Dark Russell
Octagonecologyst
It was dark
and the ground was cold. His massive feet were in ankle deep in snow. He noticed he was wet. It was raining. He looked up but saw nothing but bright spots left over from the burning white light he had witnessed not a moment ago. It was a dry summer morning. What happened?
He dropped to one knee he realized now he had been wounded in battle. A battle that was so distant now.
He noticed his sword the Implementer was gone. His hand dropped. Blood dripped from his fingertips staining the virgin snow.
There was an awful ringing. His hearing was coming back. He began to hear the rain that was falling lightly around him. It sounded like he was in a forest now...a forest that was once a desert?
Flashes of battle filled his head. Screaming. Sounds of metal clashing. And the blood. So much of it. It was the end.
Footsteps startled him from his haze crunching through the forest they were coming this way. Voices could be heard, in unknown tongues.
A patrol under an unfamiliar banner. Men why was it always men? They fanned out as if they were looking for something. Him, maybe?
To wounded to run he would have to take a stand. There were only 12 of them.
"There, by the tree. It's an Orc. Bring it here so I may find out what it saw." spoke the Bannor commander.
Three of them came, spears in hand. Two to throw one to keep. The first man approached and grabbed his cloak to lift him from the ground.
He was heavy for a Great Orc but not very tall in stature. At five and a half feet he was quite short but his broad shoulders and massive strength easily made up for any lack of height. He was the runt of the litter, but still nobility. A Great Orc prince would not be easy prey.
Startled by his weight a second man approached cursing him and poked him with his spear, a spear which was quickly grabbed and pulled free from weak man-hands.
The first man stepped back in astonishment as the Great Orc rose quickly to his feet throwing off his cloak to reveal a suit of night black chain, heavily stained with blood and a pair of waist slung scimitars.
Before the second mans sword was drawn his spear was loosed, sailing through the air to find a new home in his commanders chest.
The forest was silent for an instant as the commander took several steps back falling into a tree.
Turning to face the Orc, the first man found only a steely death at the end of one of its scimitars and the second met a grizzly end as its mate ripped at his neck. Grabbing the first mans spear the Orc quickly turned, launching it at the third man. Panic struck the rest of the patrol and they scattered. As the third man hit the ground, the Orc moved past him grabbing his spear as he went.
Hunting it had been a while since he had done that. The thrill of the chase was a feeling that was almost lost after years of war. These men were city dwellers, no match for a Great Orc in the woods at night.
By morning the rain had stopped and the sun began to melt what was left of the snow. It was time to find out where he was. Using what healing herbs he had left in his pouch to mend his wounds, he moved southwest, away from where the men had come. As he moved he searched for anything familiar. Something, anything that would help him find his way but nothing was recognizable. Even the sounds and smells were different somehow. Days of travel revealed nothing. On the eighth day he heard voices yelling. They were rough, not like those of men. Slowly, he crept upon a clearing where he found a band of tall Orcs accompanied by a group of small humanoids. They were arguing about something but he could not make out their dialect.
We will find out where this one came from now. Ill not bring this witchdoctor anywhere near Jonas until we know his motives screamed Chufas, the largest Orc in the group. I will find out or hell die! Whip him again.
No, it is not for you to decide. Jonas will be angry. We were to bring back what we found cried Sneefuss, the leader of the Goblin scouts. Sneefuss was unusual for a Goblin. He would talk back to the Orcs and in so doing had taken a fair bit of punishment in his time. Scarred and missing several fingers, Sneefuss was able to get away with his insolence because he enjoyed the favour of Jonas Endain, king of the Clan of Embers. Jonas favoured Sneefuss for his affinity with wolves and wargs alike, a talent few Goblins possessed but one that was necessary to keep the Clans Warg Riders in line.
The Orc whipman paused. Whip him again! barked Chufas, and the whipman proceeded.
Tied to a tree hung a narrow figure. A crossbreed, but with what? thought Sneefuss as he stood now powerless to stop the savage beating. He sniffed near him. That scent was familiar but distant human maybe? Elven. That was it! The half-breed was half Elven! Sneefuss was dumbfounded. Then something happened that made his spine shiver. After hours of torture, the half-breed began to laugh. It was quiet at first but quickly got louder. The whipman stopped. Chufas slowly approached him. The half-breed raised his head slowly and stared into Chufas eyes stopping him dead in his tracks. The half-breed smiled and uttered two words, Your dead.
Chufas eyes went wide. The Goblins began to stir. This was some type of witchdoctor after all.
A slight whistling sound broke the silence followed closely by a loud crunch. The whipman turned to find Chufas impaled from behind by a spear and there, across the clearing stood the Great Orc Pestilence, scimitars in hand glairing with hate.
Brother the half-breed uttered. we are lost. Grimmlaxx the half-orc, half-elf, half-brother of Pestilence slipped into unconsciousness, there to recover before their long journey ahead.
He dropped to one knee he realized now he had been wounded in battle. A battle that was so distant now.
He noticed his sword the Implementer was gone. His hand dropped. Blood dripped from his fingertips staining the virgin snow.
There was an awful ringing. His hearing was coming back. He began to hear the rain that was falling lightly around him. It sounded like he was in a forest now...a forest that was once a desert?
Flashes of battle filled his head. Screaming. Sounds of metal clashing. And the blood. So much of it. It was the end.
Footsteps startled him from his haze crunching through the forest they were coming this way. Voices could be heard, in unknown tongues.
A patrol under an unfamiliar banner. Men why was it always men? They fanned out as if they were looking for something. Him, maybe?
To wounded to run he would have to take a stand. There were only 12 of them.
"There, by the tree. It's an Orc. Bring it here so I may find out what it saw." spoke the Bannor commander.
Three of them came, spears in hand. Two to throw one to keep. The first man approached and grabbed his cloak to lift him from the ground.
He was heavy for a Great Orc but not very tall in stature. At five and a half feet he was quite short but his broad shoulders and massive strength easily made up for any lack of height. He was the runt of the litter, but still nobility. A Great Orc prince would not be easy prey.
Startled by his weight a second man approached cursing him and poked him with his spear, a spear which was quickly grabbed and pulled free from weak man-hands.
The first man stepped back in astonishment as the Great Orc rose quickly to his feet throwing off his cloak to reveal a suit of night black chain, heavily stained with blood and a pair of waist slung scimitars.
Before the second mans sword was drawn his spear was loosed, sailing through the air to find a new home in his commanders chest.
The forest was silent for an instant as the commander took several steps back falling into a tree.
Turning to face the Orc, the first man found only a steely death at the end of one of its scimitars and the second met a grizzly end as its mate ripped at his neck. Grabbing the first mans spear the Orc quickly turned, launching it at the third man. Panic struck the rest of the patrol and they scattered. As the third man hit the ground, the Orc moved past him grabbing his spear as he went.
Hunting it had been a while since he had done that. The thrill of the chase was a feeling that was almost lost after years of war. These men were city dwellers, no match for a Great Orc in the woods at night.
By morning the rain had stopped and the sun began to melt what was left of the snow. It was time to find out where he was. Using what healing herbs he had left in his pouch to mend his wounds, he moved southwest, away from where the men had come. As he moved he searched for anything familiar. Something, anything that would help him find his way but nothing was recognizable. Even the sounds and smells were different somehow. Days of travel revealed nothing. On the eighth day he heard voices yelling. They were rough, not like those of men. Slowly, he crept upon a clearing where he found a band of tall Orcs accompanied by a group of small humanoids. They were arguing about something but he could not make out their dialect.
We will find out where this one came from now. Ill not bring this witchdoctor anywhere near Jonas until we know his motives screamed Chufas, the largest Orc in the group. I will find out or hell die! Whip him again.
No, it is not for you to decide. Jonas will be angry. We were to bring back what we found cried Sneefuss, the leader of the Goblin scouts. Sneefuss was unusual for a Goblin. He would talk back to the Orcs and in so doing had taken a fair bit of punishment in his time. Scarred and missing several fingers, Sneefuss was able to get away with his insolence because he enjoyed the favour of Jonas Endain, king of the Clan of Embers. Jonas favoured Sneefuss for his affinity with wolves and wargs alike, a talent few Goblins possessed but one that was necessary to keep the Clans Warg Riders in line.
The Orc whipman paused. Whip him again! barked Chufas, and the whipman proceeded.
Tied to a tree hung a narrow figure. A crossbreed, but with what? thought Sneefuss as he stood now powerless to stop the savage beating. He sniffed near him. That scent was familiar but distant human maybe? Elven. That was it! The half-breed was half Elven! Sneefuss was dumbfounded. Then something happened that made his spine shiver. After hours of torture, the half-breed began to laugh. It was quiet at first but quickly got louder. The whipman stopped. Chufas slowly approached him. The half-breed raised his head slowly and stared into Chufas eyes stopping him dead in his tracks. The half-breed smiled and uttered two words, Your dead.
Chufas eyes went wide. The Goblins began to stir. This was some type of witchdoctor after all.
A slight whistling sound broke the silence followed closely by a loud crunch. The whipman turned to find Chufas impaled from behind by a spear and there, across the clearing stood the Great Orc Pestilence, scimitars in hand glairing with hate.
Brother the half-breed uttered. we are lost. Grimmlaxx the half-orc, half-elf, half-brother of Pestilence slipped into unconsciousness, there to recover before their long journey ahead.
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