuz was much bigger, vaster than that which he’d encountered, nor was he an Elf. But still, there was a feeling inside Serevik he’d never felt before. Direction. Purpose. He ran home, his purple sash still safely around his neck, to tell his sister, Arveia, that he finally knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to be a master of the forge.

Application: IGN: BebbZ Discord: BebbZ#2328