Kern gives an apologetic look to the poor ogre, but sees the wisdom in this course of action. "Let it be so," he says stoically.
With dumb obedience, the ogre sticks out its tongue and grips it tight with one fist. It whimpers, tears flowing from its horrified eyes as it tugs, ripping its tongue out with a single heave of its mighty thews. Blood rains from its ruined jaw, staining its chest and muddying the ground with its life. It tosses the ruined organ to the side, which flaps and twists like a thing alive in the soil.
Slaves, driven by two orcs covered in the hides of flayed humans drag stout chains forward and quickly bind the corpses to the ogre slave's limbs as shamans carve the standard of the Twisted Nail and runes sacred to dread Zagresh into the bodies. Then, the ogre is driven forth back towards the fort where it came.
The ogre weeps silently as it stumbles on ruined legs, its unhealed wounds spewing filth and blood with every step. It shambles away across the bridge and into the fort. A roar shakes the air, sending ravens and vultures careening through the air. Ozak feels the Thorn tremble, and he knows that the slave is dead.
The mad druid laughs at evey tear!
"The Lord of the End of All shall rally them Badaxe, the Twisted Nail will bleed, the weak weeded out, their souls a sacrifice to Zagresh! When they are done bleeding the blood on the ground shall swell and rise in a storm unlike anything these Ogres and Giants have seen or heard of in their own Legends!
Then, it will be more than tongues we cut from the despicable creatures who would enslave Orcs.
Those that bend knee to the Chieftain will serve those who do not will make a lovely new throne!" Choot chuckles wickedly.
The Burning Angel is ripped from the sky by the mighty thews of Nulgreth, and still, there is no sign of that the giants and the orcs have gone to war. Late into the night, with Sezelrian's torches burning in the great cavern above, Kern spots a troop of four orc warriors marching on patrol.
"Stupid ogres! We didn't do anything! Now, they're talking about eating us! Stupid!"
Kern whispers to his allies "It would seem our plan did not have the desired effect. What now, brothers?"
Cackling nonstop, the storm druid hisses,
Why we floods them!
He looks at the Fist.
Unless you can fool them?
One of the orcs spits. "We should kill them, instead! They are big, but we are many!"
Two others grunt in response, but a third laughs. "Warchief hasn't said to fight, yet. So, we obey."
Warchief hate giants. He will fight, soon."
Choot grins as the Orcs pass by, "The Chieftain and I can make ourselves look like the Warchief we just need to know what he looks like... Then, we can give the Orcs the war they, and we, seek.
Or we wait for the next set of Ogre patrols and repeat".
"Would a description be enough? I can try and sneak in."
"Or perhaps their chief would join us? I could deliver a message."
The druid stops cackling. He looks at the Fist.
We are the Bleeding Storm! Our thunder and lightning could make this place a nice pile of ash!
"I think our last plan did not give the results we expected, and repeating it would be foolish. We should sneak in and attack when they least expect it, then melt away, sowing confusion."
The patrolling orcs spot the Fist of the Bleeding Storm and march forward. "EH! Who are you!? Why are you here at Fort Redlake!? This Fort belongs to the Twisted Nail.. er.. Heart under Grendelseck's command!" They draw their warmetal, ready to attack, although they do not strike, yet.
"The doom of Zagresh be upon you!
Grendelseck commands you? Who is Grendelseck?"
The patrolling orcs spot the Fist of the Bleeding Storm and march forward. "EH! Who are you!? Why are you here at Fort Redlake!? This Fort belongs to the Twisted Nail.. er.. Heart under Grendelseck's command!" They draw their warmetal, ready to attack, although they do not strike, yet.
"Twisted Nail? Hah! This fort belongs to a bunch of filthy ogres! You have metal in your hands - how can you let yourselves be slaves to such as those?"
"The Bleeding Storm comes, and it will wash away all the filthy ogres and their mewling servants. Those who lick the boots of the ogres will die along with them! Those who stand and fight them as true orcs may live in glory!"
"Which are you? A bootlicker, or a warrior?"
Long has the chief of the bleeding storm set silent watching his trusted fist work. As these weak orcs approach he sees the fist clench ready to strike down any who could make them known. As his doomspeaker barks Thoku grins, then the Badaxe flexes his mussels and snarls hatred at the weak orcs. The chief gives a small chuckle as Badaxe barks "not to long ago this one acted as if he had no interest in joining my tribe. Now he barks as if he always was...perhaps this is true Badaxe just did not know it at the time...well now to these weak ones..."
The Bloody Chief moves passed his fist dropping the cloak used to hide his holy form.
"look at me and see what an ORC at the front of power is. Do you wish to continue to be nothing but PETS to the Ogres parading as if they are better than YOU!." He makes a fist clenching his hand hard enough to allow some of his sacred blood to flow free. It smokes as it hits the ground. "I tell you the bleeding storm is HERE to place orcs where we should always have been meant to be. Standing atop a mountain of crushed enemies. Tell me do you wish to feed your fill or be left scraps the ogres choose to allow you. Soon we will brake them with you and any who wish for a new dawn at the front of a great war beast. Join the bleeding storm or become the blood we leave in our wake."
Arkhan nods, clapping his hands together. It sounds as thunder!
As the Mouth of Zagresh speaks, the four orcs pound the Doombringer's signs that have been branded on their chests, even as they avert their eyes. It is not wise to gaze upon one who sees with the eyes of the End of All things. "Shaman, Grenseldek is the warchief of the Twisted Heart at the Fort. She is a giant, ugly and stupid, but she is strong. She commands the ogres and our tribe." The warriors spit, showing their great hatred for the giant.
As the Bad Axe speaks, the warriors' hackles raise and they bare their tusks, even going so far as to lift their double-headed axes in rage. "We are not the pets of Giants! Every day, General Karrguk draws closer to drawing steel and leading us against the giants. We are warriors and will stain the earth with battle-sweat!"
Then, Thoku stands, and the warriors step back, baring their necks to the chief. "We will take you to General Karrguk. He would hear your words!"
Ozak turns to Thoku and shrugs.
He turns back to the ores.
"If this Karrguk will raise his steel against the ogres, fine. But if he is not with us he is against us. Let's go."
Arkhan rubs his hands together greedily.
Yesss, by all means, let us meet this chief. Hehehe!
The warriors pound their chests. "Come! We will bring you to General Karrguk!"
They turn and head toward the fort, boldly marching across the hard-packed clay beneath Sezelerian's Eye. Their steps are strong, sure. These, at least, are not dogs. Their hob-nailed boots echo as they stomp across the wooden bridge leading to the gates of Fort Redlake. The stone blocks--man's work--are dull and gray, strong. They're meant to hold back the strength of the hordes, the stones of giants. The weak men left, leaving their strength behind for the orcs to take.
They cross through the small gatehouse, past a dwarf who barks and snarls like a rabid dog. It even has a collar and is chained to a post like one. Ogres stand lazy on the towers, barely keeping watch. They stand behind torches so the light blinds them to the threats of the darkness. They are stupid to dismiss Verex's guile. The warriors turn left and lead the way through tents and cook fires. Other warriors pause and take note, but they do not stop the Fist as they walk into the camp.
The warrior stop at the largest tent pressed tight against the wall of the keep. It holds the standard of a warchief made from the flayed skin of an elf. "You brought them." It was not a question. Without a word, the warriors pull aside the tent flaps and guide the Fist in. A powerful warrior in battle-scarred warskin sits on a small chair. An ancient crone stands beside him. She is gnarled and twisted with age, her back haunched over, her mouth tuskless, her eyes rheumy and white. "Leave. Stand guard." The warriors pound their chests and step out without a word. The warchief turns to Thoku, and stares him in the eye. "You are Thoku, Chief of the Bleeding Storm, Butcher of Trunau. I am Genearal Karrguk, warchief of the Twisted Heart."
Kern keeps Grell close by, but sends Razorbeak into the trees outside the compound to wait. He will whistle for the bird if it is needed.
As he walks through the compound, Kern marvels at the savagery of his kin, and once more wonders why they must be as they are. He often feels that he was born to the wrong race, and would have been more at peace among humans.
When he sees the chief, he stands defiant next to his clan, ready to defend his chief if need be.
The druid's eyes watch for the inevitable treachery.
The Doomspeaker remains quiet... for now. It is Thoku's place to speak to this Warchief, not his Doomspeaker.
Still, Choot does mutter a spell to ascertain whether this Orc has any items of great value that could prove dangerous or interesting.
To the stormbrother's eye, Karrguk seems to know something of honor and the strength of words. His hand does not stray far from his steel, it would be foolish to show such weakness, otherwise.
The Voice of Zagresh sees strong smoke clinging to the general's weapons and armor. But, he sees no other smokes surrounding the warrior. The crone, of course, is shrouded in Sezelrian's craft.
Thoku looks at this so called war chief growling his answers "War chief is a rank holding mush honor, given to those who lead a massive pack to battle...." The bloody one steps forward pulsing with power as his mussels tighten "Though all i see as a walk pass your pack is chafe taking what scraps the ogres leave you. Is That what you call a war chief. No you are more of a tusk less whelp begging your masters for meat. When an orc takes their meat with tusk and claw if needed."
[ooc[wow good thing i have a big bonus lol[/ooc]
Kern slams his chest and roars in agreement with his chief, and Grell roars along.
The mad druid screeches,
Rull has witnessed the roar of thunder and the crackle of lightning that is the Bleeding Storm!
Karrguk grabs his axe in a moment, the move is faster than any have eyes to see. He roars, tusks dripping rage-filled foam as his eyes boil with blood lust. No one challenges my mettle! My war-steel has felled greater chiefs than you! I have feasted on their nethers and tossed their tusks to the fire. I have made slaves of their spawn, and claimed their mates as their own. He points to the orc-hide cloak about his shoulders. I wear their hides.
He glares at Thoku, his axe creaks beneath the strain of his hands. Then, with a snarl, he bares his neck to the mighty chief. Your tribe is strong. The hag slew the chief of our clan. By right of conquest, our fists are hers. She has bound a witch to her strength! I sent my four greatest warriors to end her. The moment they approached her, they gutted themselves. Then, they rose as corpse-slaves of her will. All orcs who approach her suffer this fate. The ogres on the towers slay any they see who do not bear her mark.
He spits and lowers his bone-beak to his side. You, however, may have a chance. Your Fist slew that stain, Skreed, and shattered the human village. Slay Grenseldek, and I will bind my clan to you. The hag has cost me my honor and strength, serving beneath your banner, I might win it back.
Kern nods, happy to see that bloodshed has been avoided so far. He waits for his chief to respond.
Ozak frowns as the chief tells his story.
Not much fun when they just give up without a fight. What kind of warchief is this? Still... we can always kill him later. Unless... perhaps he is sending us into a trap?
Ozak studies the chief carefully.
"What sort of hag is this? Is this hag also the ruler of the ogres?"
"And what does her 'mark' look like? Perhaps we can fake it, in order to get close."
Ozak does not think the warchief speaks with a false tongue. He is a mighty warrior, and does not rely on a coward's guile to win.
The hag is filled with Sezelrian's own fire. Every word is filled with the Fire God's smoke. Karrguk spits. Grenseldek fears her and her smokes. But, any who approach join her army."
He draws a longsword cuts the earth with the image of crude heart with a bent nail running through it. This is the giant's standard. Wear this and the ogres should let you pass. I will prepare my warriors to attack the giants at your command, Dread Thoku.
Ozak does not think the warchief speaks with a false tongue. He is a mighty warrior, and does not rely on a coward's guile to win.
The hag is filled with Sezelrian's own fire. Every word is filled with the Fire God's smoke. Karrguk spits. Grenseldek fears her and her smokes. But, any who approach join her army."
He draws a longsword cuts the earth with the image of crude heart with a bent nail running through it. This is the giant's standard. Wear this and the ogres should let you pass. I will prepare my warriors to attack the giants at your command, Dread Thoku.
The crone speaks for the first time. Her voice is dusty leather scraped over rusted steel. It is ancient beyond time. As old as mountains. "General. I can prepare an opening in the wall behind your tent. Only those of with orc blood can enter it. Only six could pass through, and it could be hidden. I will need a sacrifice, and time, but it can be done."
Kurrgak growls and bares his tusks to the crone. "You only speak of this now!?"
She laughs a rheumy phelgmy sound, wheezing and half-formed. "You are the only warrior strong enough worth the risk. Sending you would be doom for our tribe. And your warriors really shall become the giants' dogs."
He snarls but nods. "Your tongue burns true. That stain Makosh gave me only whelps, unblooded, and barely worth more than the cookfires themselves. They would only feed the hag's horde. I already sent her our strongest.. and they are her corpse-slaves. What say you, dread Thoku? Slay Grenseldek and free my tribe, and I will join it yours. We shall rise up and crush the giants as you strike that creature's head from her shoulders."
A spark of lightning flashes greedily from the Storm druids eyes.
I will make it so, General The crone pulls out a large hollowed-out tusk.
She slits her wrist and pours in her steaming blood. Then, she adds a scoop thick red clay and stone from the ground beneath the tent. She crushes some insects in a bowl and mixes in the the bones of a small mole.
Then, she adds a small glob of a glowing green mucus. She grinds the things together and then pours in the blood and clay from the tusk. She sets the bowl over the ground and releases her water into the paste, nearly filling the bowl to overflowing. The crone stirs the paste into a thick potion and then nods to the General. Karrguk grunts and pulls aside a flap of his tent to reveal the stones of inner fortress flush against his own tent.
He grunts and points at the worked stone. We shall make an opening only an orc can go through
The crone cackles and paints a rough circle on the stones, just large enough for Thoku to squeeze through. She raps her staff on the ground once and two warriors step in, dragging a third warrior between them. They shove the orc forward who slams his fist to his chest and bares his tusks in a show of strength. The warriors strip him until he stands naked before the crone and his general, victory and strength are carved across his skin. The warriors pull him to the ground and nail him to the earth with tusks, one for each limb. The crone carves symbols sacred to the Mother, the Blood God, and the Iron God upon his chest with the tusk and then fills it with the bowl's contents. The warriors hold the thrashing warrior's mouth open as she pours the entire tusk down his throat.
The warrior howls in agony an he rips his hands and feet free with the force of his trashing. His body bends and contorts, muscles bulge and twist, bones bend, break, and melt. His muzzle extend and also contracts into gnashing, rasping hole lined with rows upon rows of tusks coated with sizzling liquid. Impossibly long claws erupt from his fingers, and the flesh and bone fuse together to form giant cutting spades. HIs back contorts until the creature is unable to stand, his legs band and fuse into scraping paddles to push loose earth away. A wet ripping sound fills the tent as a second fleshy head pulses wetly on his back. His eyes grow small and blank, his mind disappears, only to be filled by an unreasoning hunger and hatred. With a brutish roaring snort the once-orc launches itself at the stone of the fortress wall. Its rasping maw, tongue, and spades scraping and chiseling away at the worked stone.
The Fist can see its body convulse and work as dissolved rock and bits of stone work their way down its gullet. Its flesh ripples as it eats and works its way into the stone. The beast begins to stick to the rock about it. Tendrils of flesh reach out from its hide and latch on to the walls of the hole, pulling more and more of the beast's body with them. As it pushes forward into the rock, more of its body adheres to the stone, pulling the second mouth at first level with the hole and then expanding wider and wider, contorting it until the head fills the hole and orcflesh fuses the head to the stone. The thing pulses once and then the eyes open. Some fraction of intelligence still remains with in this new head for its eyes follow every movement of those within the tent.
Karrguk regards the whole ordeal with bland interest. This is your passage. The crone swears that only those with orc blood may pass, or even see this opening. Once inside, any not bearing Grenseldek's mark will be killed. He draws the image on the ground. It must be in blood and it must be on your chest. No other images can be shown. Go. Kill her, and stengthen your tribe!
Kern studies the image, committing it to memory. "My thralls cannot follow? I can see through their eyes, so that connection may allow them to enter, no?" he asks, pointing to his warcat and egret companions.
Kern studies the image, committing it to memory. "My thralls cannot follow? I can see through their eyes, so that connection may allow them to enter, no?" he asks, pointing to his warcat and egret companions.
Your beats can enter. They are bound to you and bear your scent.
Arkhan reaches down into the wet dirt. With a long nail finger, the druid begins tracing symbols of air. Arkhan pronounces Rull's speech, as he retraces the same symbols on each of the Fist.
Rull has lightened your steps. Be not wary of the terrain.
School transmutation; Level bard 1, druid 1, psychic 1, ranger 1
CASTING
Casting Time 1 standard action
Components V, S
EFFECT
Range close (25 ft. + 5 ft./2 levels)
Targets one creature
Duration 10 minutes/level
Saving Throw Fortitude negates (harmless); Spell Resistance yes
DESCRIPTION
For the duration of this spell, the subject ignores the adverse movement effects of difficult terrain, and can even take 5-foot steps in difficult terrain.
Feather Step, Mass
School transmutation; Level bard 3, druid 3, psychic 3, ranger 3
EFFECT
Targets one creature/level, no two of which can be more than 30 ft. apart
DESCRIPTION
As feather step, except this spell affects multiple creatures.
Kern nods at Arkhan. "Then let us finish this."
The crone paints the symbol of Grenseldek on the Fists' chests and steps out of the way. As the warriors approach, the clamped jaws open, and the tusks separating with a wet grating sound. They open impossibly wide, and its thick tongue rolls out like a carpet. The muscles of its neck pulse wetly as the Fist marches in and it swallows them whole. As they march, thick bones pull back into the roof and sides of its flesh, like bars being pulled up at the gate. Finally, they step out the other side through a second mouth into a small corridor in the walls of the fort.
Iron rungs in the wall lead up to a trapdoor in the ceiling
the hall terminates in 2 secret doors. One just beyond the ladder to the west, the other is the eastern end of the hall.
as Thoku moves in the passage he uses the tattooed spell to change his shape and look. Gone is the holy crimson blood look to his skin replaced with the muted green moss color.
The hidden chief motions to the two trap doors "Take notice of the two exits, if we need a split escape" Thoku nods to his fist "Half of you take the far exit the rest with me exit once you are sure none will see you"
Thoku opens the exit at the eastern end once the path is clear...