Rain Slicked Chances

Warborn · **Warborn**

The rain came down in sheets and reams. Spring’s first drizzle in the valleys was a torrential downpour in the mountains, and the snow and earth had turned into a muddy slush-river that streamed around Kraggor’s legs and feet as he plowed his way around Hag’s Tooth in the southern end of The Grand Range. The great green goliath hugged the soaked deerskin closer to his frame, cursing the gods of wind and weather alike.

With the solstice around the corner, food would soon be no problem for the orc. His belly growled, a distinct reminder that his last kill had been two days earlier. Hunger was a constant enemy, but familiar, and easily defeated with a few scrawny rabbits or a root vegetable or two.

The tremendous greenskin plodded forward through the grey-haze, gravity’s effect on the liquid beneath him increasingly potent. Another self-assured footstep on tenuous ground and Kraggor was caught up in the flood, oaths and curses screaming forth from his lungs as fast as he could before the mud river dumped him unceremoniously at the end of a broken trail. With a rage-clouded mind he came to his feet just in time to see it.

The mouth of a cave loomed over him from the underside of an outcropping of rock, bits of bone and rusted armor dangling on strings from the top of the cleft.

Sniffing, Kraggor examined the cave entrance. The freezing water ran downhill and over the entrance, keeping the floor dry, and the roof was just high enough for a small fire. Tempting, to say the least, but the orc was uncertain. No marks or runes identified the place as either Dwarven or Orcish. He spotted the bones a moment later: small frames, sharp teeth, long cartilage in the ears and nose.

Goblins.

With a savage grin the orc pulled himself up into the cave, a trail of mud steadily forming from where his make-shift shawl and armor sloughed the water downwards. Even more so than a meal the outcast had been looking for a group of smaller somethings to bully about. The squat, feral, greedy bastards would make excellent underlings and fantastic fodder for a raid. Provided Kraggor hadn’t already been beaten to the punch by something significantly bigger than him. In the warrior’s world might made right, and a blade between the ribs at night could change that.

But that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as bashing a skull in with an axe.

He stumbled down further and the scent of burning wood and roast rat caught the warrior’s nostrils, and his sharp ears could pick apart the whistling of the wind outside and the whispers of the cave-dwellers down below, no light from the fire yet though.

“Skragut wants to hunt deers in the spring,” one said, his voice high and nasal.

A snort, followed by the sound of spit, “We’s thinks he’s stupid! We gots rats! Wutcha we needums deers for?”

“Acuz we c’n eats them toos, stupid!”

“Oh, right…”

Kraggor’s tusk-flanked maw spread in a smile. Hunting parties were just war-bands waiting to happen. Add a few more members, throw in a group leader, and before you know it, you’d be raiding caravans like professional highwaymen. It sounded like around ten of the little snot-balls were sitting around the fire, exchanging stories and insults while eating supper, and the scent of rat made the warrior’s belly grumble in return. Establishing dominance without getting overrun would be the tricky part, and the last thing the orc wanted was to die at the hands of incompetent goblins startled during dinner.

Still, even if things went horribly wrong, he might get a meal.

He rounded the corner, shirking off the deerskin as he approached the fire from about a half-dozen yards away. He could see them now, like little ugly children, emerald skinned and warty. They sat with crude spears over the fire, almost each tipped with an impaled rat or two browning in the flame’s heat. Five or six popped to their feet, gnawing at the meat on the ends rather than brandishing their weapons

He approached one of the little snot-balls, the thing too stupid to stop eating while something came up behind it. With a decisive punt of his right foot Kraggor sent the thing face first into the fire, sparks and screams alike rising from the goblin’s blistering face. The orc just laughed and pulled free his blade.

“All roight! From nows ons you little brats gonna be takin’ the orders from me! Iffins you gots a problem with dat, then we c’n sort it out one-on-one naow! Anny questy-yuns?”

“Yeeuh, I do…”

The thing that spoke stepped out from the shadows on the other side of the fire, falchion in one hand, heavy wooden shield in the other. Long grey hair ringed the back of his balding head, and his leathery, lime skin was crisscrossed with dozens of scars along his face and arms. The newcomer’s face was long and thick, but placed well above his wide shoulders, a short pair of tusks jutting from either side.

Half-orc.

“Oim gessin’ yous Skragut den?”, Kraggor asked.

“Yeeuh, I am. This is my territory, and these is my huntin’ party. Yous can go get yer own.”

Kraggor skimmed him up and down. Good weapons, decent armor, and full confidence. Skragut was definitely a survivor, as his age testified to, but Kraggor needed both a meal and followers if he wanted to create a war-band. Two options lay before the orc: supplication, or domination.

The gigantic greenskin chose the latter.

With a wicked, feral grin the outcast warrior moved his left hand behind his back, working his fingers through the holes of one of his hand axes.

“Naaaaah! Me thinks yer toimes up, ‘alf-breed!” the green giant jeered.

With surprising quickness Skragut closed the distance, bringing his serrated falchion up and down in a fluid chop for Kraggor’s neck. The invader barely moved his massive frame over in time, his opponent’s heavy weapon crushing a piece of patchwork armor.

Roaring, Kraggor shouldered his opponent away and into a stone wall of the cave. Pulling free his hidden weapon, the orc brought the spike of the axe up and down, only to have it stopped by the shield Skragut threw up at the last second. Immediately the defender thrust his blade forward, looking to jab at the raider’s soft belly. With lightning speed Kraggor shoved his short-sword down, deflecting the thrust by catching the blade in his hand-guard.

“Thieving bastard!”

Kraggor chuckled like a schoolyard bully. Battle beat in the left breast of every orc, and the green marauder grinned like a madman as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Skragut’s chooman side made him soft and weak, and his age didn’t help either. The two warriors stood with weapons locked: Kraggor’s axe had bit deep into the wood of the shield, and now refused to let go, while his sword arm kept the half-breed’s falchion pinned by his side.

The goblins were cheering now, more had scrambled up from the depths to watch the fight, over half the little pukes cheering for Kraggor. There were maybe fifty of the tiny snot-wads total, cruel teeth glinting in the firelight as they clamored for blood.

Skragut hocked deep, and spat into Kraggor’s eyes.

Blinded by his opponent’s cunning, the invader reeled backward. Skragut smiled at his own cleverness and watched the gargantuan warrior stumble away, trying to rub the thick mucous from his eyes. Kraggor had dropped his weapons and started to hoot and howl with protest, and in the meantime the half-blood had moved up and over him, bringing his falchion high for the killing stroke.

“Think ye’s smarts, don’t cha ‘alf-breed?”

The giant warrior’s hand shot up and throttled Skragut, lifting his enemy high off the ground and ramming his head into the stone ceiling above the warriors. The half-orc saw stars, arms going limp and letting his sword clatter to the earth below.

“Tricksies bahstard! Fightin’ good and dirty! Swaht I loikes!”

Kraggor cast the half-orc aside like a rag-doll, stooping to pick up his dropped falchion before stepping over Skragut and rearing back. The half-orc was a good fighter. Something the viridian behemoth would need more of if he were to get a proper war-band started, and it seemed a waste to kill a decent blade for a bunch of gibbering goblins.

Still…

The orc warrior brought the blade down fast and hard, a geyser of thick arterial spray shooting out from the Skragut’s throat and across the cave wall.

“Naow! Do I gots to say it agains? Oim Kraggor Morgutz, an’ Oim da Boss naow! Anny questy-yuns?”

Their roar was deafening, the acoustics of the cave turning fifty voices into thousands, reverberating as one out of the mouth of the cavern while thunder crashed in the distance.

* * *

Kraggor patted his full belly in the warm sunlight, belching in reply to the empty stewpot before him. It had taken the orc almost three weeks to get the whole party down from the cave to the base of the mountain. There’d been forty eight goblins to start, and they’d only lost three and wounded five on the way down. A good number were busy collecting firewood, hunting more hares for stew or scouting the local area, while the rest practiced phalanx movements in the open field they’d made camp in. A cool spring breeze came through, and the hulking warrior turned his attention to the tree-line in the distance.

Greatwood: home to the elves, his people’s ancestral enemy.

With a snort and a grimace Kraggor spat, mumbling a curse for the flower-hugging magic-using cowards and their trees. The green goliath didn’t have the time or the armies he’d need to try and wage that war, but hopefully he’d get a caravan or two headed down to Thimblebark or Thistledork or whatever the little, runty, beardless dwarf-things called it.

The warrior palmed the hilt of the falchion now at his waist. Skeez, Drip, and Fooger were all on lookout duty for the trail nearby, and while Drip and Fooger weren’t the brightest of the lot, Skeez was. Kraggor felt a bit more at ease knowing they’d come running should anything pass down the path. Success required patience, and the greenskin had made it this far.

For now, the orc was content to wait.

MaliceMalicious · **MaliceMalicious**

People have words for what they know, and what they deal with. The snotlings have fifty words for "ouch"; The orcs, thirty words for "war"; Kilauni, twenty for "snow". The trolls, seventeen for "husband". Ogres have four words for "minion", and though that doesn't seem like a lot, it's quite impressive for a language that uses the same word for "deer" and "human".

Elvish, by its very nature, is a language slow to evolve, and one that already has, by Elven perception, perfected the nomenclature for all of creation, since it has been present throughout.

So when the hulking, brutish hordes of Drakkor poured into Greatwood, not to sack, but to save, the eldar linguists had to find a term to call these unlikely saviors. Ultimately, the word "urci" was reintroduced, after millenia en obscura, as a respectful term by which to refer to orcs as a whole.

It has been seventy years, though, since Morag and his army routed the demon legions, and though it is but an eye-blink in elven memory, three generations of orcs have come and gone.

"Orcu en Urci?", Helderon asks, drumming his fingers on one of his mithril pauldrons as he looks westward.

"Neither, sir." The ranger responds. "I saw only goblins...they've not yet tested the Forest's edge."

"You are certain?"

The ranger's eyes narrow very slightly, and her voice gains the briefest edge. A silverlance is a silverlance, but these are HER woods.

"I am certain, sir."

Helderon nods, and stands to fetch his tack.

"Then I'll leave them to you, Torrinne. May the Lord of Leaves bless you and your watch."

"With all respect, Silverlance...my watch is spread thin...and even if I have seen half their numbers-"

"Then that would less than fifty...they're just goblins, as you said."

"There are four villages within a day's walk of their watch-camps. Even if I catch them when they first entered the Forest, I couldn't possibly dispatch them before they could-"

"There are a hundred villages along the Black Knight's route. Deathmages, Torrinne! In our lands...coming and going as they please. I do not think these green-skins trivial, but I will welcome them long before I will stand for these Men and their blasphemy."

Torrinne bows her head.

"As you say, sir."

The silverlance rests a hand on her shoulder.

"If you find more than goblins, send word...two days will find me back in Tesservale."
_________________
"Hey, Look! I just regenerated a finger! Guess which one?" -- Xykon

Bregan [Hyde] · **Bregan [Hyde]**

((Very sorry about the delay. Enter the man with the crescent moon scar.))

Up high above its eaves, the manor's great black bell began to toll the hour, and the vine-wrapped doors of Cold-Dawn slid open like the night. Frost crunching under his bare feet, the man with the crescent moon scar stepped out of the foyer. He was dressed well -- no small surprise, given where he'd just come from -- in silks and cloths of violent blue and tangerine, which stood in stark contrast to both the color of his hair -- dark, like oil -- and the great black sitar strapped across his back. One of his hands was wrapped around a lit cigar, while the other grasped a leather-bound book of considerable age and thickness.

He paused at the edge of the mansion's porch so that the short man could catch up to him -- his own long legs outpaced Rudovali's by more than two steps, making it hard for the house-master to keep up. The front lawn of the estate was immaculate: not one blade of grass had been cut any higher than the others, and the lush plum trees on either side of the white gravel road grew in lines as strict and precise as clockwork. Tall gray walls lined the edge of the compound almost a mile distant, the first fringes of the Eaterwood visible through the silvery gates.

The wind stirred as he breathed out, leaping up like a faithful dog. Fallen, soggy leaves whipped across the flawless green like a useless metaphor or a flowery phrase which had nothing at all to do with his business, be it present or future. There was time for the flowers today; no time for sweet and pretty words except as they suited his needs, like a poison. This was an important day, and a black one; a day for remembering and for cursing the sun.

Footsteps at his back, quick and sharp and followed by the deep gasps of a person not used to having to move quickly.

"How far to the burrows, Herr Rudovali?" he asked, turning to face the house-master.

In the sky above, forming an almost perfect ring around that chill, beautiful house of Cold-Dawn, dark clouds began to gather.

* * *

The pith goblins -- nearly a dozen of them -- had lined up outside of their squat, muddy burrow, leather hoods drawn tight against the pattering rain. They were the color of the strange woods they lived against, all brown and purple and a million different shades of green, though what was clothing and what was flesh one could never quite be sure of. Baggy burlap masks covered their broad faces, with crude holes cut around the eyes and a wide slash up the middle to permit their long, sharp noses. Countless charms of stone and wood hung from around their necks and chests, carved into strange and puzzling shapes from the queer, buzzing language that the beasts spoke.

The largest of the gang -- marked as their leader by the stag antlers he wore upon his shoulders -- knelt several paces in front of the rest, forehead pressed against the carpet of sodden leaves that made up the forest floor. With a faint rustling from his many layers of clothing, the masked creature looked up at the man with the crescent moon scar and asked him a question that sounded like the flight of dragonflies. The dark-skinned man laughed, apparently amused, and replied in kind.

"Tracking, of course. Do you know the smell of greenskins? Could you find them if I asked?"

The chief nodded his head, stone amulets clattering against one another.

"Pack what you'll need, then: we won't be back for at least a day; probably more. Meet me at my tent on the hill by the tarn when you're prepared."

The leaves shook as though laughing, and he was gone.

* * *

The rain came down in sheets, running in thick, cold streams along the oilcloth poncho he'd brought from his camp. The pith goblins didn't seem to mind it, though; if anything, they took pleasure in the storm, exploding in excited chatter at every boom of thunder and crack of lightning. They ran on through the downpour like tireless hounds, some leaping from tree to tree while others kept low to the ground, hoods drawn back and their forked tongues darting out to taste the air.

Greatwood. Greenskins. Two things that were unlikely to mix together for very long, one way or the other.

The storm had just broken in earnest when they'd crossed the boarder to this side of the land, forsaking the musky-scented depths of the Eaterwood for somewhere far less familiar. Pith goblins were natives to the purple forests, and seldom known to stray from their homes inside it, save under the orders of one of the gentry. Strong winds and freezing rain had lifted their spirits, but he doubted that he would find them quite as cheerful in the days to come...if, of course, this took that long.

Orcs, he felt, were ideal for such a purpose as his: reviled and brutish, yes, but positively geniuses when it came to the matters of fighting and cruelty and amorality. Idealists would get you killed in the long run, and seldom had an actual hunger for revenge. They saw the world for what it could be, while orcs seldom saw beyond the point of a sword...which suited him just fine.

One of the fey creatures gave an insectile cry of triumph, and almost instantly a pair of its fellows dropped down from the canopy above, splashing up water from the shallow pools forming on the woodland floor. Bows and knives built from rock, bone, and wood clattered against one another as they started to take chase; sucking in a breath through his nose, he broke into a run

* * *

The man with the crescent moon scar barked laughter, startling a pair of the cloth-wrapped creatures that had been examining one of the nearby trees.

"Elves? Already? How sharp of them; how...useful. Such a shame that they're always spoken for, isn't it?"

The goblin chief shrugged his shoulders and chittered a few lines in reply, which brought a broad, wolfish grin to the brightly-dressed man's face. Biting at his lower lip for a moment, he reached behind the rock he'd been using as a seat and dragged his titanic sitar free of its protective wrap, brushing away what few droplets of moisture that had managed to seep through. Positioning himself, he passed one fine, smooth hand across the strings before beginning to fiddle with its knobs.

"They'd sooner shoot you, and I'm in no mood to kowtow. At any rate, I doubt that they've got the ears to figure out what you're saying: they might be fair-blooded, but they're certainly not fair folk. Our lord is right in that, at least. Could you...no, they'd charge if they saw you come close, because that's just what's done."

Snorting in annoyance, he plucked at a string and, finding its sound wanting, spat to one side.

"Problematic."

They sat on a rise some short distance from the camp: close enough to see the brute at his breakfast, but far enough away to escape easy notice. If the pith chief was right -- and there was no reason to think he was not -- the watchers would be too busy with the greenskin party to take notice of them. The sight of the orc had lowered their standards; the goblins of this land were rats and bumblers, so unlike their quick, quiet cousins.

Another sweep of his hand; the black sitar sang to the morning.

"Damn," he sighed, "it can't be helped. Stay guarded, but not threatening: a trail of corpses is the last thing we need right now."

The wind picked up around him, sweeping down toward Kraggor below, and gripping his great, dark instrument tight, the man with the crescent moon scar began to play.
_________________
"'Cause if there's blood on the roots,
Then there's blood on the branches."

Warborn · **Warborn**

Kraggor bolted upright at the sound of the bending notes of the sitar, falchion in one hand and still-scalding-on-the-bottom stewpot in the other. The orc whirled from side to side, deft ears double checking the location as he strafed toward the outcropping of rock near (but not too near) the hill where he located the noise. It seemed that he’d have to deny his best lookouts supper and clip a few more around the ears for letting the figure in the distance get this close without noticing and delivering a warning.

The great green warrior took two steps towards the cover before he saw all the little figures around him. There were ten or more, from what he could see, and the detail looked very much like goblins. Roughly half of his own warband were now hauling ass to fall in rank and file behind their leader, knowing well what they’d be in for later if they didn’t. The newcomer’s face was weathered, sullen, dark as he played slow and steady on his big black instrument: a stark contrast to the garish and foreign clothes he wore.

Kraggor sucked on a piece of meat caught in his teeth as he thought, gears turning slowly but steadily in his mind. Had this been an enemy, why not just use his stealth to come up and attack? Catching his small troupe by surprise would be much more devastating than coming at them head on. A trap perhaps? It seemed the most likely answer, the old “Bait and Hook” routine of drawing your enemy to a superior location while reinforcements circled around behind.

The orc’s steel-trap of a brain clicked into place. If they had come down from the forest (the most likely place for men to come from), or down from Drakkor mountains, they wouldn’t have had the opportunity to circle about without his guards either knowing or sounding an alarm as they were killed, meaning the fifteen or so other goblins out hunting or on guard near the trail were a private Ace up his sleeve. Kraggor smiled at the thought: his own Bait and Hook. The armor-clad warrior's gaze turned to Dibble.

“Oi! Take ten or so o’ yous back to camp ‘n put up powst. Oi’m ‘bout to go ‘goshee-ate wit dat ting up on da ‘ill.”

The tiny greenskin shook his head left and right, eyes heavy with concern.

“Boss‘ums Uh c’n’t ca-ownt ter ten.”

“Den take ‘alf, owzzat?”

Dibble gleefully shook his head up and down, floppy ears moving up and down like wings. The goblin barked out about nine names who began to saunter back to the main encampment, casting wary glances over their shoulders as they did. No doubt they were already gossiping among themselves, trying to figure out who would take over if their giant leader were to die. Kraggor decided he’d beat them for it later. Eyeballing the other eleven goblins, the orc snorted, hocked, and spat a wad of phlegm into the earth.

“Rest ‘a ya follow. Stay back two spear lengths, undastood?”

The emerald behemoth silently cursed himself. He couldn’t wait to raid a caravan, then make the long trek back to Drakkor and hopefully hire out some orcs to do his fighting. At least his own people could count higher than three.

They came up the hill, trudging up the moist earth and churning the dirt and grass to mud and muck around the base of the hill. The small squad stopped near the top, a few yards from the man with the crescent-moon scar. The orc warrior could see him clearer now, and the bright-white marking on his face. He studied him carefully as his playing slowed, and stopped, the man’s iron-hard gaze rising to meet the two orange, coal-like irises in Kraggor’s sockets.

His face was well tanned, like oiled leather, from the kiss of the sun; so unlike the waxy, cactus-like green across the warrior’s own. Yet it still held the kiss of a blade, a curving thing stretched across one cheek. In orc culture, it would have been a source of pride, something to boast about during campfire tales and post-raid feastings. The warrior had plenty himself from the years, but had yet to be graced with such a large one on the face. A smattering of jealousy and respect welled up in the veridian titan's stomach.

Yet.

They stared there a long time, the murmur of the little greenskins hardly more than an audible whisper. Finally Kraggor spoke, his wide mouth moving awkwardly to form the words in the Common tongue, the language that the elves and the humans spoke to one another.

“Chokta. Much…Respek’… fer yor ‘ardship. Kraggor Morgutz…Oi…’am. ‘Oo iz you?”

Warborn · **Warborn**

(Permission to Mod granted by Bregan, who’s finally decided he’s not posting)

“Much Respect to you as well,” he answered politely, fiddling with the tuning of his instrument. The flamboyant newcomer brushed a loose lock of dark hair behind one of his slightly pointed ears, less so than an elf’s strange elongated auricles, but slightly tipped none-the-less. The Fair Folk’s hard eyes turned away from Kraggor and down to the ebon instrument which he was toying with.

“I am…no one of importance, now. Tell me Kraggor, are orcs good at breaking things?”

The great green goliath gave an arrogant grunt at the question, and snorted through his flat snout.

“Occors! We’s ‘a strongest…so…rakin’ stuff’s eezee!”

“And what of breaking a people?” the man with the crescent-moon scar said, his lifeless gaze returning to the orc giant’s face just in time to catch his grin: a toothy thing stretching from ear to ear almost, pulling his wide, flat face into something savage and terrible. Deep inside he knew that was all he needed. He struck a few idle notes, the bending chimes of the sitar’s strings ringing out in air.

“Yes, you’re definitely the one I’m looking for, but there is much work to be done. I must take leave of you now, Kraggor, but I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”

“Grib-da, Grow…stronger.”

And with that, the stranger was gone.

* * *

Kraggor laughed deep and full of derisive, sadistic glee as he began to piss on the dead halfings in front of him. It had hardly been two weeks at most before a small caravan finally came through. Deng and a two other goblins (both named Ickit) had been on watch and sent word back to Kraggor and his small raiding party who circled both ahead of and behind the doomed merchants. The goblins pulled the ambush perfectly: four phalanxes of eleven goblins had boxed in the seven carts, donkeys and all.

The fight had gone just as well.

The caravan held a total of fourteen of the little people, five of whom had been guards on pony-back. The little horse-things had made a furious mess, throwing mud and small stones out from their feet as they circled the caravan like wild dogs, swords drawn at the sight of an enemy. Too bad their blades hadn’t been long enough, or else they might’ve stood a chance. The greenskin ranks stabbed for the ponies first, lancing their underbellies and legs and leaving deep, bleeding wounds. It was only time before the runty dwarf-things met them on foot, and even their steel mail couldn’t stop the sheer numbers Kraggor’s forces brought with them. The wee-warriors were soon overran by gibbering, slavering, maniacal goblins jabbing their spears into their corpses. The merchants immediately ran in dread.

In total they’d only lost three of their group: Dib, Nep, and one of the Ickits, with seven more wounded, none severely. Kraggor grunted happily as he discontinued urinating on the captive merchants and moved over to where Skeez, Dibble, and Fooger sat rummaging through each cart. The other little snot-bags had wasted no time in skinning and beginning to roast the ponies. Tonight there’d be a feast, and plenty of meat for all. The great green goliath’s gut gurgled in agreement.

Kraggor shuffled over to Skeez, coal eyes burning down at the little greenskin with half-feigned curiosity: whatever was in the caravans was worth gold, and gold was worth blades. At least half-loyal intelligent ones. The orc scratched his belly.

“Oi, ‘ut ‘e got in ‘eyah?”

“Fat lootz bossums! ‘E got wood from da alfs, brew from da dorfs, salty-porks, breads, sum geyah fer diggins da hidey-holes little ‘uns yooz ter get shineys, sum shanky-barbs and wicked nasty swingin-swords, sum little ‘un ahmah dat’ll fit sum a da boyz right up, flava-makas fer da meets, and sum white stuff in barrels.”

Kraggor’s hairy unibrow piqued at the last item, and he proceeded to follow this with a gruff bark of “Show me” to Skeez. The wart covered goblin proceeded to crawl out from his pile of stuff and plod slowly to a covered cart in the back. Popping open a lid from one of the barrels it contained, the two marauders were promptly greeted with the top of a whole container of off-white crystal. The emerald behemoth grabbed a handful with his dirty paws and took a long whiff, then shoved the pile into Skeez’s face.

“Taste ‘er,” he said.

Hesitantly, the little imp took a pinch and dropped it into his mouth, his face lighting up with a smile instantaneously as he looked up to his grinning boss.

“Tastsy-tasty! Iss good boss!”

“ ‘Ats roight! Its naymed shug-gar, an’ ‘alf o’ da werld’d kill fer it. We’s gonna mayk a bunndle and mohr offa dis stuff!”

Mystagogue · **Mystagogue**

The bright rays of a brilliant dawn peaked over the high crags of the mountains, casting its illuminating touch upon those who slept in the shadows below. Many dwelled within the valleys between the peaks, or upon the rising slopes themselves. At the edge of the mountain range, near the lower edge of its slopes, one creature in particular stirred, growling irritably at the invasive light as he brought up a meaty hand to shield himself from it. His skin had an odd olive green hue to it, and the fingernails of his hand were rough and black. The frame that lay beneath his sleeping furs was not overly large, though assuredly bulkier than a standard human's. His leathery eyelids shuttered close over his dark black eyes, protecting the cunning orbs for the sunlight, and he emitted another growl.

Despite the feral noises he was making, nothing reacted to him. Indeed, the wildlife as a whole seemed nonplussed by his ire. Birds sang morning verses in the copse of trees over the waking beast, and at the outskirts of the small dirt clearing a wolf sauntered off looking for easier pickings. Grumbling indignantly, the creature lurched to his feet, revealing that his body was clad in a tan tunic and breeches. The top of his round, thick skull was coated with dark black hair that fell just short of his neck, and the twin tusks that protruded from the lower end of his mouth were short yet sharp looking.

He was a half-orc, and more than likely not a morning person. The half-orc's footfalls were not heavy, which allowed him to pad almost soundlessly across a rather bare campsite. There were no tents nor was there a campfire...only three traveling packs, and the sleeping furs of the half-orc. At the other end of the site, where the grumpy fellow was headed, was another green-skinned creature. This one was obviously smaller than the first, even if he was hunched over something, and was covered in an odd patchwork of leather and cloth. Floppy green ears sprouted out from underneath a brown leather skullcap, and at the back of his head a black bland was visible that circled around to the front, where it doubtlessly met with a pair of goggles.

"Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

The half-orc's growl was much more than just irritable now, a hint of menace on his breath as he loomed over his traveling companion. The goblin at his feet squeaked and straightened out a bit before it turned to gaze sheepishly upwards, and indeed his eyes were covered by a pair of goggles that made his yellow eyes enormous. He did not seem to be afraid of the half-orc, despite that it was dwarfed by the scowling half-breed. No, the goblin seemed more embarrassed, and anxious to get back to what he was doing before. A small set of clockwork cogs lay in the goblin's tiny hands, which he gripped carefully as he replied.

"Sowwy Gwimsbok! Y'looked tiwed! Eye thot eye'd letcha sleep fer a change."

Grimsbok, for that was his name, grunted softly in acknowledgment of the excuse, and waved a hand at the gadget that the goblin held. Here, at last, the smaller creature flinched.

"Tink, I can plainly see that you are working on something. Don't lie to me."

The mechanic bobbed his head and closed his eyes, attempting to elicit sympathy from the half-orc.

"Wyte wyte, sowwy! Eye...it won't 'appen eggen!"

The half-breed grunted and shook his head, and turned away as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Tink breathed a sigh of relief, and just as he started to turn back to his work, Grimsbok spoke again.

"Where is Gulch?"

Tink looked puzzled for a moment, as if he was trying to remember something important, before he suddenly nodded vigorously.

"Oh! 'E said 'e saw somethin' eenterestin', so 'e went to lookit!"

Grimsbok raised both of his hairy eyebrows high as his gaze drifted further away from camp. Gulch was normally extremely cautious and would never have left on his own unless he had found something to steal or eat, and had never offered any excuses before. This meant he had seen something during his twilight patrol.

"Ah. Well, let's hope he brings it back."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Shug-gar's only worth coin if you ken find a buyer!"

The reedy voice of another goblin echoed forth from one of the nearby barrels. Before the massive orc could react in a violent fashion, the owner of said voice hopped out of the barrel, raising both hands where they could be seen and flashing a toothy grin at the boss and his lackey. Compared to the other goblins, this one's skin was much darker, closer to a forest green, and his yellow eyes held a keen cunning as they darted back and forth between the other two who were present. Tight-fitted leathers stuck to his scrawny frame, studded at certain points with nail-heads and scraps of metal that had been pounded flat. He did not appear to be armed, but he had just popped up out of nowhere, so that was no real comfort.

"Eye am Gulch. My, er, boss and eye, we had planz fer dis keravan. But y'gotter first, shame fer us! Mebbe we ken work out a deal?"
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Thrommash · **Thrommash**

A fresh coat of snow was dusting the switchback as an orcish war-party arrived at the broad mouth of a cave. Massive icicles hung from the cave’s upper lip like the teeth of something large and terrible, always dripping water but never really shrinking. The war-party was led by the biggest orc among them, and his name was Goddok the Axe-Face, because he once got hit in the face with an axe and lived. He was, as one might expect, no prettier for it.

The cave was large – indeed, it might have been more proper to call it a cavern - but not excessively deep. Controlled campfires burned everywhere, placed sporadically, and a throng of fur-wearing orcs, half-orcs, ogres, and a single troll rested where it was warm. It was disturbingly quiet for an orc camp, despite the fact that at least half their number was female orc-kind, who wandered about offering pilfered alcohol, raw meat, and ministration of a seedier sort.

Goddok was disgusted, and did not see fit to hide it. He drew his club and marched to the back of the cavern, where a throne of sorts had been constructed out of cold rock and bleached bone, and then covered with the hide of some massive, white-haired beast. Upon that throne sat an orc of impressive musculature, even for an orc, but he was not exceptionally tall. His scars were very few, which he compensated for with extensive tattooing all about the face and his exposed arms. A pair of lithe female orcs rested at his feet, curled up against his legs for warmth.

“T’rommash,” Goddok said, “I’s the biggest orc ‘ere, and I’s sick an’ tired o’ waitin’. Me and dese boys ‘ere are goin’ east where da killin’s good, and we’s takin’ the cows wif us.”

Thrommash blinked his eyes open, having previously been napping, and lifted his cinder-like gaze to regard Goddok. To either side of his throne slept a worg, each of which as large as any orc – even Goddok – and they shifted as Thrommash did. He grinned and, without looking at him, the worgs went back to sleep.

“The cows ain’t goin’ nowhere, Axe-Face,” Thrommash said, and his voice was guttural. “Nobody is.”

Now every head was turned and every body tense (save those of the worgs), and Goddok sneered. The female orcs at Thrommash’s feet began to inch away, glancing between the two males. “Ya can’t stop me, runt.”

“I can,” Thrommash said, “but I don’t need to. You’re pissin’ ‘im off.”

Goddok let out one sharp, derisive bark – a mocking half-laugh. “I’s pissin’ you off, and I dun’ care, see? Get yer sorry ass up so I can stomp ya down again.”

Now it was Thrommash’s turn to laugh, and he did so deeply and with honest mirth, turning his head to one side and closing his eyes to fully appreciate the amusement he felt, as if somebody had whispered a particularly good joke in his ear and he wanted to really savor it. It was the sort of laugh that shook the shoulders, a laugh from deep within. Goddok hesitated, but it was too late for him.

The light in the cave began to change. It grew brighter, first, and then the firelight shifted from the familiar orange to a bloody red. Every campfire did this before growing, the flames reaching ever-higher, until they stood as tall as orcs and threatened to lick the ceiling. Smoke rolled off of the scarlet fires, far more smoke than should be possible, and it was black and sooty and lighting flashed within it as it gathered against the cavernous ceiling and then rolled outward toward the cave mouth, where it escaped into the mountain sky.

In the deep red light, the depths of Thrommash’s face were darker than normal – his countenance shadowy, his eyes intimidating even to another hardened orc. He had stopped laughing some time ago, but hard, loud, echoing laughter filled the cavern nonetheless. Goddok realized it was coming from all around him.

It was coming from the campfires.

Thrommash raised one hand, and the fires immediately shrank to their original size, and as he lowered his hand they returned to the proper color. Every wide eye was on him now, every jaw loose.

“Goddok is done,” Thrommash said. “Throw him over.”

The war-party pounced on their leader, disarmed him, and dragged him screaming from the cave. As Thrommash closed his eyes and settled comfortably back in his throne, he addressed the small army he had assembled. “The God says we wait,” Thrommash said. “He says Da Boss is comin’. So we get to breedin’, and we wait.”

Goddok’s screams faded away as he was thrown from the mountain road.

Warborn · **Warborn**

Kraggor reached out with one great green fist and lifted Gulch by the nape of his neck and brought the little snot up to his flat snout before sniffing twice.

“Oi, deelin’ sounds good ter me, but iffins you try anee-thing funny schtuff…”

The tremendous orc let his words hang ominously in the air as he set the little armor-clad goblin down, the tiny sneak shaking his head in denial of the other greenskin’s implications.

“Skeez! Gather up ten or so o’ tha ladz and gettum ter marchin wid us!” Kraggor barked at his little lieutentant. “Yussums!” was the prompt answer, and in a few seconds six of the orc’s contingent of spear-wielding terrors came shuffling up to their commander leaving the stacks of cooking meat behind them.

“Wucha bringgin yer frenz fer?” Gulch inquired, intelligent eyes making note of how many of the other lime-colored brigands followed their leader.

“Enshoor-antz.”

“Oi, brainy dat!” the little rogue answered suppressing a smile.

A few moments later they were crashing through the underbrush, snapping sticks, tearing tree limbs, and crushing wet leaves. Kraggor led the party that tried to keep up with Gulch, hacking haphazardly at the bushes and shrubs in front of him with his falchion to clear a path for his great girth while his smaller compatriots darted through the thickets like little green rats: equally guided by their sniffing noses as well as their glimmering dark eyes. Ahead of the group, Gulch followed his secretly marked trail of smooth skipping stones, stooping under branches to palm each one away from the view of Fooger, the fastest of Kraggor’s goblin snots.

Eventually Gulch found the first stone he’d laid, and not bothering to hide his reclaiming of it, bolted like a startled bird through the last of the bushes, hurtling himself headlong out towards the small clearing Grimsbok had made his camp in. The little scoundrel wanted to put some distance between him and Kraggor’s party so that Grimsbok would be aware of their impending arrival.

A few short minutes later, Fooger and Dengget found their way out of the woods and into the opening where Gulch had relayed the information. The final dash through the tangle of the forest had reopened Fooger’s wound from the caravan assault, and he nursed the severed tip of his ear in his mouth while Dengget sat and began to pick his nose. The other goblins arrived shortly, while the violent cussing and ranting from deeper in the woods signaled their orc leader’s arrival.

With a final chop of his stolen blade Kraggor came thunderously stomping out from the woods. He was tall, bordering on seven feet with big, wide shoulders and sausage-sized fingers. In the light of the morning sun the great green warrior came into full view: his fat tusks jutted up to his prominent cheek-bones, while his orange eyes sat back under a heavy, large forehead. The bridge of his porcine nose wasn’t prominent although the nares were fat and wide. The brute’s small ears were pinned back to either side of his slick shaved head, something done out of his war-like nature less so than to hide the fact that the orc was balding. Covered in bits and scraps of old enemies’ armor, it wasn’t hard to tell that Kraggor was brimming with pound upon pound of twitching, violence grown muscle, and that he was covered head to toe in waxy, cactus green skin.

His eyes caught site of Grimsbok mid-threat to one of his conscripted followers, and he immediately stopped the description of what he would do to Filleg’s mother. The viridian warrior’s chest swelled as he sauntered out in front of the goblins, keen eyes quietly trying to discern Gulch’s boss.

“Chokta…‘Oo iz you? You shoor ain’t one o’ deez bratlings, ‘ats ser-tan.”

Mystagogue · **Mystagogue**

Grimsbok had not been idle since he had found Gulch had left camp. Unsure of how long his erstwhile ally would be, he had ordered Tink to help him strike camp, and be ready to be on the move. The goblin had been reluctant, obviously wishing to spend more time mulling over his clockwork project, but all it took was a forceful snarl on Grimsbok's part to motivate him into motion. By the time Gulch was leading the small detachment of greenskins to his campsite, Grimsbok and Tink were ready to go. Indeed, once the two of them parted from this place, there would be no sign of their stay beyond the tracks that would soon be lost to the wild.

As a result of the half-orc's foresight, Grimsbok was more than prepared for the tromping back of warriors that were headed his way. Early on in their trek, a flock of fleeing birds marked the approach of something sizable enough to bother the wildlife. The half-orc frowned ponderously, trying to imagine what forces would encroach upon the land so boldly. The halfling caravan that he had planned on intercepting would only have sent a hunting band into the woods if they were hungry, and they would be far more subtle than this. Perhaps Gulch really is bringing in something interesting. Grimsbok spent little time musing on this theory, and instead sat down to set about solving the mystery.

Using the thick nail of his right forefinger, the olive-skinned humanoid began to carve small trenches into the soil. Several lines curved together, while others ran parallel to each other, until it became apparent that the greenskin was drawing runes into the ground. During this process, Tink hovered at a distance of ten yards, his curiosity not outweighing his common sense for once. The goblin still remembered what happened the last time he had bothered Grimsbok mid-ritual.

Once the sigils were complete, the mystic began to murmur soft incantations to himself, his voice coming out as a low, droning growl that resonated with the very earth he squatted upon. After nearly a minute of this, the ground began to tremble slightly, kicking up bits of loose dirt, tiny rocks, and broken tree branches. Abruptly, Grimsbok slammed his left hand down, spreading his fingers wide and pressing his palm into the runes he had drawn, and all went still. Then the shaman spoke.

"Spirits of Earth, show me what walks upon your domain."

Several seconds passed before anything else happened. Then, slowly but surely, tiny mounds of dirt began to collect themselves under a guidance not their own. Eight figures rose out of these mounds of dirt, built from the earth itself, taking on the vague shape of seven goblins and an orc. The orc's head was topped off with a stone, and one of the goblins moved ahead of the others. Grimsbok nodded briefly, and then bowed his head in thanks before dismissing the earth elementals with a wave of his hand. As he stood, his eyes flitted over to the spot where he had been sleeping, and strode over to it without a word to Tink. It was only once he had stooped over to partially unearth the longspear that he had hidden there that he said anything to his companion.

"Gulch is bringing company."

By the time Gulch burst through the underbrush, Grimsbok stood at the center of the clearing, holding his longspear at the ready. The weapon itself was not particularly impressive beyond its reach, and it bore a flat stone spearhead which was adorned with several feathers. It served a primal contrast to the orc's falchion, but the half-orc did not seem to feel lacking. At his left flank, Tink hid partially behind the trunk of his leg and his hip, holding a tiny hand crossbow pointed down at the ground as he peered uncertainly at the warband before him. Gulch had skittered around to Grimsbok's right flank, but had yet to produce anything that resembled a weapon. The half-orc light the larger greenskin speak before he replied, and it was in even, measured tones.

"I am Grimsbok, half-orc shaman to clan Shatterfall."

It took a bit of effort for the mystic to hide his pride in his name and title, for it was rare that a half-breed would have any place in orc culture, much less one of the respect and awe that a shaman provided. He was no exile...he was on an errand of vengeance, though the story of that mission was yet to be discussed openly with such strangers.

"And who are you?"
_________________

Warborn · **Warborn**

Kraggor ground his teeth at the half-orc’s profession: shaman. The orc warrior was no fool; he knew well enough that anyone professing mystical skill in a warrior-centric culture would have the teeth to back up their bark. Confrontation was something to be avoided in this situation if Krag wanted to make it out with his skin still on, or even as an orc instead of a toad. The green giant decided to test the waters a bit.

“Oi’m Kraggor Morgutz! Oi ain’t gotz no clan ‘n Oi ain’t needin’z one!”

The orc warrior swelled his chest beneath his rag-tag armor and beat his weapon to a small shield that had become a breastplate.

“Oi’m da biggest, da toughest, da fightiest thing that evah wahlked on two feet! An’ that’s da trooth!”

With a certain nonchalant cruelty Kraggor kicked one of the goblins at his feet and took a few slow steps to the right, moving around the edge of the camp’s circle. Bragging was a common past-time amongst bored orcs, and a good way of sizing up a stranger upon first visit.

“Deez goblins ‘er moin. Oi found ‘em an’ whupped ‘em into a raidin’ party. We got us uh keravan, an’ yor boy sayz you waz lookin’ fer da same thing! Fansee dat!”

Kraggor suppressed a smile as he dropped the last bit, intentionally leaving out the part about Skragut. It’d be a shame to get fried by lightning or cursed with even more rotten luck because he killed a half-orc and a sympathetic shaman happened by a few weeks later. Gods knew there were some greenskins that were more loyal to one background or another than the rest of their kind. Not that the emerald goliath cared: green was green, and infighting was for humans and elves as far as that went.

Something clicked again inside Krag’s brain, and greased gears began to churn. Cocking his head to the side and kicking the dirt at his feet, he sniffed in Grimsbok’s direction.

“Oi, wuchoo doin’ out ‘ere anee-wayz? This ain’t eggzacktlee ‘ome sweet ‘ome nao, izzit?”