Inferno_Ougi

TO A RAGUK, THE PANTHEON MUST BE FEARED TO FORGET IS FOLLY LOK LEYD LOK GAZIGAZH LOK GENTHARUZ LOK THE NAAKH-ZA-BARASH _________________________________________________________________________________ Grunt sat deep within the cave of Mokh-Leyd, his knees locked to the ground with his head bowed before three shrines and a fire. One, metal twisted in the misshapen form of cogs and machinery, black with soot. In the center, the largest shrine menaced with skulls and chains hanging from its wings. The last stood painted with blood, and tightly hung around it was various pieces of flesh, entrails, and gore. Bones of varying shapes and sizes protruded from the shrine. To the Raguk, they loomed over him, whispering words of judgement and giving visions of punishment. The Pantheon was not satisfied, no, not with the disappearance of their most loyal follower. There was a void in his heart, for none feared The Naakh-Za-Barash as much as Grunt. For after deeming his father unworthy, it took him--- or so Grunt believes. Thus, he engaged in constant prayer, out of both fear and genuine reverence for the spirits. This time was no exception, but it was interrupted when a rat scurried into the cavern, carrying paper in its mouth. Out of anger he grabbed the rat, and nearly squeezed it to death mistaking it for an intruder of this holy space. But his blood cooled upon reading the letter. Letting the rat go, he stood up, and looked about the cavern room. He looked to the pool of blood in the corner, that had once almost overflown. Now, it was only a foot deep. "THE RONK OB THORAL IS DRYING. THE NAAKH-ZA-BARASH MUST BE SATISFIED!" With a smile, Grunt marched to Providence, and gathered with the best of the Orenians, Ferrymen, and Blackvale alike. There, he met up with Kalruk, a Gorkil that had been converted to a Grizh-Kin, a Raguk, after being baptised in the Ronk ob Thoral. They rode to Sedan, where Grunt held himself in disciplined excitement rarely seen in uruk-kind. He heard the shouting and talking of the humans, dwarves, and even orcs standing behind the walls, steeling themselves for the battle to come. _________________________________________________________________________________ The battle was long and fierce, his armor being dented and marred with scarring--- yet unbroken by the end of it. It was a good battle, and he reveled in every moment of it, having switched his battle axe for a Haense-crafted warhammer he had looted mid-battle. Closing his eyes, he could vividly remember the moment he smashed a Haenseti's skull in with that very weapon. His bowstring was twisted, nearly snapping, having been used to loose many a arrow. Still, the Tripartite corpses that littered the battlefield had satiated his thirst for battle, and, much to his surprise, nary an Orenian was lost despite the odds. He felt uneasy, however, despite the victory. It did not come from the existence of survivors. Nay! This was only a drop in the endless sea of war!

((good formatting boy, very nice))

The Blood-Legions mobilized in force, holding themselves in a disciplined excitement uncharacteristic to the urrukim. Snagas toiled in and out of the caves and camp surrounding their lair--- weapons and armor were forged with haste, and guzzoline was being siphoned and prepared en masse for their troops. The ground rumbled as ologs were set to work preparing large pieces of siege weaponry under goblin supervision. Word was sent to the elven hoplites, who had performed beyond and above their station in the previous battle. A lone uruk, clad in darkened ferrum plate, convened with Fishbref ( @herculean_wud ) by a fire that raged within the confines of Mokh-Leyd. "Everyfing appears tuh be in order, boss. Soon, da Sons of Nagg will march wiff da 'umiez. All on latz word."

The fresh air of the savanna filled his nose. Mighty walls of wood and stone, gnarled and twisted to any foreigner but any uruk knew it was made to last. Mokh-Uruk hummed with the thrum of orcish life— weapons and arms were beaten into shape, orcs young and old sparred one another in the klomp pits, and commands were yelled out by an ancient, scarred uruk. Clad in crimson steel, he prepared the legions of Krug's kin for battle. Not in the name of the Warnation— nay, for he had established that they were not worthy of the name. Until they could prove themselves in the eyes of Krug and The Pantheon, the Warnation of Krugmar would not be, and could not be. Vintas. A sandstone city among the plains, it was no more than an stone's throw away from the city of orcs. An upstart city of humans, it was an eyesore to the orcs. For Leydluk, it was an opportunity to invigorate his legions and to venerate the spirits with blood. Constant raids and attacks were launched against the city, a constant source of slaughter and joy for the urukkin. The Lord of Vintas, in fear of the bloodthirsty orcs of Mokh-Uruk, parlayed with Leydluk in hopes of peace. But Leydluk did not want peace. Putting forth an offer that any self-respecting being would deny— to suck his toes— he had expected the Lord of Vintas to leave in anger. But to the surprise and disgust of all, the Lord got onto his knees and moistened the wizened orcs feet. Leydluk was a child of war, but also a son of honor. Respecting it, no more attacks were to be held against Vintas. But Oren would not take such humiliation lightly. Mobilizing their Imperial Army, the human legions made their way to Mokh-Uruk. Leydluk had assumed the Emperor would act as such, and he was correct. A human spy that had wormed their way into the Imperial Court had reported every word that the Emperor said. And thus, Leydluk gathered his elite and marched them to the Lowveld. The Vintasians rallied alongside an elite outrider force of Orenians, and the two armies would clash. Aki'Raguk, a young olog, was among Leydluk's elite. He saw Leydluk as a father, albeit not in the way that other descendants understood. Kindness was not taken lightly, and the olog looked up to the orc with great respect and veneration. He loved his clanmates, for they had fed him, and were red like him. They brought him to battles, and it was a great joy to see Aki smash humans, elves, and dwarves into pulp with swings of his greatclub. Thus it was no surprise at the Battle of the Lowveld, that Aki's charge was followed by the rest of their forces. Plunging into the enemy ranks, the helmet Clan Raguk had forced onto his head had driven him into a pain-driven rage. Despite this, it was a joy for Aki to reduce heads to bits of gore. Few died on the side of Mokh-Uruk had died, and all that was left of the Vintasians and the Orenian elite were mangled corpses littering the battlefield. Despite this, Mokh-Uruk was still sieged. The hordes of humans was ceaseless and unending, and even the slaughter of fourty-thousand could not even dent Oren's legions. The orcs fought to the last man, contingents of them holding the walls and others holding the castle. But the difference in numbers was too much. Leydluk, fighting upon the walls, was stabbed in the back by a human, his corpse being buried by rubble. An ironic end for a bringer of war. Aki fought with all of his might, but it was to no avail. Knocked out, he arose from the aftermath in fear. He searched the grounds for any of his kin, and all he could find were corpses. None were Leydluk, the one that had guided him since he was just a cub. Assuming he was still alive, he left the city and spent centuries wandering, searching for Leydluk. On his own, the olog feasted on livestock, and avoided direct contact with other descendants. Those unfortunate to cross paths, he feasted upon. His search for the boss was futile. In Almaris, it was by pure chance he had found Fishbref, the warboss of clan Raguk. Tired of hiding, the olog reintegrated with orcish society and the clan. Fishbref had broken the knews that Leydluk was dead, and the centuries old olog was filled with great sadness. Memories of battles past were now memories he could only see when chewing on cactus-green. But it was a hole in his heart. Still, he continued his life with relative glee, continuing to kill and eat, now reunited with his kind. He disliked Fishbref for being mean to him, but liked everyone else for giving him food, so it was okay. Making new friends, fighting new battles, the olog had found meaning in his life once more. And when the Sons of Nagg prepared for the Battle of Lower Petra, he was found among the legions of Raguks and allies, towering over them. He dove into the Tripartite's ranks, with a force not seen since his younger days. He felt reinvigorated, laughing and roaring as he once did on the fields of the Lowveld. He rampaged through, slaughtering many dwarves, namely Jorvin Starbreaker. But as the battle drew on, the olog began to tire. The pain and stimulus was too much for the old olog, and he began to black out. Rage swelled with every strike and blow against the olog, and he continued to fight on pure instinct. Alas, a spear had found its way through a previous wound, inflicted on him in the siege of Mokh-Uruk. Letting loose a final roar, he fell. Surely, Gazigash must be satisfied!

The city vibrated under the deep and guttural tones of the Horn. Hearing it, Aki closed his eyes, and let loose a primal roar in solidarity.

Today was a big day for Aki! He smiled aztran's wicked smile as he heard of more people to smash..

Aki'Raguk clapped and cheered, preparing to smash many a dwarven skull! Jorvin especially

Aki could not read. But he was coming, for Imp'Raguk the Second had given news of the missive, wishing to see Aki humiliate himself.