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The Flood Truce has come early this year. It is the end of the human month of Gozran, and the steady warm has melted the snows of the Tusk Mountains, sending torrents of water down the gullies and mountain streams to fill the Flood Road to bursting. The water has brought life back to the hard-packed clay of the Flood Plain: green grass once more carpets the banks of the mighty as far as the eye can see. And, with the grass, the aurochs have come. With the aurochs come the Tribes.
The first to come are the Storm-Screamers, as is only fitting since their shamans are entrusted with performing the rites of the Flood Truce that ensure a healthy hunt for all tribes. Their feathered tents stand nearest the center. Next, come the weaker tribes. First, the Cleft Head, who sneak in during the noonday sun when the Burning Angel sears the eyes with her fierce light so that no one can see their passing. The bulk of their tents are in the south close to their homelands near Freedom Town, but their contingent to the ceremony stays close to the boulders and mountains of the Tusk Mountains. Their warriors will content themselves with the sickest and slowest of the aurochs. The ones that are too frail to muscle their way to the choice grazing grounds near the river. The Cleft Head are followed by the Broken Spire who send a pitiful offering to stand on the western banks of the river. Desperate to claim honor, their cohort have chosen a prime hunting space--they will have to fight to keep it. Next, come the Gutspears, who camp near the Broken Spires for added strength. The Death’s Heads come next with their giant allies. How a tribe with such powerful warriors could be brought so low, is a mystery to even the wisest shamans. They pitch their tents near the Cleft Head, for they are allies beneath Grask Uldeth’s axe.
The middle tribes come next, each claiming a portion of the river as their own, and sending a band of warriors to protect their Chief and represent their tribe for the Ritual of the Flood: the Black Suns and the Dead Eyes, the Gutspears and the Blood Trail, the Eight Fingers and the Skull Eaters, and countless more filter in from all corners of the Hold to strike up their tents along the banks of the Flood Road. So many feet trod the prairie of the Flood Plain that they churn the grassy fields into a muddy mess before the first night.
Finally, after three days, the Great Tribes come. First is the Ice Tooth from the north, riding giant mastodons and woolly rhinos. Their warriors are festooned with tusks and fur, looking more beast than orc, but still powerful astride their mighty animals. Next, come the Open Barrow in carts pulled by drooling zombies--many of them orcs. Vultures and flies swarm over carts formed from the bones of their enemies. The Drowning Sand arrive soon after in barges pulled by dead-eyed and heavily-shackled giants. These orcs make a show of lounging-some even sleep!--as the barge slowly rolls across the plains. Only a token force of warriors stand at the edge of the barges for show. None touch the ground until the barge has come to a stop. On the fourth day, the Steel Eaters stomp across the plains, and promptly oust the Broken Spire from their tents. Weak and humiliated as they are, none will take them in, and the Broken Spire are forced to sleep beneath the stars far from the river’s edge. Grask Uldeth, and his Empty Hand come last, in full honor and glory. The mightiest tribe in all the Hold marches along the river edge, the dust of their boots can be seen from miles off. The assembled orcs swirl around them, moving quickly away from the great war party. No one dares look Grask in the eye, and few are able to meet the gaze of his cohort--the elite of his warriors and some of the fiercest and deadliest orcs in all of Belkzen. The Empty Hand makes camp at the center of the gathering.
The Burning Angel hangs red and bloated in the sky when Grask gives the command. Overseers direct a platoon of slaves to build an immense stage high enough so that all can see. the construction of wood and bone takes little more than an hour to build, and by then, all attention has been turned to the stage. Once the stage is complete, drums begin to boom, resonating deep within the chests of everyone assembled. Four warriors drag a well-built human, beaten and bound, onto the stage and force him into a kneeling position. He begins to wail and scream for mercy, but one of the warriors clobbers him in the face with his armored fist. The sound of bone shattering fills the air, and the man grows silent.
A shaman bearing the cloud and lightning symbol of the Thunderer seared across his face proudly walks onto the stage, clad only in the feathers and bones of the terror bird--the animal most sacred to Rull. In his hand, he holds a stone dagger aloft, and the orcs roar in triumph and joy. He brings it down to the man’s neck and cuts the humans throat with a quick slash that sends blood spraying out towards the crowd. Several of the orcs are lucky enough to be blessed by the blood and feel it land upon them, or even taste it as a drop or two falls upon their tongue. These orcs are truly blessed by the gods this year. They will feast well in the coming months and win many victories during the Proving Time after the Flood Truce. For those blessed by the Blood Offering of Rull, their chieftains will offer them mates, slaves, and the finest of weapons. They will garner much favor and renown. The war chanters may even call out their names in song.
”Blood for the Thunderer! He who brings rain and storm! His war-song is silent, but his rain drums sound loud! From him does the grass grow! For him we offer a rain of blood!” The shaman plunges his dagger into the corpse and rips the heart from its chest. ”Meat for the Gods!” He tosses the heart into the coals of a fire where it begins to sizzle and burn. The sweet scent of burning manflesh fills the air, and makes several warriors drool with hunger. ”Let their hunger be sated. May they guide us in victory that we may be sated!” Slowly, the shaman fillets the human, offering up the innards to the gods on the same pyre, as he divvies up the flesh for the chieftains. The largest and choicest cut, of course, goes to Grask Uldeth. The chieftain of the Empty Head stands tall and proud at the front of the line of rulers, followed by the other chieftains, who fight and shove and jockey for their position in line. Soon each chieftain has eaten their cut of the human--completing the ritual that promises strength and good hunting, and binds the tribes to the peace of the Flood Truce. The chieftains have fed together on the same flesh. They are united as one people for the coming months, and all feuds are set aside, all grudges forgotten. For, the chieftains have fed.
Slaves crack upon casks of alcohol (dwarven ale, Ulfen mead, and the blood-drink that the Cleft Heads brew-the only thing they’re good for) and other begin turning spits of meat over fires (some of which are of the same race as the horrified slaves themselves). Soon the air grows thick with woodsmoke, the scent of cooking flesh (man and animal alike), and howls and roars of merriment, all accompanied by the pounding drumbeat of the skalds. Tonight is a time of feasting and revelry. Tomorrow, the games and the hunt begins, when every orc will contest and challenge each other for dominance and pride, winning honor and privilege for themselves and the security of their tribes during the Proving Times. For now, during the Flood Truce, there are no grudges or feuds, nor even tribe. All are one tribe.
The Flood Truce has officially begun!
Shakraal gathers with her tribe as they quickly stake out their middling campsite - grateful to be near the Great Tribes and far from the least. When the Greatest come Shakraal cannot hide her admiration, and quells her fear of mammoths, prisoner-giants and zombie orcs. The Open Barrow are particularly compelling - for some reason the young half-orc finds something...intriguing in this practice of practical undeath.
She watches with a little jaded composure - the dramatic bloodletitng is all well and good, but she's seen worse among the Blood Trail, at the hand of her own mother, Kring the Beautiful. Whne the ceremonies are complete, and the Flood Truce an actual, true accord, the noble dughter of the tribe gathers her cloak about her and wanders the festival, keeping her spiked gauntleted grip on her overlage Falcata in open view, her garish and horrifying mask obscuring her even more horrifying, and some say accursed, mutant third eye.
Kern mingles with some of the Storm-Screamers, as his connection to Rull and his sacred companion bring him favor with their shamen. He wears skins of wolves, rabbits, and deer, forming a large cloak that sways heavily as he moves, but is surprisingly light when fighting. He drinks some ale and mead, tactfully bypassing the blood-drink. While he has tasted the flesh of men before (his father insisted on it during rituals when he was growing up) he does not find the taste appealing, and given that he is half-man himself, it causes his stomach some distress as well.
Grell pads along next to Kern, sometimes growling at an orc who gets too close. She will ruthlessly protect her master until her last breath. Her armored back and bony growths on her head and ears give her a more fearsome look than normal felines, but her fur betrays the ancestry of the warcats of Rull, with glack and gold stripes covering her wherever she is unarmored.
Thoku set up the tent for himself having to fight with others of his own tribe to keep the position close to the chief. Some of the weaker in the tribe move from his sight the story of how his power came to him is well known throughout the Defiled corpse. As Thoku looks on and watches the perdition of all the great and lesser chieftains gather, one day i will be there as an equal... Thoku moves to a position were the chance of the blood spray is high. As the the few drops of blood fell on him he filled with excitement the his on his blood red skin the droplets could barely be seen but it was clear the blessing was on him.
Now with the celebrations completed Thoku the Bloodied one walks around to find the few of his orcish kin that stand above the rest. Pushing past the meek pathetic orc in his path Thoku spots one orc with a interesting wooden mask walk around and he makes his way up to this orc
Shakraal notes a few exceptional males among the revelling orcs and half-orcs. One particularly extensively tattooed brute catches her eye.
That is one fine specimen. Pity he's a zombie now. Still, a chieftainess cannot always be picky...
She sees the canny warrior and his Rull Warcat, finding much to appreciate in the feline's bony carapace.
When the bloody avatar rises before her Shakraal justs her chin out in mute consideration. The she shakes her intricately carved and crafted mask suddenly, holding her head on one side.
"Who you? I - Shakraal." She holds up her large wicked blade and shakes it, her equally oversized spiked gauntlet clattering against the guard as she does so. "And this - Boneglimmer and Talon." She stares at her blade and gauntlet, as if marvelling at her own equipment before returning the bloodslick tattooed half-orc's glare.
"Who you?"
Thoku looks Shakraal up and down a wicked grin grows on his face
"ahaha, well Shakraal I be Thoku the bloodied one and these.. He raises his hands flexing them showing off the powerful and sharp claws on his hands
"These are my Talons hehehe..ah yes and i am the apprentice to the shaman of the Defiled corpse."
Thoku takes a deep breath and looks around the camp and small gleam comes off his eyes and he gives a full grin showing the sharp teeth within
"what say you join me to have a look around and find some sport and food..what say ya"
Hakak roared with the others when the blood was shed. It was good to see the blood flow, reaped by strength. That was the way of things. That was Mother's way. The smell of it quickened Fleshripper's pulse and Hakak struck the finback on the sensitive spot beneath its jaw. It hissed and snapped at him and he smiled back, showing his small tusks. He did not have the thews of a full-blood orc, but Mother had given him no weakness. How many here mastered a finback?
With the truce made, he turned about and hefted his scythe. Next year he would feel the blood, but then it would mean little for all the blood he would taste before the Flood Truce came again.
Seeing the half-breed with the warcat, a beast well worth mastering, Hakak strode forward. Fleshripper followed behind, hissing now and then at those who drew too close.
"Your warcat looks to taste much blood," he said.
"My warcat has tasted her share. As I'm sure your spineback has. She is called Grell. I am Kern. Which tribe do you hail from, cousin?"
"My warcat has tasted her share. As I'm sure your spineback has. She is called Grell. I am Kern. Which tribe do you hail from, cousin?"
"I am Hakak. This is Fleshripper," Hakak stroked Fleshripper's neck and the creature bared sharp teeth and made for his hand. Hakak struck it and the teeth went away. "Fleshripper feasts often."
"The giants took my tribe. All save Mother were weak. She slew four before they slew her."
Choot pushes his way to the front of the ceremony seeking the Blood Offering of Rull to ensure success on his endeavor for the year. The stone knife driven downwards at the humans throat, Choot opens his mouth that he may taste as well as feel the offering.
To his horror, the blood splatter pattern sails over his position to many of the less worthy standing directly behind him!
He considers sending Thrull at one of them to throttle them for standing in his position but thinks better of it. They are favored and it would not be wise to attract undue attention at this time.
Choot looks on the sacrifice of the human with approval though the technique of the cleric of the Thunderer leaves much to be desired. Far too quickly the human screams die out with no word on his lips offering praise to Zagresh!
Bah, soon all shall show proper fealty
Choot turns and so too does Thrull turn heading back into the crowd. He seeks a group of worthies amongst the sea of green skins.
Pushing his way through the crowd Choot soon comes upon a few half breeds in discussion, one of whom wears the blood of the sacrifice, a good omen.
Choot salutes the red skinned oddity, "Blood and death to your enemies honored one. I am Choot, voice of Zagresh the Destroyer".
Next to Choot stands a cloaked figure swaying slowly back and forth, soft moans escape its lips and if it is speech it is not recognizable.
Not particularly in the mood for the paucity of delights on offer, Shakraal is relieved that Choot interjects, releasing her from having to turn down Thoku's offer of discrete companionship.
"Greetings Choot. I am Shakraal Kringsdaughter, of the Blood Trail. And who is your enshrouded companion?"
Thoku turns to the new masked orc a small grin of his face from the conversation he has been having
"All life blood drawn be praise to the Blood god and i as his avatar, ah tis a grate day since the blessing has falling on me. I am Thoku the Bloodied one, as it is the time of peace this is a time that we can meet an not fight over land rights eh, and what of your companion here speek up small one"
Thoku moves to the undead one and pulls back the hood reviling the zombiefied elf
"Whats this...ahahaha, this is wonderful i could think of no better way to show your power and insult those damn knife-ears haha. This is a grate day indeed what say you lets all find some food and sport what say you"
he raises his brow and turns part of the way to Shakraal
Shakraal's eyebrows raise behind her mask as the zombie is revealed.
"Nice" she mutters.
"Well, needs must and a body shall be fed. Lead on Bloodied Thoku."
Shakraal makes a point of looking at Thoku's bloodied form, and Choot's dried-blood encased hands.
"So we three appear to be more than mere blades - [here looks to Thoku] my teacher Mang Dew-Eye is the Shaman of the Blood Trail...."
"This was the most delicious elf I ever tasted. I revere his elven gods by preserving his form". Choot laughs maniacally at his own joke. "Yes food and drink, after all we are here to celebrate our people!"
Choot turns to Shakraal, "An honored position. Have you held the sacrificial knife and made offerings to our ancestors yourself?"
"Mang dew-eye knowledge is known to me my teacher Thochaar three-eyes has told me of her, is it true that one of her eyes are shown shut..."
answering the question that was not posed to himself Thoku look to Choot
Oh only in small tribel blessing have i done this ceremony but the only difference with the Defiled Corpse one must use your hands to draw out the life's blood feel it run down your fingers, reach in and pull the hart with once hands haha then hold it before them as it beets and give it to the gods all the while they look on as the light fades from them ooohhh that's the beast part hahahha, lets walk and find food as we talk and get to know each other eh"
Shakraal seems to think on Choot's question as she haggles for a few choice maggot bags* rendered tastefully as decapitated heads with a canny vendor. She raises her mask up slightly to chew on the provender while chewing further on estimations of worthiness and the relative merits of ritual bloodletting and sacrificial murder.
"As the daughter of great Kring it has been mine honour to end a life in supplication to the ancestors. To be honest, it seemed a waste of a potential slave."
Or mate, in that one's case. A pity, he certainly had stamina. Before I slew him. Shakraal is brough out of her reverie by Thokul's quesiton.
"Old Dew Eye is a lecherous old goat. The rumours are true, if a little off the coin. It isn't he who has the sewn shut eye, 'tis me."
Here Shakraal lifts the mask even further and favours Thokul with her mutant third eye, making sure to stare and blink a few times for good measure before dropping the mask into place again.
* Orc vernacular for meat pie
Kern bows stiffly to Shakraal, who seems the least blood-obsessed of the group. "Yes, let us find food. We will need sustenance for the games and trials."
Choot shakes his head at Shakraal "Only a waste of a slave if the body is given to the worg. I find Thrall a most dutiful slave".
Choot nods in appreciation at the woman's third eye.
Shakraal nods back companionably to Kern, sizing him up as a potential mate.
"A might warcat requires a mighty rider. Well met." she replies. The warwitch looks about her with completely mask-disguised contempt.
"Yes. Eat. Drink. Fight. Rut. Then. Let the games begin..." she offers, with little mirth or enthusiasm.
Thoku smiles and nods to Shakaal when she reveals her eye
"well its not many who are blessed with that sight"
Thoku takes a literal leg of meat from one of the vendors, taking a bite the juices run down his chin wiping it away he turns to Shakaal
"So you say that you took his eye, how and what lead you do do so, and i say the only way to wast a slave is if its death gives no use that having been said there is always a need for meat, so in that seance you could never be wasteful just use all the part hehe"
Shakraal looks at Thoku and Choot, and smiles.
"I see you are both in accord. All is brought to bear by death and slavery. All else is the gods."
Noticing the tone in Shakraal's voice
"by the way you say that it would seem you don't enjoy the games as much as others, now even i must admit i find some a bit redundant..like the intestine eating contest but some are fun like the -Ulama- is very fun to watch no"
turning to Kern
"that's a nicely kept cat you have there not many who can or have the patience to tame one"
Thoku remarks and he hold out another leg of meat for Choot to have some food
Choot nods and grabs the leg tearing into it.
Sizing up Kern Choot nods his head in appreciation for the best before him, "A fine animal. I should like to see it in action against our foes".
Kern bows stiffly to Shakraal, who seems the least blood-obsessed of the group. "Yes, let us find food. We will need sustenance for the games and trials."
"It is good to eat. Almost as good as to kill," Hakak said. "The two together is best of all. Strength and its reward."
Hakak looked for something still wriggling to eat.
The newly-met orcs wander through the assembled pavilions on the eastern bank of the Flood Road. The Flood Truce is in full swing, and the air is filled with revelry. Massive drums beat a powerful rhythm, accompanied by bone flutes from a small clearing between the tents. In front of the skalds, two young warriors in loincloths move in a circle, their left wrists tied to the other's and stone knives held aloft in their free hands. They twirl and spin about the circle, knives flashing in the sunlight. Blood flies freely, as each cuts the other's flanks, much to the roaring pleasure of a crowd of males. A loan female sits on a bone chair looking rather bored at the display. Instead, her attentions fall on a powerful-looking female orc in pieces of plate armor who laughs as heartily as the male orcs looking at the warriors.
Near to this clearing, a several orcs (males and females alike) sit about a large fire. A giant of an orc in clad in metal plates pounds his chest and holds a truly titanic hammer aloft. It's a beautiful weapon, pitted and scarred by countless battles, but still deadly as ever. "Loktar stood in a field, dwarves charging at him from all sides, hammers held high. Loktar was unafraid and swung his mighty axe in a great arc. The dwarves gave up their greatest treasure, which tastes sweeter than gold, and it showered over Loktar in his victory. He claimed the weapon of the leader, a giant hammer fit to crush mountains, and named it Earthrender." There was much clapping and approval among the assembled orcs as the mighty warrior sat down. But, then, another orc stood. The female was as strongly muscled as any male, and her hide was much scarred by battle. She didn't speak but held up one of her arms which was pierced clean through by a dragon's fang. The applause that followed her display was louder still. Even the first speaker gave grudging respect. She sat back down and it was another's turn to speak. His deeds went unheard as Hakuk and the others moved on in search of meat.
At another clearing, two powerfully-muscled males wrestle on the ground. Each biting, kicking, clawing, and punching the other. The grass has been ripped apart by their tumbling, and the blood and sweat of their struggles has slicked the hard-packed clay into a thick paste that freely coats their hides. They break apart, each catching their breath and laughing for the sheer joy of combat, before they let loose blood-quickening roars and tear at each other again.
Still further on, Hakuk finds what he wants: a hunter from the Storm Screamers roasts large boar over a fire on a spit. The hunter is heavily scarred: a ragged wound that's been roughly closed with metal staples still weeps across half of his left face. When he sees Kern and the others approach, he pounds his fist against his hide-covered chest. "Warrior! Greetings from the tribe! My meat is fresh-caught today from the mountains by our people's tents."
"Did it fight well?" Hakak said as he reached for his coin. "Its strength will be mine."
The hunter nods and points to a massive dire wolf savaging a thick bone beside the fire. "It nearly cost Graur his life." The wolf looks up from his bone and snarls at the boar as though he understands his master's words, and then turns his attentions back to his bone with renewed vigor. "He took a tusk in the side that nearly spilled his entrails on the rocks. Fed him the beast's heart so he will take the beast's strength for his own." He gives a fond nod to the wolf and cuts off a massive slab of meat from the boar's side, handing it to Hakak at the point of his dagger. The meat steams in the air and waters the ground with rich juices.
Shakraak nods to Thoku.
"I do enjoy some of the games. To watch."
Shakraak appraises the male-displays of brawn and ferocity but notices the females particularly, and tries to determine what, if anything, distinguishes the members of the tribes. While there is obviously some definite physical variation between these farflung cousins it does not appear that there is much to separate them...mentally. For sure, their cultural approaches differ, but only as far as how one dispatches weaklings, what crude methods are chosen for healing of deep wounds or how one proves one's worth.
The warcat rider - Kern. He appears...thoughtful.
"Kern. Which tribe is yours?"
"That is a fine meal, and I will gladly pay for a share, cousin." Kern pulls out a few silver coins and hands over enough for himself and his cat to have full bellies.
The hunter rips off more steaming hunks of meat and gives them to Kern with a laugh. "You have a mighty beast, Warrior! It is not many who can tame the warcats, I would hear how you broke it to your will." The orc looks at his own dire wolf appraisingly. "Will you let it compete in the Trial of Fangs? "
"I did not require the breaking of its will. The creature respects me, because I showed it the necessary respect and discipline. Thank you for the food, cousin."
Choot skips the meal as he continues eating the chicken leg, cracking open the bone and sucking out the little marrow within.
He simply observes the group that has formed around him assessing whether they may be the right choice to assist him in accomplishing his goals.
Thrull moans softly as it sways back and forth observing the sounds uttering forth from the Orcs around it.
Thoku stands back with choot
"look at this choot, all the clans in peace this is how it sold be...if we stood together all the time we would rule all...ah but I know that's a far dream that could not come to pass in my lifetime. ..no. for now I will be working to one day have a tribe of my own and stand with the other chieftains at that place of high honor. .ah someday..."
Thoku claps coot on the back laughing
"and what of you cousin, tell me of your lofty dreams eh haha. Oh I and you too shakraal I can already guess you wish to be free of that lecherous dew eye and you call him heh."
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The hunter nods and points to a massive dire wolf savaging a thick bone beside the fire. "It nearly cost Graur his life." The wolf looks up from his bone and snarls at the boar as though he understands his master's words, and then turns his attentions back to his bone with renewed vigor. "He took a tusk in the side that nearly spilled his entrails on the rocks. Fed him the beast's heart so he will take the beast's strength for his own." He gives a fond nod to the wolf and cuts off a massive slab of meat from the boar's side, handing it to Hakak at the point of his dagger. The meat steams in the air and waters the ground with rich juices.
"Then it is good," Hakak took his share and split it with Fleshripper.
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Shakraak nods to Thoku. "I do enjoy some of the games. To watch." Shakraak appraises the male-displays of brawn and ferocity but ....
"hmm, and what games or tails will you be participating in eh shakraal"
Thoku ask in a inquisitive tone
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"I hail from a small tribe, from the mountains. We call ourselves the Thunderers. Sometimes low and quiet, sometimes overwhelming. My father is the chieftan of the tribe, and I have been tasked with joining other orcs and teaching them the ways of Rull. When I can bring my father another tribe to assimilate with our own, I will have earned my place as chieftan, and will have to kill my father in single combat. It is something I both look forward to and dread."
Choot turns his masked gaze to Thoku, "A place of honor on a platform? No, that is what pinkskins want, WE must want more. One Warlord to rule us all and for WE to rule all. Picture it, a wave of greenskins flowing across the soft lands of our enemies driving them before us. Their weak cowering before our might. Their mighty split in twain on our axes. The Destroyer will be pleased with us only then Thoku. Only then".
A wide grin grows on Thoku's face as his wickedly sharp teeth are shown
"Yes!, Choot yes that is that final action but one must first be respected and feared by all in order to pull everyone under the same banner. For how could one even with much power over throw the multiple tribes together one must and will gain the respect and power needed I would have you join me in this you seem to be of the same mind..."
Thoku looks to the masses surrounding them and motioning with his arm he says to Choot
"look at all this Choot imagine the power it would have if all were under the same banner...and not only brought together once a year for just a few days..."
in a low voice so only Choot could hear "just look at all that power...made powerless for meager squabbles...if this was given direction our lands would be far lager than this..."
Thoku's arm falls and he turns to look Choot in the masked eye We could give it form in time we could...what do you say cousin"
Choot nods and whispers back, "You are the one I have sought after for some time, Thoku. The blood favors you, it was no accident. Like minded in vision we are. Now we must find others who share our vision, that all tribes must be one". .
Shakraal merely nods at Kern's predicament.
"My mother is Chieftainess of the Blood Trail. In time, I must supplant her, or become outcaste. Such is the blindness of the Orcs."
High on her forehead, hidden by her mask, Shakraal's mutant third eye opens seeming of its own volition, seeing nothing but sensing more, before just as quickly closing.
The warwitch sighs and looks at her newfound companions. Each looks to he strong, powerful and full of the lust for life she favors. Except perhaps Choot. Lust for death might just be as useful, all things considered, in the final analysis. And anywise, Thrall proved the necromancer's power.... Shakraal shakes her head slightly.
"Forgive me. Let us find the Trials. Perhaps one of you will be further honoured..."
Thoku hits his chest once and the sound is like thunder reverberating
"AHha yes, to the trials I will most certainly be in The Trial of Might and The Trial of Thunder, of you all would join me we could take part in the Trial of the Tribe. lets see the who else will be part of this"
"I need to find a pig or something with enough blood to cover me so Nulgreth will take notice of his avatar..."Thoku said to himself as they walked
Choot turns to Shakraal, "Yes, a good idea. The Trial of the Tribe is one we should all partake in together. I will certainly enter the Trial of Whispers and the Trial of the Word Hoard".
Choot turns to Shakraal, "Yes, a good idea. The Trial of the Tribe is one we should all partake in together. I will certainly enter the Trial of Whispers and the Trial of the Word Hoard".
"I will lend my might," Hakak said.
Throughout the camp, orcs give praise to the Chiefs in Blood and Fire. A crowd of orcs have gathered to hear warriors and skalds honor Selzarian with the might of their word hoards as they recount their exploits, or those of the great warriors of their tribes There is a Trial beginning even now beneath a great dragon’s blood tree. Several orcs gather about it’s trunk and a wizened orc in a fierce witch’s mask steps forward.
”I am Thrugash Fiendtaker of the Empty Hand. I have gazed deep into the Dark Tapestry and learned the secrets of breaking demons to my will! Behold!” He steps back and a horribly rotten creature, a bloated human the size of a child crawls up through the dirt. He snarls and bares its fangs and claws at the assembled orcs. Several of the warriors grab their weapons and move to attack before the creatures scurries over to Thrugash and puts its head at his feet. ”I tore it from the great dark Abyss and broke its spirit! It struggled against me for nine long nights, cutting me with fang and nail.” The masked witch points at horrid, gaping wounds on his body that have only just begun to heal. ’I used every tool I had--branding, whips, chains, magic--and it now calls me master.” He kicks the demon and the creature scurries back to crowch a few feet away by the center of the ring. ”Are my deeds not great!? Do I not honor Selzarian with my mastery of his gifts!?”
Kern strides up next to Thrugash. "Your demon is most impressive, cousin."
He turns to the assembled orcs.
"I am Kern, steward of the Thunderer. At the age of seven, I lost my eye in a fight with an orc nearly twice my age. I ripped his throat out in retribution. My father, the chieftan of our tribe, sent me into the wilderness for weeks as penance for the killing. That is where I found and tamed this warcat, whom I named Grell. Grell is a powerful warrior by her nature alone, and I have cultivated her strengths, making her a machine built for killing."
At Kern's signal, Grell roars menacingly.