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The siege of Malish seemed to have only one real outcome, and it was one the defenders of that small city were facing with a grim inevitability. A gurgling death from disease and starvation or the humiliation surrender, the rape and pillage of the city by the victors. One would be an ignominious death and the other an ignominious life. The Achnal, a gathering of human bandits and killers on horseback, pillagers and enslavers, had an ambitious ruler that spent a decade of unifying these warriors on the Savage Frontier. A great warlord had arisen from the wilds and saw the riches of the civilized world that he promptly coveted.

Malish, to be fair, was the low-hanging fruit. A city old in pride but poor in much else, though apparently the natives managed to build the wall up better than expected, or feared, according to the information provided by their employer, who spoke of the dire straits of his city-state, its homes having long since overflown its defenses, leaving much of the city outside of the walls that could defend it. Word of the first battles was grim, but that word spurred Beler Ustan-Sul, a prince of the ruling family, a cousin to the sitting Queen, to action. One man against the tide could to little, but he had the seal of the city and authorization to deal on behalf of his ruler, and that was accepted, along with the promise of payment, for the services of the only large company of mercenaries that would sign on with him. That was Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi. It was how Prince Beler found himself at the head of near a thousand orcs, heavily armed, terrifying in their battle panapoly of plate and chain, but derided and untrusted. And there were small bands of other warriors as well that took service, auxiliaries of a sort.

The orcs set a ferocious pace, one that surprised the Prince, who was a warrior and accounted a decent one -- the orcs were brutish, hard and ugly, but apparently they'd found march discipline somewhere. The same pattern through the rocky, grassy, river-fed terrain of the land around Malish of wake, feed, pack, march, with short breaks to catch breath, the orcish drillmasters calling out the order in their harsh, ugly tongue. He expected fights to break out, having fought tribal orcs many a time in serving Malish, keeping the barbarians and orcs at bay, and yet, that didn't happen here. The normally factitious orcs in the red-painted armor grunted, groaned and swore with the strain, but kept their order and were, soon enough, back on the march. They had pikes with a foot of steel at the end sheathed in leather, their bows wrapped in doeskin against the elements, and other precautions taken. Orcs weren't known for the care of their equipment, and yet these orcs seemed to be concerned with the sharpness of their blade, the glean of their armor, the correct placement of a red-painted decorative skull or the sheen of horns upon a helm. They bore these burdens and kept a pace that only the fittest humans would have been able to keep up. When asked, the half-orc, with a Vendish accent, told him, “The Achnal are an old enemy of the orcs. Many tribes fight the Achnal over much of the same lands. Lots of tuskers,” the company’s shorthand for themselves, “want to settle an actual score with them. The rest of them? Well, a good tusker likes a fight.”

The auxiliaries, small bands of human sellswords kept their distance, those that kept up, and it wasn't only for disdain of orc kind.

They were on horseback, it was the only way these humans managed to keep up, and the orcs had wargs among them.

Beler had seen the demon-wolves of the orcs before, here and there, mounted by champions, but he'd never seen them in such large numbers. It was accepted wisdom that orcs had no love for any beast or the ability to organize themselves beyond a rough rule of the strongest, and yet the wargs were easily the most pampered things in the entire camp; well-fed, their fur looked after, their toenails checked. But to be mounted on the back of one was still a terrifying and awkward experience – the beasts were lower slung and smelled musky, unpleasant to his nose.

But, Koloch “the Drillmaster” assured him, as his liaison from Radush Eye-Drinker, which was to say his bodyguard among the orcs as well as the man that answered his questions, the beasts were worth their weight in gold – humans had nothing like them. Elves had their griffons in the air and one heard legends of dragons ridden like horses, but it had never been seen. But these were wolves, ridden by warriors, and organized into a large unit.

The smell was such that the human auxiliaries had to keep their distance, lest the smell of the wargs and the orcs terrify them.

--

The humans they were being hired to face were old enemies of many orc tribes, and one thing orcs thrived on were their grievances. It was not considered alright to continue old hatreds among orcs from within the unit, Koloch knew, but it wasn’t really considered worth worrying about if a member of the company wanted to nurse their grudge with the outside world. So they did.

But here and now, it was a useful thing; it spurred the march – even those that had no experience of the Achnal wanted a piece of this storied enemy of orc-kind, and overlooked, with a sellsword’s practicality, that they were fighting humans in defense of humans. An elf would blanch at the prospect and dwarves did not consider it seemly to wage war amongst themselves, but for the orcs, it was an old hat, and nothing to blink an eye at. But the old hatred fueled the march, and kept the spirits high, with the booming grunts of their marching cadence, which was an adaptation of those war-songs that could keep a pace, as they crossed over countryside and disused old road – the Achnal had patrols of sentries out, roving on horseback, but Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi had wargs hunting them and the element of surprise. As they drew closer, day by day, more heads were collected as trophies for the warg-riders, and others were forced to look on in envy, all the keener for their turn at the enemy. It kept the wargs well-fed as well.

On the day before arrival, they stopped the march early in contravention of the usual dawn-to-dusk routine of marching, in order to prepare and rest before the next leg of the march. Once the encampment was set, the equipment was checked and the orcs bedded down in their blankets for the night, the officers of the Company came together and planned the next details of the operation; to break the siege.

But the first part of the plan, the part that involved Koloch, was simple: “The Chosen will break through the encampment here,” old Radush thrust a blunt finger at the map, which in and of itself was not considered orclike conduct for a warleader – using maps – “and get Prince Beler into the city. Overrun the camp quickly, slaughter the sentries. They’re not expecting a relief force, so they will be focused on keeping sorties in the city pinned in. Meanwhile, the Wargs will break up and raid across the lines to create a distraction that should give you the opportunity to pass in darkness. They’ll be torching everything they can, Koloch. But get it done and get out – don’t linger.” That too, was part of the plan. They’d hit with the raids and turn the enemy toward the Company. Getting Beler into Malish to tell the leaders of the city the plan, was instrumental, however. It was a job for the best the orcs had, those warriors that were singular in their ability and able to make the best of small numbers.

The officers were gathered in the command tent of old Radush Eyedrinker, reporting on the readiness of the companies, planning the details and dealing with the minutae of the march and warfare in a way that was completely foreign to most Orcs; it was the true innovation of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi to actually organize warfare. In orcish society, warfare was traditional and largely unevolved. A warrior might use a weapon taken from an enemy as a prize, but no self-respecting orc warrior imitated the ‘squishies.’ Except, of course, an orc that wanted to win – and that was the Company’s take on that. They’d had the argument often enough with raw recruits in the Pikes, and evolved it down to the point where they could win it with a sentence…and a taste of the lash if the words didn’t settle it.

“Appreciated,” Koloch replied, in his strange accent; he’d been raised among humans, and while he understood Orcish well, he still spoke it ‘funny’ according to other orcs. But in orcish fashion, the Drillmaster was a dangerous, cold piece of work, and that earned him respect. The Company prized killers, and Koloch was unsentimental and mechanical in his approach to the work, as regular as a man chopping wood when he was killing. That demeanor as he fought, calculating, angling his armor to deflect blows, wearing the enemy down, was useful for those that learned from him, for he was an above average example of the enemy the company was most likely to face -- Humanity. There were others in the Company that knew the fighting ways of other peoples, of course, but Koloch was an unusual half-orc in the sense that he'd been exquisitely trained by a human armsmaster. He'd shed his allegiance to humanity, but retained their methods of making war.

Furthermore, he was a founding member of the company, and was still here breathing – the company prized who got the job done, not who was simply the strongest. The mark of respect in Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi wasn’t if one could win an arm wrestling contest among fellow orcs, but how well one adapted to the enemy and defeated them, and lived to tell the tale. Old, wise veterans were prized here, moreso than the latest strong bull youngster bathed in the blood of the chief he just vanquished.

That was grim stuff to think of with daylight still in the sky, but also, part of the point – they’d stopped early in the afternoon to get rested for the night march to come. The Company was just weary enough to accept the advice to get sleep now, “Youse tuskers git yer shuteye, cuz it’s hoomy killin time termorrah an’ dat’s exhaustin’. Not cuz squishin a hoomy is hard, but cuz deres a lot of ‘dose bunnies,” was the advice of the veteran section leaders, but the excitement was there, despite the attempt to wear the men out of their excess energy early on with the screws put to them a bit in assembling camp – they were worked faster, chivvied into hurrying up and using their excitement up a bit, but sleep still didn’t come easily for most.

And sleep ended abruptly while it was still plenty dark out, the camp quickly broken down and orcs kitted up fully for a fight, with extraneous march equipment piled high into ox-drawn carts (the oxen were kept well away from the wargs) to be hauled after them.

Koloch, though, was with the other chosen, mounted upon wargs reserved for the Company’s best warriors, the individuals that formed a cadre of experience and skill for the jobs that required more than an orc to stand in a formation and carry a pike, jobs that required individual courage and grit. Stiffen up a battle line, fight an enemy champion, demand a surrender from the enemy, or, as it turned out…escort the employer through a siege line into the city they were relieving.

Koloch was not the most comfortable on warg-back, but he’d been learning over the years to let the warg do much of the thinking – you told them what you wanted, unlike the horses the humans favored, and worked with a warg more closely. They were pack animals, and you had to think like a pack animal to fight on wargback, which perhaps put Koloch at a disadvantage; he’d grown up among humans and it took a real change in outlook to deal with wargs. On the other hand, the wargs were naturals at night, unlike horses, and they were smart enough that the rider didn’t need to control them on the move. In fact, it was better if one weren’t a natural warg-rider, to attempt it because wargs were known to bite idiots.

Others led the approach, and Koloch was along for the ride, his halberd strapped to his back and his falchion, a large, nasty piece of work that was more like a cleaver than a sword in many respects, kept sheathed but nearby at hand, ready to come out for a fight if they should encounter a patrol. The glow of the city under siege, from the fires that burned at the enemy encampment and perhaps within the city itself, lit up the skyline, obscuring the stars. The tension went up as the flaming skies grew closer and closer in a blur of a night-run on wargback.

But that wasn’t here or now; the Achnal encampment that were their victims was one of many strung out along the perimeter of the city, horses and men, tents and other makeshift dwellings. They’d gotten fat and complacent in waiting out the starvation of their enemies or hurling rocks at the walls. They ventured up from these safe havens of warmth and food and women to take bowshots from the actual siege fortifications, further up, but here, they were snuggled in and warm, their horses penned and only occasionally taken out to grass and exercise on mounted patrols that were supposed to spot enemies. The Achnal were new to this sort of warfare, and they didn’t expect anything to get through the patrols, nor did they think orcs would ambush hunt their patrols on wargback. They didn’t expect orcs this far out.

Prince Beler was there, hanging on for dear life, but he wasn’t really expected to fight. Koloch spent time with the older human man, enough to be impressed by the man’s honor and loyalty, but both of them knew that Beler’s job here wasn’t butcher’s work. Others of the Chosen were there, on wargback in a loose pack that loped toward the target – a point on the siege lines where the Chosen would strike. All along the siege line, the humans were spread out, with their horses kept in pens and tied down to the spot, out of bow and crossbow range of the defenders, but also exposed to the advance of the wargs –indeed, in the distance, the horses started to whicker, detecting the raiders from a distance, and some of the defenders might even take note – because the Achnal were, if nothing else, sensitive to the moods and needs of their animals.

The snort of his warg, the rumbling of the beast’s entire body alerted him to the imminent arrival – he got his blade out and got ready. He knew what was coming as his mount, and the others, leapt over the fence and into the enclosure; there was a spray of blood all over him as his warg savaged the belly of the first horse, and as the shrieks went up, from man, beast, and, of course, orc, the battle was joined; his blade came cleaving down into the skull of the young man, perhaps even a boy, that was trying to defend his horses with a spear, but Koloch didn’t spare pity – the boy made his choice and died standing, rather than laying down.

He wasn’t about to disrespect the lad’s choice to die with dignity and he had the rest of the battle to fight

An Orc Doctor numbered amongst one of the greatest contradictions a human could put together. A female warrior was also a fairly common one; as many a mercenary or knight fancied themselves a beacon of chivalry and narcissistic masculinity. Many a human would figure that a woman’s place was in the home, awaiting news of their beloved’s victory or death with a hand over their heart and a trembling desire in their cores.

Ygdri then, managed to turn a few heads as she strode amongst the forerunners of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi’s elite. She stood proud amongst the numerous menfolk: massive shield strapped to one arm and a smoking pipe in the other. She stood a dominant representative of her race with skin as green as emeralds and a form that looked like it could wrestle a bear to the ground.

Throughout the march, Ygdri had moved with a lithe, casual prowl. The pace may have been fierce, but Ygdri always looked un-phased by the push of the march. Ever smiling and joking amongst her orcish comrades, the strange doctor was always seen with a pipe at her lips and a joke on her lips. To the humans amongst them, Ygdri was a walking paradox: and many of them gawked at her, in confusion, more than anything.

Eventually though, the march ended and camp was set up. Ygdri joined the other elites of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi in Eyedrinker’s tent. Radush had proven a good man to Ygdri; he had been fair to her during the stay, and Ygdri was honoured to be included amongst the first company. The plans were laid out before the woman, and she nodded in pseudo-understanding. In all frankness, Ygdri barely understood the whole ‘map’ thing that Radush and the half-orc, Kolach, were so keen on. Even as a member of the First Company, she didn’t really do much when it came to leading the pikes or rallying the blood hungry morons. Her job was that of a warrior, yet she was also the company’s main doctor.

Scratch that, she was its only doctor of merit. The hack saws who pretended to be healers were naught in comparison to Ygdri; and everyone in the company knew it. She played the role of the follower much better than the role of the leader, yet she was indispensable because of it.

She managed to catch a few hours of shut eye before the camp was ripped apart during the night: and those few hours of rest had led to her feeling well prepared for the battle to come. She flexed every muscle as she stretched out the last dregs of sleep, feeling the last clinging dullness of sleep gripping her muscles in an attempt to slow her down.

Other preparations for the battle to come went about swiftly. She prepared her armour and attached her weapons to various clasps, belts and straps. Battle would be a nice excuse to cut loose: this would be the first true battle-test, and her orcish blood was boiling in her veins. She may be famous for her ability to save lives, but every orc got a certain thrill from ending them.

Ygdri was not much of a warg rider, so instead of acquiring a mount, she stuck to the more conventional means of a charge. Someday, she’d have to find herself a teacher: but for now she would just pound the dirt.

Her assignment from the Eyedrinker had been a pretty open one. He and she had the simple understanding that Ygdri would float to where the fighting was thickest. It suited her talents best to be where the violence was: and she was more than skilled enough to handle herself in a scrap.

She was soon in the thick of the fighting: falchion flashing past her shield every so often to cleave a skull or to break a limb. Ygdri’s pipe had long since been lost somewhere, and now her mouth was only occupied with a vicious grin.

The doctor’s thoughts were on war, healing could wait for a bit.

As the dust settled, the sighs of relief filled the atmosphere with a setting of preemptive tension, and the general groaning from the horde of pikes set in as they started to form a base camp of sorts. Derthag was restless to say the least, and figured he'd set up some crude bedding later that night. For now, however, a faint bit of scouting wouldn't hurt. Arming up his warg, donning the fur garments and taking only his pipe tomahawk, he set out for some nearby hills. It wouldn't be long until he'd see a lonely horse grazing by a makeshift wooden picket fence, with what looked like a shed quickly pieced together. Taking his mount in for a closer look, the mangled flesh of a young human boy appeared near the busted open shed, swarms of flies already inheriting the corpse, along with a rat or two. Apparently the horse had suffered injury under the abdomen as well, and Derthag summarized that one of the wargs must've snacked early yesterday morning. Hopping off the voracious wolf, he let it have at it with the wounded horse, and with a shrug of his shoulders he delved into the shed to see what he could scavenge.

"Err..." He grunted. "Just a bit of aloe and a few ingredients for some tonic...oh?" He inquired to himself. "Achnals don't know much about cultivating pipeweed, but i'll be damned if i'm not getting any sleep tonight." With that, he stuffed a few jars in his satchel with what he could before heading off. As he whistled for his warg, Gut-Drench they called her, the ghastly, mangy pup came trotting by with a primal smirk and a blood-stained muzzle as gory bits drooled out. With a quick chuckle, Derthag mounted her and started loading up his pipe tomahawk with the stale, dried up pipeweed.

Halfway over the hills, he struck a sulfur-impregnated pinewood twig from his satchel and started puffing away. Seeing that the sun was already setting, he gave a friendly pat on the head of Gut-Drench and rode with haste to the camp in sight. Unloading his satchel amongst his things, and tying up his warg, one of Radush's associates beckoned for him.

"Get yer tusk-plugged arse to the main tent, yar already a few min'utes late ta' the meetin', chap." The grey haired, withered orc barked. Normally such a statement would've roused Derthag, but if it was one thing he had respect for, it was his elders. With a confirming nod he made way for the boss's headquarters and blended in with the small crowd of officers that made up 'The Chosen Ones'.

The plan itself was rather simple, as ol' Eyedrinker pointed to precise locations on the map, Derthag took an accurate mental note of every location. In his mind, he may as well have already been within the city's outskirts, taking what few seconds he had to study every detail. All the while puffing away at his heirloom, plumes of smoke incensed the air as he noticed the off tone accent of a drillmaster he once served under, Koloch. It was something half breeds were looked at with confusion by some of the pure-bloods, Derthag's own accent giving off a harsh, Dvergr tongue, brash and at times riddled with slang. As the crew split up to their respective beddings, the Tarlung stayed awake, filling the night's camp fire smoke with that of his own. An hour or so passed by, as he tucked away what little pipeweed was left and decided to take a slight stroll around camp before shuteye. Taking what jars he could carry, he stopped by Ygdri's spot and in an attempt to dare not wake the fierce battle maiden, slipped in a few of the herbs, aloe and tonic ingredients next to her satchels and such. Although likely to be drawn up with the oxen with the rest of the inventory, she'd surely eventually find use for them during downtime. Best leaving the deed anonymously, the pale orc caught a short moment's sleep until the inevitable scurrying of wake up calls and packing up camp disturbed him in the middle of an epic dream of human slaying.

First order of business, Derthag holstered up his plate mail over the various fur-stitched garments draped over his torso, with the worn red paint of a quarter moon emblazoned over the chest. His helm with it's visor, also painted red with a variety of symbols such as axes, blood splattered splotches and the like was hung over his back via hemp rope. Lastly, fitting on his tightly tailored greaves, he fitted in his ritual of four throwing axes which were also tied to him with knotted hemp, hoisted up his morningstar over his shoulder and strapped two iron axes on each adjacent side of Gut-Drench. Easing the ferociously mangy warg in the middle of the group, drawing in a lot of smoke from his pipe tomahawk once more before battle, and letting out a thick cloud of smoke had the Tarlung than spoke a common saying out of the Verdant Gulf.

"With four bowls cashed, we'd kiss our ass, as all followed the gallows!" Likely forgetting a few verses, he continued. "We'd rather be charred, maimed an' gutted than to be sickly, bedded an' done in..."

Falling in line as the charge of the wargs flung over the fences, roughly ten yards out did Derthag toss out his first francisca, followed by the writhing neigh and squeal of the horse he had struck. As Gut-Drench lobbed herself over, the patchy wolf immediately spotted the afflicted horse with the ax imbedded into it's neck. Sinking her canines into it's throat, the pale orc whipped out another francisca and watched it bounce up from the ground at the right angle and crack open the shin of the measly guard ahead of it, his wooden shield near useless at that point. With a firm whack of the hind end of his mount, he made way for the guard, impounding his morningstar upon his wooden shield, shattering both it and his forearm, and allowing Gut-Drench to dig into his bowels. Looking back, he saw a few Achnal spear-hunters mounting a few of the horses locked up in their pens. Ripping out another francisca, he tossed it and cursed under his breath as it flew right over the head of his victim. Now definitely noticed, he geared up the female warg, who he joked was his date for lunch, and charged headstrong into the four or so horsemen. Roughly ten feet out, the horses halted in their tracks and began knocking into each other as they were shocked and fearful by the sight of Gut-Drench. With his last francisca, he drove it right into the exposed chest of one of the Achnal hunters, leaving the poor lad in a state of confusion before less than graciously falling off his horse.

The next two scattered for the outskirts. With just one hunter left, the savaged human tossed his spear directly into the left eye of Gut-Drench just as she lunged for the sorry lad's horse. Successfully managing to tear out the throat of his mount, the Achnal fell back and cried out to his fellow brothers in arms. With a leap of faith, Derthag jumped from his mount and landed his heels right into the hunter's chest, pulverizing his skull by the spiked end of his morningstar. One of his friend's must've taken notice, and was quickly ill met by the brutish force of the pale orc's morningstar, driving him back a few feet and instilling the look of fear in his eyes. Glancing back to his date, the warg winced and squealed in pain as she took up her two front paws to break the spear in half, still driven into her eye socket. Just as Derthag looked forward, another five Achnals armed with daggers, spears and even a flail darted towards him. Bracing himself for a lethal fight, he clutched his morningstar with both hands and began violently and relentlessly swinging about, only managing to disembowel two of the dagger wielding savages before catching his arm upon his opponents flail. One of the not-so-bright Achnal attempted to jab Derthag with his spear, denting his plate mail whilst also splintering his wooden spear. The flail-swinging warrior yanked on his handle, with the chain still wrapped around Derthag, and brought the orc down flat on his face. Taking off his helmet, he delivered a swift kick to the orc's jaw before motioning to his ally with a dagger.

"Cut the bastard's head off, mate! Now! Do i-" The human was cut off by Gut-Drench, who had lunged right over him and sunk her teeth right into the throat of the adjacent warrior wielding the dagger. The other Achnal, whose spear had broke and had no other weapon, fled into Ygdri's path of bloody shield and falchion work, the unfortunate lad succumbing to the vicious doctor's lethal battle technique.

Gut-Drench swiftly turned around, and began feasting upon the flail-wielding hunter's guts. Derthag slid his arm out of the chain and regained stability, his vision still fuzzy from the boot of the now lunch-made Achnal. With his composure restored, he looked to the wounded warg, her left eye mangled around the broken off spear. A veterinarian in no sense of the word, he hoped there would be time to have her looked after by a doctor or warg handler after the battle. Surmising that the tough wolf would be able to handle it for now, he mounted her once again and sought to regroup with Koloch, the Achnal camp now in a frenzied state of chaos at this point. He had hoped Prince Beler would now be within the city walls.

Red Orthaug was one of those orcs with a sense of piety, offering words to the elder gods and ancestral spirits. However, that is not to say he was as devout as a shaman or sage. He did not proffer litanies or prayers, nor did he attend altars to curry divine favour. No, he did things his own way and in his own time. His offerings of choice were of the violent sort: an enemy’s spilled blood poured over an altar erected of bones and gore, a severed head on a spike facing the moon, things like that. Things he had learned from his kin.

Dawn was yet to come when orders were given for the company to mobilise and prepare for combat. Orthaug had been awake for quite a while, attending a meeting with the officers and then collecting his gear for the coming fight. The past few days had been tedious, mostly filled with marching –the monotony was finally about to rupture like a boil.

Not that he had any reason to complain about Nar Mat Kord-Ishi or the way it was run. Radush Eyedrinker, the company’s commander, had changed the rules. Through iron discipline, blood and not a small amount of knocking heads together, old Radush had forged a fighting unit from outcasts, exiles and downright scum.

As he passed the orderly rows of tents, now being pulled down by the orc soldiery, Orthaug ran his thick tongue along his tusks whilst nodding to some of the grunts. For several of them this would be their first taste of real combat. He had prepared them as best he could, trying to slap the green of the raw recruits by teaching them how to stab and strike at small openings in the enemy’s defence. There would be deaths today. Among the pikes the most he feared and so he growled a few last words of advice, encouragement and a few threats. With some luck they’d make it through the day.

Orthaug mounted the warg without much ceremony; the cunning beast was bred and trained for warfare. The dagger-like fangs –coated with dribble- flashed in a maw large enough for a human arm to fit. The orc padded the coarse fur of the wolfish fiend. They were old acquaintances, the warg and he, and after a snarl the former became rather docile. As docile as a warg could be, in any case.

The Achnals –an enemy he had little experience with as of yet- were camped outside the town they were sent to. A siege was taking place and their employers needed unscrupulous muscle to break it. Instead, they had received a solid dosage of guile to complement the brunt force that was the orcish pikemen.

A familiar thrill came over him as the command came to ride out. Orthaug was part of the elite cadre of Nar Mat Kord-Ishi, filled with likewise skilled individuals taken from the runts in the pike after having shown their prowess. He glanced right and left as the trot of his feral mount turned into a running gait. The human prince, Belahr –or whatever his name was-, was hanging on for dear life, clutching the saddle and fur of his beast with determination that could only have been born from fear. Good, Orthaug figured, let the human realise what he is dealing with. A bit to the front he recognised Ygdri, the company’s physician. He hoped he wouldn’t need her assistance today, for he was rather attached to his limbs –figuratively as well as literally.

After some time with the wind in his face and the rumbling of his warg beneath him, they crested a hilltop which offered them the vista of a city under siege. It seemed the Achnals had grown complacent, their patrols easily picked off by warg scouts, and had made themselves comfortable. Orthaug recognised the disorderly collection of tents and provisory dwellings as a lack of discipline. A thing –he knew- that could get you killed.

Spurring on the wargs with their knees and heels digging into the creatures heaving flanks, the pack of orcs descended onto the camp. Some shouting came from a surprised Achnal probably out for a morning’s piss. An arrow ended his scream but soon others had realised the fast approaching wave of fanged death.

The orcs let out a short battlecry when their wargs leapt over the fences and obstacles in their way. Gutting screams followed wherever the beasts and their riders went. Steel flashed out and was coloured crimson. After the initial charge screams of horse and men mixed into a crescendo of agony where one was no longer distinguishable from the other. The same problem occurred with the spilled blood and bowels littering the muddy ground.

Perhaps not a pretty tactic, but an effective one: Orthaug swung at the mouths of the horses to make them wild. Most likely they would gallop free and keep running due to the pain and turn mad. Achnals would be occupied with restraining the crazed horses, bones would be broken and some would find death under the hooves of an enraged steed.

Then, Orthaug was passed the first line of tents, having ridden down an Achnal merely dressed in a nightshirt. He made sure to stay close to the wedge-formation they were using to penetrate the Achnal lines. The human princeling had to reach the walls in one peace, and preferable enter them unharmed.

His axe flashed, the leather strap clutched in his calloused fist and wrapped around his wrist. An Achnal was so unlucky to find himself at the receiving end of an upward swing, the impact practically splitting his skull in two. Orthaug felt it reverberate in his bones and muscles, relishing the sensation.

If the Achnals would not regain their footing quickly, this would be over far too quickly and easy, he thought whilst setting his warg-mount on a young enemy warrior. It seemed the real soldiers were busy elsewhere, for his beast quickly overcame the lad and lunged for the throat.

As the sun dove down and the stars shone through, glittering with a hint of red from the multitude of campfires springing up from the camp, they attempted to settle in. The wargs broke into smaller packs, sleeping in piles, restless in the night and wrestling with the pull of the moon. They were sensitive to the slight noises and soft chatter that hummed about the impatient camp. It was good. There was a point you had to reach with nerves; heightened and paranoid from lack of sleep and anticipation, but not fried. Some would fry themselves, the Orcs. She’d seen it in other battles, though the images barely nibbled at her dreams due to the commonality of all races to lose their edge in battle. But not the wargs. They drifted in and out, not requiring a steady block of sleep. There were times you would glimpse a warg, deep in sleep, and they would almost seem like a tender pet. Their legs kicked sporadically , half dreaming of the chase, but muscles still active due to subconscious awareness. A gentle whimper may rise up and add to the sweet image their sleep painted. Then one’s thick head would rise up, startled from their dream and snap heavily with unnatural jaws, shaking the already fragile notion of “sweet”. On occasion a warg howl from the not so distant would rouse a bit of the pack. Their ears would perk for a moment and then they would huff and reposition themselves. And this is how Mutt passed her night, Orc-lithe form barely visible curled amongst the wargs.

The sky still spoke the promise of darkness when she began to prepare for battle. Her back leaned heavy, though almost unnoticed, against a warg, Mazorn, that was still feigning sleep like a young recruit trying to get out of battle. She was purposefully ungraceful with her elbows as she prepared and Mazorn grunted his disapproval at the little thing, though they both seemed accustomed to the ritual. She swept deep black dreads from her back, tying them up with leather. Her hair pulled back exposed the shaved right side of her head, stained red with color of her company. The blood red stain laced across her stoic expression, branching into an intricate pattern of a warg’s jaw superimposing her own. Boots and gloves were pulled on and laced tightly with more leather before she stood. The warg opened one eye to watch her as she pulled open her pack and pulled on armor. The armor was snug and patched together with hide and appeared to have been stitched together with her form in mind, and it should, for it had been battered and repaired upon her very chest. Mazorn bristled and began to rise to his feet. He stretched the sleep from his muscles and seemed to prance, if a demon was ever seen to prance, for a moment as the blood began to flow. His huge muzzle hit at her back and she lurched forward before turning with a low growl that almost seemed to fade into a giggle. Now was not the time to play, though there was a giddy energy before battle amongst their pack. Both of Mutt’s fingerless gloved hands found the sides of his jaw and she pressed her face into his, rumbling something from her chest. The warg responded with a snort but lowered his shoulders just a tad and sauntered off to the others. She tossed a quiver of arrows, as well as a bow across her shoulders and then strapped katars to her thighs where she could easily equip them while on her mount.

There was no need for breakfast; that would come soon enough.

The camp was barely stirring when a low but stern call to Mazorn united the odd pair. She ran her fingers over the well maintained coat before her body was pitched upwards, lying almost flat against the huge beast. They were joined by Grul and Bulak, who were younger wargs, but not untried in battle. The four began a slow circling pattern towards the Achnal camp, staying downwind and merely observing. There seemed to be a communal grunt of disapproval from the group at the lackadaisical attitude that exuded from the Achnal’s humans. It would have been like any other twilight romp, save for the increasing eagerness pooling within them. When Koloch lead the others closer they met and fell in stride, fully awake and almost twitching. She was sitting up as she made eye contact with a few of the chosen, offering a nod in greeting.

When the call was given and Koloch’s mount took the wall, she followed them into the fray. As the other Orcs and wargs pushed forward she hung back; still sitting tall on Mazorn with bow and arrow ready. She watched as their path became defined with the deep red of fumbling humans, her once stoic expression cocked into a sly smile as she targeted the few humans flanking the prince and Koloch. As soon as the prince slipped from her sight she lowered her body flat against the warg, her mouth tucked close to Mazorn’s ear that fluttered back in attention. Mutt’s eyes were open and alert, darting and focusing quickly in the dying night, and becoming meer slits of focus as the day broke, red on the horizon. Without the noises of the surrounding battle you would be able to make out what sounded like a storm; thunder of a rumbling growl and then a yip striking both of them into action. The warg coiled and leapt to the nearest roof. The sharper than spear claws of Mazorn dug into the thinly thatched roof and the soft snapping sounds of the big bad wolf threatened the weak structure. They gave the roof no time to realize it’s inferiority and bounded forward upon the rooftops, keeping the prince ahead. Resistance was growing for the pressing Orc group as the humans attempted realization. As they dove over a makeshift walkway in the Achnal camp, 3 humans raised their heads. Mutt turned with the bow, exhaling like they taught her, rising just enough to be steady and fired an arrow straight into the unprotected throat of one of the men. Her aim was nothing exceptional, but her comfort on a warg exceeded her skill and the arrow found it’s home. His face would be forever frozen in dumb surprise, but at least he wouldn’t be shamed in old age.

The weak roofs of the prince’s people were beginning to give way to peaked tents of the infiltrating human horde. Mazorn, attempting to hold the high ground, leapt to a stone wall. They would have maintained this route, but their position was no longer a surprise and arrows and spears began to brave their path. They turned down, jumping into the already blood drenched path of the prince and Koloch. Mutt could hear her fellow warriors and their cries of bloodlust heightened her excitement. As soon as Mazorn and Mutt landed, her hands dug into the katars and gripped the fierce weapons in the same fluid movement as her dismount. The humans they had jumped into were now faced with a snarling Orc and her mount. They had no time to even think of screaming, but as her Katar ripped into the abdomen of the closest man the sharp and sour smell of urine reached her nose. The smile remained as blood freckled her green cheeks and she jumped back on Mazorn. He had made quick and thoughtless work of the other humans and seemed to mirror her giddy expression. Mutt’s eyes skipped across her view plane as she jumped back onto the warg, a little surprised by the lack of momentum this tryst has built for her. As they bounded forward for the prince a man rushed from their 3 O’clock, slamming his head into the blood coated nose of Mazorn’s snout. There was a still moment of shock as the man turned to look at the also stunned Mazorn. The human’s face contorted from fear to pale disbelief, visible for only a moment until the warg regained its composure and clamped his jaws down on the brittle neck. Just then Grul and Bulak came looping around the corner, looking a bit miffed as the man fell headless at the groups feet.

“Chuik chuik,” she clucked at them with a tone both ecstatic and ferocious. They broke apart, each following with the path of the prince but darting to his flank right and center, with Mazorn and Mutt rushing to the left. More loud clucking yips came from her as they darted between the tents, grabbing at the stragglers and the wounded with merciless jaws. They moved quickly, Mutt hoping to break in front of the Prince and Koloch to clear their way, but this left many humans limbless, gutless, groaning and bellowing as their bowels and pain tolerance released. The haste of their movements did not promise death. As the prince came into view she let out an unsettling howl, something more animalistic and disturbing than the orcs usually muster, but that was amplified by the wargs that joined in. Grul and Bulak neared the prince, protecting the awkward warg rider as best they could without denying themselves the pleasure of flesh.

Mutt and Mazorn pushed on, plunging towards the sentries. They leapt towards the group of four, which was aware and looking more prepared than most of the humans they stumbled upon. Mutt once again abandoned her mount, hands slipping into the Katars and snapping her wrists so that they flared out into 3 warg like claws. This was not their first hunt and like a pack they knew their targets. Mazorn reared, dodged the humans slashing sword and came down while he was in the back swing. His teeth ripped into the man’s fleshy shoulder with no more difficulty than a butcher knife through butter. The whole situation would have been laughable had their numbers not been so great. As Mazorn felled one, two of the other humans turned to face the snarling warg, praying for the strength of numbers. The fourth man was entertaining Mutt, pacing about in an attempt to put her between him and his comrades, but Mutt had little to no patience for this dance. She dove down in a blink, fingertips pressing into the ground, already crimson from the butter boy, and then launched upward into his underbelly with both hands forward. The man swung, finding his sword captured in the grips of the Katar and ironically easing the already unfair advantage. Mutt straddled the gasping man, his heavy breaths scattering blood across his own face. She got to a knee and stood, angle ripping the katars from his chest as she did. She spun on the two men that were moving succinctly towards Mazorn and her eyes, slitted in the sun, met his. The two men lunged at Mazorn. The warg went for the neck of the man on the right and Mutt drove her katars, knuckle deep, into the other man’s back. She had to shake out her wrists to get the man’s pulpy form to fall from the Katars, but Mazorn was cherishing this kill, thick dark tongue wrapping around a decapitated midsection. With the blood lapping at her feet with the same rhythm as Mazorn’s tongue she turned back to search for the others.

The camp, if you could call that, of orcs was something Lontok never much enjoyed hanging about. The company did have to settle down for rest, respite, and defense from time to time but any being in this world could tell you that having multiple orcs making themselves home in an area is a disgusting venture. Eyedrinker of course had standards to keep vermin and disease at bay, but the general rowdiness and apathy of an orc, let along near thousand of them, was a sight and smell to behold. Lontok kept his tattered robe flung about him as he made his rounds about the camp, its black drapes providing at the very least a symbolic barrier to the filth Lontok perceived. True, the image of the sneaky orc archer shrouded in black did nothing to help his view among the freshest of recruits, but then again what did? The serpentine tongue that swatted at his cheek to rid it of gnats sure didn't, nor did the drow symbols branded on his neck. It made it all the better that the Achnals would feel the fury and wrath of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi, sneered the ex-slave as he scurried around a rather large brute of an orc as he made his way toward Radush's tent. He'd been summoned, and he would heed the call of the sly old orc like all the other that dare wear red.

The map was large, sparse but gave enough wisdom that Radush seemed to amke heads and tails of. The stabbing finger gave Lontok all he needed to know; he considered the gambit a squishy term 'Ye Olde Smash N Dash'. Apparently they actually had one such squishy in their midst, and the intention of the mission was to get him into the city. A spark flew in Lontok's gaze, and quickly fell dim with disappointment. He'd most likely not get to talk up the locals much in this campaign. It was perhaps for the best, since the multi-lingual orc wasn't the most welcoming sight to the races of the region. Still, him and his snaketong could dream. He'd be left to read his elven books before he tried to rest before this twilight mission. And that's just what he did, mumbling foreign verses of incomprehensible cultural traditions in the deep hours of the night til the rumbling of the wargs being brought to bear roused his interest and earthly body. He gave a flick of his strange tongue before grabbing his things and donning his war-garb.

Lontok kept his matted hair tied in a loose bundle of dreads and ornaments near the top of his head, forgoing the habitual armored leather cap for something more mobile given the current mission. His sharp eyes peered over a large red sash that covered everything from under his eyes to his sternum, a multitude of hasty stitches forming a wicked looking mouth where his neck would normally be. A deep brown and hardy leather curcarcuss gave him the most protection, but then again atop a warg with a bow was what Lontok took to be the most protection he had. It also helped that he had the resat of the Chosen in this mission, so he couldn't complain. His usual warg was a gnarly beast, a tusk like fang pointing upwards from its usual skowl gave its namesake; Smiler. He didn't mind his furry partner much; he'd much prefer a equestrian steed for his archery being higher and more static mid-gallop than the low-slung and loping canine that he even now was checking its saddle straps for comfort. But as the snaketong had to admit, a horse could hardly be counted on as an offensive asset. He'd seen Smiler ripped too many a man and beast apart to ever doubt his skills. He'd just have to keep his bow steady , and quiver heavy. Having a hefty dagger strapped to his thigh certainly eased his fears if Smiler didn't, at least he told himself that as he slung himself up and over onto the mount with practiced grace. A quick press of the knees brought the pair forward and into the Chosen's procession. Soon they would be off on their mission, and soon blood would flow. It was that thought that hung over Smiler and Lontok as they felling into the back of the wedge that was quickly venturing toward enemy lines.

The hilltop came out of the dawn mist with a creeping luster, vaguely showing Lontok silhouettes of the camp tent line and the occasional meandering Achnal. It made little difference to him as the familiar sinew cut tightly into his leather bound digit, and his sight narrowed down on one such hazy figure from afar. The bow hardly creaked from the strain, Lontok figured if the wargs kept this pace through the morning he'd have dew defiling the sanctity of his hardwood. The dampness was enough to make him sneer as the orc archer let loose his burden, barbed package making its way toward a particularly loud Achnal dealing with his natures morning duty(Lontok figured a sight of warg riding orcs riding out of the morning fog might be the cause of that). The bolt cut straight through tunic and rawhide, a viscous a crimson bubbling out from the base of his throat where the shaft now lay. Poor lad would bleed out before he realized the heavy orc arrow had broken his collarbone in the process. A second vacancy in Lontok's quiver was given to a hornblower atwix the eyes to the far back of the camp as the first horses fell to their toothy steeds. His bow hardly had a moments respite as its third shot flew wide of a horseback rider as his horse bucked in fright of a leaping warg. He could hardly curse himself before he felt his beast lurch forwards to strike down a vanguard.

The wedge formation held true as they tore through the ill-readied camp, and Lontok spied Sir Squishy(if he had a name, Lontok had yet to hear it) clinging for life astride with Koloch's formidable figure. His orc eyes caught glimpses of wargs pouncing, orcs dismounting, and battle commencing around him as the mission proceeded, but he stayed mounted and on the move at the rear flank of big Koloch and his fearsome Halberd to use as a reference. If they fell this was pointless effort, so he kept his bowstring strung in the defense of them for now. The sweet "thwunk" rang in his ear as another bolt let loose into the flank of a rival archer taking aim at Sir Squishy. His figure slumped into its hovel among the walled fortifications as the wargs rode by full tilt.

Beler could not see, but he could hear it -- all up and down the siege line, the warg-riders hit at various points that the old Eyedrinker had assigned on a map, cutting down sentries, gutting horses, setting fire to encampments, creating a frenzy with their raids. A mingled cacophony of screams of pain and the howled orcish warcries rode up into the night skies with the smoke. There was a terror all across Malish, but it was the besiegers this time, after more than a month of the siege itself. The activity among the besiegers awoke the besieged, and the cries of alarm, the brazen call of horns, the frantically banged-upon bells, added their voices to the cacophony. From

All Beler saw was the Chosen, the best warriors of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi laying about this particular encampment thoroughly-- the orcs fought methodically, but bloody and brutally, using their superior strength to pitilessly and messily destroy the defenders. Even as an experienced warrior, Beler found his gut churning just a bit, though there was little time to contemplate the slaughter, and no reason to join it – these warriors were tasked with getting him to Malish, just as his job was not to fight alongside the orcs. He clung to the fur of his warg while Koloch handled anything that got too close to threaten and the others fanned out to kill. It was organized, which was a surprising adjective to apply to a band of orcish warriors, many of them wearing fur and leather in addition to their armor.

The moment of brutality and blood spilled seemed to descend into an eerie silence at where they stood, with nothing living besides the wargs, the orcs and Beler – everything else was dead and dying, piles of wet gore and corpses flickering in the light of the dying, stomped upon campfire, with the cries of other small battles reverberating in the night.

But it was Koloch, with his eyes reflecting the firelight from behind the blank steel mask of his visor – his armor was human-crafted, and lacked the savagery in design of the others – more like an animal’s than a man’s, that grunted something out in their language that Beler presumed to mean, “Saddle up and move for the city!” Apparently, in contravention of the normal rules of orcish warfare, they wouldn’t be looting, wasting precious time to enrich themselves – Orcs were, after all, supposed to be all base lust and unable to work together. It was the advantage everyone else had over orckind. But it no longer surprised Beler; these were no run of the mill warband of orcs.

There was a wounded beast among them, but the group didn’t put the animal down the way a wounded horse might get it, but there still was a degree of caution in how some, the experienced warg-handlers among the band of orcs, were watching that particular female, and it seemed to Beler that the warg he was mounted on had shifted his own momentum a bit; a rumbling in the gut, and a tension in the muscles. They were pack animals, and a wounded member seemed to anger the beasts.

There were a couple more skirmishes as the band loped closer to the walls on wargback, though these were fast, moving engagements where the orcish mercenaries did not bother to stop to run down every enemy they could see – if they were running rather than standing and fighting, the warriors didn’t bother to break their movement discipline to engage. The enemy warriors were kept off balance, and their movement was a blinding slash across them, rather than stopping to get stuck in with the foe.

Ahead, the walls of Malish loomed, old, jagged, built , ruined, rebuilt, haphazard. In places, they were not of even height at all times, linked as they were by stairs or rope bridges or other expedients to allow the defenders to move. It was far from ideal, but the cost of creating brand new walls and upgrading them to a standard was never high on the list of priorities for the city rulers. They were high enough to stop barbarian horsemen, and that was considered high enough.

But with a running jump atop roofs nearby to a low spot, the Orcs could get their package, Beler, right over, and there was no real discussion of it—Koloch’s warg started the run, Beler’s followed and the rest of the pack came with them, a running leap to get to the top of the walls, with Beler clinging into that stinking, musky fur for dear life and not caring of that smell anymore, to a momentary running landing atop the wall and a springing into the air onto a rooftop below that made for a good point from which to find the ground. It was over quickly enough, but then there were defenders, pointing down from the wall, from positions improvised of wood as pavises, getting ready to fire crossbows when Beler called out, in the native tongue of the Malish, “Stay your hands,:” with his own held up, “we are on your side!”

---

Meanwhile, there were humans all around, pointing weapons at them, and Gut-Drench was wounded in the eye and the other wargs and orcs were nursing scrapes and miscellaneous small wounds from their running melee past the Achnal positions – Koloch had a bruise where some bastard barbarian’s hammer bounced off his pauldron that he could feel slowing his left arm a bit, but he knew he was fit to fight. Kalshkar was tense beneath him, as the wargs picked up the scent of an enemy they’d just been fighting – humans.

They looked at a bunch of blood-drenched orcs and wargs, heaving with the effort of their exertion, slavering, fanged monstrosities and Koloch knew that the smallest of provocations would start fighting. The humans were tense, wide-eyed and trembling and had weapons leveled at them, and more of them were rushing in, ready for a fight, expecting the Achnal. They’d watched, from the walls, the terror of the sudden attack that disrupted the weary daily routine of their siege, and now were keyed up with their fear. The more of them that pounded boots along their dirt strewn streets, clutching everything from swords and axes to pitchforks and clubs, the more they became confident that they could overwhelm an enemy in a desperate killing battle.

Koloch could feel the uneasiness of the others, the uncertainty. Someone had to head off what was coming.

Koloch called out, “Easy Tuskers, let Beler speak to his bunnies. Lontok, help him, Ygdri, Mutt, help Derthag out,” the wounded warg. He didn’t give Orthag any instructions, but it was obvious; they were left to keep an eye on the humans and discourage the bunnies from attacking them, even while the others scrambled to deal with the wargs…

Warg fur stank to the fickle nose of Lontok. Wet, and active warg smelled even worse to him, but then again a human city; especially one under siege, wasn't a field of roses. Wisps of moisture flecked at his face as they cut close to the battlements with little resistance due to their fleetness and ferocity. It wasn't all moisture, Lontok could tell as much as his forked tongue flicked up from under his red sash. No, that was Squishy blood that came flying by in the wake of the Chosen. The iron taste lingered even as they drove up alongside the wall. Lontok wasn't really sure you could call it a wall in most places. How the Achnal hadn't simply jumped on over in some places perplexed him, what with the wooden ladders and stockades more rubble than masonry. Leave it to a human to hide in a hole he'd only half built. He'd heard stories of the stout mountain folk that had whole kingdoms carved into the rocks. If that ole pale bastard was right the little swarthy Dwarves knew how to wage war, but Lontok always figured Derthag good for his word if his pipeweed wasn't too strong when you asked him something. At least the inferior defenses would assist the Chosen's mission, and no doubt ole Rosie knew as much as they cut through any bunny stupid enough to stand up to a pack of warmongering orcs on warg-back.

Lontoks longbow creaked as he flung his forearm down and pulled with its opposite limb, stringing a stout orc arrow in one fell thrust the likes a human brute would envy. A soft whimper left in the absence of the bolt was all the air did for Lontok as a pikeman suddenly found his ribs with malicious company. Lontok scanned for another target, but instead spotted a gap in the wall. Kolonch must have spotted it too, for before he knew it the wargs toed the line of the packleader and leaped onto the rooftops. It was a dash and leap and all he could do not to loose his bow when a warg had it in mind to fly. If you weren't careful you'd loose a limb in the whole affair, but the archer was more keen to keep his tongue. Slack jaws and hard landings tended to do that to the less experienced riders of the company but scarred faces hardly mattered to lost lives when dealing with the musky beasts. Never the less Lontok kept his tongue, his bow, and his life, which was more than any orc could pray for when he dove into combat. Lontok could hardly imagine how a first time rider like Sir Beler fared as they made the jump. Actually, now that he thought about it, he hardly could guess how the human fared at all thorough this hasty plot. His questions soon got answered as the human spoke up.

“Stay your hands, we are on your side!" hollered Beler in a quivering spurt of Malish tongue.

Lontok never quite liked these lowland dialects the humans favored in the region, and Malish was one such bunnyspeak.

Koloch called out, “Easy Tuskers, let Beler speak to his bunnies. Lontok, help him, Ygdri, Mutt, help Derthag out,”

That caused Lontok to perk up, and just as well notice the rumble below him. Seemed his warg was on edge, and not just because the crossbows trained at them(to be fair Lontok was far more interested in those than who was holding them, which his mount probably cared more for.) One of the pack must have been in distress, and a look over his shoulder told him as much as he spotted a speared warg near the back. He sucked his teeth thinking of the trouble that could cause the group. The human couldn't much tell the added peril it put them in. All they seemed concerned with was that handful of orcs that had just jumped into their city riding war wolves with nary a warning to the whole deed. Obviously, it might take more than Sir Squishy to diffuse the situation. Lontok drug a heel into the flank of his steed Smiler causing them to take one stride forward, while Lontok tugged his red sash below his chin so he could speak; his bow was unquivered but ready if things got hairy, while his other hand stayed the reins.

"We are of the Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi. The...Prince...," he jerked his head in the direction of Beler, having had to use a loanword form the father-tongue of Malish for a royal title such as his. Hopefully the Malish would surmise, even if it did come from the mouth of an orc. "has sought our services in this....endeavor of yours." Another pause fought with Lontok while he dug through his mind for a polite term for the siege. You always had to be polite when it came to people pointing weapons at you, he'd learned as much as a slave to Drow in his youth. Lontok had a good grasp of this dialect, Malish, even though forming the words near the front of his mouth was strange to him. He much preferred the lofty rhythm of the High Elves but you took what you were given. They'd understand him, and if no one acted hastily they'd but down the crossbows and let the Chosen carry on. Beler seemed a bit tongue tied himself, double-taking when Lontok followed up his proclamation. Perhaps he hadn't thought Radush would have sent a diplomat along with the insertion party. All the Prince really could do is flare his nostrils in a bemused huff tightened his lips as he waited for a response.

Lontok stifled a snicker at his highness, instead his snake tongue flicked around a tusk before calling out(in Malish) in a louder tone "Mind your distance, our mounts are agitated."

He turned toward Koloch and dropped his octave and root langue to speak with him. Koloch knew Vendish(A royal language that many other human tongues bore from), a tongue that Lontok took a liking to for its descriptiveness over many other 'improper' human tongues, and so the archer spoke in its dynamic structure.

"The Prince has told them to stand down for we are allies. I have told them we are of the Company and are employed to the Prince....the squishies have been told to mind the wargs for they are angry."

Ygdri had been embroiling herself amongst the battlefield’s various scrapes as she brought shield and blade into glorious combat once more. The fires of her orcish heritage lit a demon-fire in her blood and set her into the deadly song of an Orcish Shieldmaiden: Slam, parry, slash, parry, stab, and bludgeon. All of the notes of the Orcish requiem were brought to the fore as Ygdri began to rack up an impressive kill count. She had the advantage of her own two legs, and although the Wargs were impressive war beasts, they did led to loosely controlled anarchy in all but the most skilled Warg handlers. Runt was probably the only one Ygdri knew for certain fought better atop the back of a Warg, and Runt was beyond skilled when it came to her Warg kin.

The bloody work suited Ygdri well enough: it allowed her to bring her knowledge of the human form into the fray as she snapped knees with a well-placed kick or broke rips or cracked noses. All humanoid creatures were chock full of easily abused biological weaknesses: it just took Ygdri’s unique combination of skills to combine them.

Eventually, the battle began to reach its obvious climax as the entire enemy force was annihilated. As was expected, the first company were without any fatalities, and seemingly without any major injuries as well. If all battles ended this way; Ygdri would have a chance to forget her healing craft. Kolach gave the order to saddle up, and Ygdri felt a growing sense of dread as a Warg’s leash was handed to her. She eventually found herself on the back of the beast: looking awkward and out of place on the beast’s back. Ygdri could boast many talents, but riding ranked in one of the lower places.

Despite this, Ygdri would ride because it was what the mission required. They were here bashing heads because of some human-prince needed the entirety of the first company to guide his sorry ass through the trouble and into a position in which they could get killed on his behalf. It mattered little way for Ygdri personally. She had a lot of respect for Kolach, and his orders were the ones she would listen to. He had earned the right to order her, were so fed others in her life had earned that pleasure.

Ygdri and her warg, a beast she had no idea what it was named after, stayed near the pack of the rapidly moving Warg caravan. It took all of Ygdri’s discipline to keep from throttling the beast after it had trawled forward amongst the Warg train. She was gripping the beast’s heckles a little tighter than she should, but the Warg had seemingly made an exception for the nervous doctor: god knows why.

Soon the Doctor was atop the strange rampart, alongside several large Wargs, the entire first company and the overwhelming population of ‘able’ bodied humans; all the ones who could pick up an axe or an Iron sword or, more worryingly, a crossbow. Enough of those pointed at the orcs could lead to more casualties than she cared to deal with.

Still, perhaps Ygdri’s first glance had missed a single casualty. Derthag and his Warg had been pretty injured by the events of the first ride: He had seen Derthag get into a pretty tough fight, but now she noticed his head was bleeding, whereas the Warg was missing an eye. Kolach nodded towards the injured pair as he gave an order to both the doctor and Mutt, the other major female element of the group and someone Ygdri had sadly not had many conversations with. She walked alongside the much smaller Orc while her hands plucked at various pouches inside the inner side of her shield.

“Call me if you need any help with the Warg: I’mma make sure Derthag hasn’t broken anything important.” Ygdri plucked something from behind her shield: a small pipe of her own that was prepped with a number of herbs that would dull the adrenaline in her system just a smidgen. She knew not how to heal with a hunter’s heart: so the pipe would dull the killer instinct all orcs shared; if only temporarily.

After a single drag of the pipe and a soothing exhale: the orc maiden sat herself next to Derthag, with the booted Orc in between herself and the Warg, letting him sooth the beast while Mutt got to work on the packmate. “Seems like you kissed the wrong type of ass, ass.” She smiled lightly as she gripped the top of the orc’s head as he got a good look at the blooded jaw of Derthag: checking to see if the boot of the Achnal had broken anything.

A few moments of examination showed that Derthag had nothing more than a bruised jaw and a chipped tooth. She let go of the top of his head and gave the pale orc’s jaw a pat: more than aware it likely smarted. “You’re pretty lucky it seems: nothing broken and nothing that a few more hours of pipe won’t fix.” She reached into another pouch in her shield, handing the man a small pouch of herbs that had mysteriously ended up at her bedside in the camp. “These’ll sooth you, if you start to ache somethin’ fierce.”

Ygdri looked over at the Warg, no doubt being looked over by Mutt at this point. The Orc doctor hoped that Mutt would be able to work her magic, yet she had caught a glance of the blow it had received. Even Mutt couldn’t fix an eye like that, so the beast was probably going to be robbed of depth perception: Sad fate, really. “Need any help, Mutt?”

"Shel! Hold up!" The paleness of the land made it very distinguishable to spot anything moving about, unless of course there was a snowstorm. A young, pale orc sprinted after his even younger sister, shouting her name only to have the sound masked by the increasing draft and force of high winds. The thick snow combined with the hefty, various fur garments drafted over the young lad made it just that much more difficult to catch up with his spry sibling.

He could of swore he heard shouting, the clanking of steel and crumbling rocks. That could have been his imagination, though, blended in by the whirling, screaming masks of heavy and strong winds. White flakes by the millions flooded his vision, and he wouldn't realize the occurring events until it would be too late.

"Derthag!" A cry for help rang out, and suddenly before the young, ten year old orc lay a legion of dwarves abroad a heavily fortified castle embedded within the frosty mountainside. They were preparing a siege, and what was odd about the whole ordeal was how dwarves were not known for infighting. Feudalism, if you will, was not necessarily their motive.

Nonetheless, the two younglings were shocked. The gilded armor, the single filed groups, the inevitable charge into battle. Both brother and sister dug into the snow, watching blood spewing, walls crumbling down the mountain along with men struck with axes and arrows. Hearing the shouts of warcries, screams of pain and agony. This was the first they ever saw of battle, and they couldn't look away from it.

~

"Shel!" The abrupt shout caused Gut-Drench to heave upwards and yelp as Derthag clenched onto her fur. The other wargs snapped their heads and raised snouts to their wounded companion, every one of their individual hairs standing upright. Surrounded by the Malish defenders, Derthag quickly gave a compassionate scratching behind the poor girl's furry ear, dismounting her and beginning to lead her a bit behind the pack. Taking off his saddle and several other packs attached to her, he calmly set her down. It was just than Captain Lontok briefed Koloch on the situation. He didn't understand much human tongue, nonetheless motioned to Ygdri and Mutt as they looked his way.

"Aye, she's a wounded beast. We'd not do good to put her down right here, lest' we disturb the pack. There's gotta be somethin', soothing herbs or just...somethin'." His face wasn't of despair or sorrow, more of a focused, determined look of hope.

He quickly reached into his satchel and pulled out the pipe tomahawk, drawing in a long drag and letting out a controlled hit through the wounded girl's ear. Both rider and mount feeling a sensational calm overwhelm them, both feeling a better sense of situational awareness. As Derthag continued petting her and taking an occasional glance toward the human defenders, Gut-Drench's winces of pain turned to a condensed, furrowed look as she stared ahead, completely silent. Some of the crossbowmen were perplexed to say the least, normally a horse would be put down without remorse. Here was an orc, splattered and battered by the recent conflict, tending to his mount as one would a wounded, domesticated pet. They would soon come to realize these orcs did not fit the stereotypes they've embedded into their generations of offspring, these were no mere tribal, barbaric fiends. This was a full-fledged force, a company with finances to manage and contracts to fulfill. Wargs weren't necessarily hard to come by, but the hours and upkeep paid to train, control and feed such beasts meant they weren't about to simply whisk away such an asset to the business, not if they could at least do something about it.

While Longtok tried to reassure the bunnies that they weren't here to fight for the Achnal and the rest of the group dealt with the injuries to Derthag's warg, Red Orthaug and Koloch were left to pace the perimeter with their wargs to keep the bunnies back, as if the words from Beler in their jabbering tongue and Longtok's own warnings weren't understood. Beler seemed to be making headway with his own people -- once someone that knew him confirmed that it was their man, things went a little more smoothly and, most importantly, the humans backed off a bit.

Meanwhile, the flames, the screams and the cacophony of the warg raids were in the background, as if to confirm the tale, but that was dimly noted as Koloch glared at humans from beneath the cold, smooth mask of his visor, a thing of eyeslots and breathing holes that only showed two baleful, bloodshot orcish eyes staring back at the humans that tried to match the stare -- Koloch spent years among the humans as an outcast, derided and assumed stupid. Humanity fought with itself often and easily just like orc-kind, but a halfie was a special kind of pariah among them, automatically inferior no matter how talented. How it rankled for years to deal with that attitude before finding the company -- good advice going unheeded because it was a tusked mouth that spoke it, constant reminders that he was valued for the only thing an orc was valued for in any society. Muscle.

Of course, orcish society wasn't necessarily any better in that respect -- orcs didn't generally, at least in the tribes, respect new ideas or innovative thinking unless it came from a chief. That was all very traditional, and new ideas tended to get quashed quickly anyway, out of the innate respect for the Way Things Always Have Been that'd rival dwarvenkind and a tendency for the strongest, not the smartest, to rule. Of course, Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi modified that attitude a bit, but retained it.

Beler nodded back to Koloch and then came nearer to speak his piece, "You and yours might as well get back to your comrades, I will get things underway over here. Good luck."

Koloch gave a grunt in return and then signalled to the others, yelling, "Alright, back up and over the walls, Tuskers, before the wargs get hungry."

---

Their little job done, the Chosen sent out to handle the delivery run to the bunnies of Malish were able to retreat back through the hole they put in the Achnal lines to begin with -- the barbarians had taken a beating in the sudden onslaught of warg riders, but the orcs were already pulling away from their bloody work -- the Chosen were one of the last groups to come haring out of the city, and the sounds of human wounded on all sides of them was a signal that the raids worked and they'd hit the nomads without being anticipated. It was satisfying to feel a plan go off, but there was a lot of work to do.

During the night, as the wargs raided out, the rest of the company was put to setting up the battle -- the plan old Radush had in mind for the infantry companies was to lure the bunnies into the attack, thinking they were 'just orcs' and rout convincingly enough to lure them into the pursuit. The battle plan, in that respect, meant putting the Blades at the center of the battle line and then pulling them back, while the pikes were put on the flanks. It was a reversal of the usual formation, while the wargs made sure that flanking movements did not happen. Unlike human horse cavalry, the wargs didn't need to charge over and over again -- they could be dispersed and didn't need to charge in formations with lances. It just wasn't how the orcs did it. They'd do what they usually did, which was leap into ambush from hiding in the tall grass, rip into flanks and force the cavalry to fight. It was entirely possible they'd spook the horses, the main strength of the nomads, so badly that the mounts would be impossible to control.

And the Chosen had their role to play too. The Eyedrinker was in his customary place with the reserve of warg riders that would mount the counterattack, but divided up. There were approximately four subdivisions of the Warg company being sent out -- left and right flanks, reserve and, most fun, the hunters.

"Koloch, you and the lads are hunting. The Achnal have a chief, but he's not the one whose head we want. They have a wizard by the name of Jorlath that's planning a lot of this. I want his mage head off his shoulders before he can start throwing spells at us. Anyone else in his party needs to die too, since we can't risk even an apprentice flinging magic at us. You know what to do," he told them grimly. Radush, after all, wasn't a fan of mages fighting against him -- they were unpredictable, dangerous and innovative. One of the old orc's favorite rules of battle was, "Kill the mage" and it was a profitable one.

Koloch grunted at the rest, "Simple plan, we're going to start the fight and when you see something flash, sparkle or chant, you'll kill it." But it was never that easy. Mages were always trouble. Always the unexpected.

There was approximately an hour of waiting before the Achnal mobilized and started attacking, and then there was the actual fray. When a fog started to creep into the pre-dawn, the Chosen knew that the mage was doing it. As luck would have it, the wargs could smell, and so could the orcs. It wasn't an ideal way to fight a battle. From the sound of it, things were bloody, but then they always were. The Chosen, however, had a trickier task.

The Chosen stalked through the battle on warg-back, alert and avoiding the combat, right up until the point that they came upon the enemy and something else unexpected – it was Koloch that took the first hit, and got knocked off his beast, though his armor absorbed enough of the blow to keep things from being broken, he was stumbling around in the dirt, trying to get up on his feet after being staggered from the force of it.

It was ten feet tall and made of stone, carved to look like some sort of massive human warrior with glowing green eyes; it stepped closer into the mist, coming at the Drillmaster with a pair of huge stone fists, all the weapons it needed. Koloch was starting to shake it off, trying to come to his feet, but he wasn't going to actually be able to get up in time to really defend himself.

The unexpected was a huge stone golem, and it seemed intent on crushing orcs.

The golem lifted its massive stone arms in preparation to crush the nearest enemy. Unfortunately, that enemy was Koloch. Just a moment before the humanoid boulder decided to bring down its fists upon him, a tall robust figure got in the way with a massive shield held up high with both hands. Only one word was heard before the impact of stone upon reinforced wood: "MOVE!"

Only a second after, the shield was splintered thousandfold by the force of the golem's slam, staggering its wielder away. Ushgar did not know if Koloch managed to get away when he took the brunt of the walking statue's attack. At least he didn't feel that he trampled over someone. His head was ringing and the pain in his shield arm was almost too distracting. He really hoped it wasn't broken and if it was, that the battle frenzy would kick in soon. And his shield was virtually non-existent aside from the remaining metal hand grip. However, the golem did not share his concerns and distracted by the orc's size, it decided that Ushgar was its primary target. Its next blow was a direct body hit which made Ushgar take another step backwards and instinctively reach for his maul hanging on his belt.

The golem went for another punch, but this time, the big orc manged to evade, if barely. That gave him an opening to start hammering at the animated chunk of rock. Unaware of anything around him, Ushgar focused only on bringing the thing down in a silent fury. One blow managed to remove the lower half of the golem's sculptured face, but the head was still on its shoulders, defiant against orcish strength. Though Ushgar left some dents into the rock monster, the fight was far from over, emphasised by the fact it blocked Ushgar's latest attack and punched him straight into the right side of his face. The orc tasted blood in his mouth, though fortunately he did not feel anything out of place with his tongue. The moment of distraction cost him another hit and he nearly landed on his backside. But the next blow was countered with an upward swipe of the maul which somewhat damaged the golem's arm joint.

Looking at this silent exchange of blows, one would wonder who was the orc and who was the golem. But Ushgar was actually at a disadvantage here - he lost his shield and the golem's fists had similar effect like a warhammer, making his heavy plate armour nearly useless. The force of its blows needed only to move his steel to crush his bones and organs. The only good side of the whole situation was that the metal was too thick to be dented else he would have been in an even bigger pickle with crushed armour poking his already tenderised flesh. If only he were bigger or the golem smaller, he could lift it and deny it any advantage it had over a living creature of flesh and blood, but fate is seldom favourable in these moments. To add insult to injury, the magical automaton came to the same conclusion and grabbed Ushgar by the torso, lifting him in the air with no effort with the intent of throwing the orc.

Confused and more than a little bit distressed about this turn of events, Ushgar began to kick and hit the golem's head with all his might, cracking the stone where one of its glowing eyes was in the process. For reasons unknown to the orc, the golem dropped him while motioning toward its head. In a moment of odd clarity for him, Ushgar started to maul the golem's legs in the hopes of whittling its legs to a breakable size but the amount of blows he had taken previously made the task increasingly difficult. But he persevered in the self-appointed task, forgetting that the golem inexplicably wasn't bashing his head in. Maybe he didn't even care about it as he was trying to save his superior officer from certain death by clobbering.

Visibly relieved to get out of the besieged settlement, Orthaug spurred on his beast of war when Koloch’s command came. They leapt across the walls once more, taking advantage of the superior agility of the wargs. Their task was done: the rotten egg had been put in the basket.

Though he did not exactly hate humans, those bunnies were experts in making themselves be hated. Orcs had been cast out of human society many times in the past –a thing he came to know after he had turned his back on the feral clans in that far off desolate valley- and were generally looked down on. He honestly knew only one thing in life: fighting. And so with Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi there was a genuine chance of him making a difference concerning the way the world thought and dealt with when it came to Orc-kind.

When they rejoined their kin, Orthaug noted the peculiar battle array. Apparently the Old Boy Eyedrinker wanted the flanks protected over anything. That only made sense, when you were about to fight an enemy whose strength was their mounted men.

The tiniest feeling of dread tickled Red Orthaug’s spine. Radush had spat out the next series of orders pointing them toward a new objective. This fight was far from over. Instead of mumbling an incredulous ‘wizard’, the brawler tried to recall what he knew about those magic wielding cunts. Apparently not a lot. There had been that one witch who had tried to put him under a mind trap, attempting to make him her slave to whatever purposes. But he had seen a few mages been taken down when he had served in the pikes. To his mind, they were dangerous tricksters, cowards shielding behind their spells and curses, but they die as well as the next man or woman. Sometimes even better! He had heard of a mage being caught by a javelin while he had been chanting an invocation to summon fire or some such. The mage in question had burned with the heat of a crucible when he botched up the spell due to a sudden onset of javelinitis.

Koloch got them back in formation quickly enough, leading the Chosen away from the main body of the company. There had been some casualties among their merry band, and most of them were left with Radush and the warg reserve. Wounded wargs were switched for unscathed ones. They weren’t protecting now… they were hunting.

Until their prey found them. A low fog had crept across the land like a pale blanket, making it harder to see. However, the Orcs and their mounts had a key sense of smell and hearing. Nonetheless, they were unprepared to face the threat emerging from the mist. How do you smell approaching rock?

He steered his warg to the left, out of the golem’s path. It was immense and robust, animated by magical powers.

Koloch took the first hit, the rock on armour making a dull sound as he flew away like a discarded toy. The golem, moving lumberingly, closed the distance between itself and the downed Drillmaster. Orthaug was not close enough to really do something, nor could he get to Koloch in time to whisk him up on his warg. Fortunately for the halfbreed, Ushgar manifested beside him holding a massive shield with both hands.

It was only due to Ushgar’s massive size that they stood a fighting chance, Orthaug thought later. A duel ensued, while two tuckers went to Koloch’s aid to pull him away from the confrontation between Ushgar and the mage’s automaton. Muscle against rock proved to be an interesting struggle, as he saw the golem taking hits that would have broken entire bodies. Yet it was relentless, taking the pummelling of Ushgar’s battle maul. Blades were useless here, but a blunt tool like that maul just might smash that stony face in.

Then the golem, seemingly having had enough, lifted the large orc over his head with little trouble. But just when he was about to break Ushgar across his knee, it stopped and clawed at its head. It clawed at its face more precisely, where Ushgar’s merciless heels had cracked one of its eyes.

“The eyes!” Orthaug growled, “The eyes are its weakness!” That posed another problem though. The eyes were high up.

In a split second he had named the warg Zasha and kicked her in the flanks. They made a circling movement around the lumbering stone automaton whose legs were being harried by the blows of an Orc maul.

“This is it, girl” Orthaug said as he urged Zasha to charge. They were behind the golem now and he hoped to hit the thing high enough in the back so it would stagger and trip, half blind as it was. “Or do you like it when I call you bitch?”

Warg and rider snarled as they leapt, Orthaug making himself as small as possible to maximise the force of impact. Ushgar would have to clear out fast enough or be crushed. Then again, not really his problem, was it? Certainly not if he’d be squashed like an over-ripe berry.

Derthag had been well enough to worry about his warg, so Ygdri’s job was all but done already. Mutt would deal with the mount and the unusual orc maid would hardly need Ygdri’s paltry skills on a veterinary level. Instead, the orcish doctor could do nothing but stare down a group of confused ‘umies that held crossbows like religious icons. Did the white-skins really think that the green-kin would assault them in such a fashion? More importantly, did they really think that the green-kin would have dismounted and stopped if the intent was assault?

Soon enough, the white prince they had been guarding was able to calm down the little defenders. Soon enough, the sons and daughters of Malish or Mudflap or whatever the place was called were lowering their weapons and only dreaming of piercing the orcs with their stares: as opposed to various farm-tools and crossbow bolts. Not that Ygdri feared being skewered by such puny weapons. She had her shield, and her shield wasn’t going to be broken by something as meagre as a peasant-lords shiv.

Kolach gave the order to prepare to move again, and Ygdri felt glad to be rid of the humans and their ilk. The entire lot of ‘em had given her the eebie-jeebies. It was like seeing a female orc was some culture shock to them. Did they think that orc-brats just popped out of the ground like magic? Someone needed to have a serious talk to some of them it seemed. She got a giggle out of the mental image. ‘Sometimes, when a male and a female get bored, they put the sword in the scabbard and a brat comes out.’

‘Least that was how things were meant to go down. Somewhere along the lines, a bunch of moron old men thought that instead of getting a mutual agreement going on between a woman and a man, they just started trading the woman around like cattle. Ygdri’s face grew sour at the thought of her intended ‘place’ amongst the lofty realms of orcish politics.

Fuck politics.

---

Soon enough, Ygdri was awaiting the next phase of Radush’s plan was starting to come into effect. The Chosen would play a vital part again in dealing with the next major threat: a mage. Sure, there was some other crap about dealing with the ‘umie pricks and their horses, but the important task was the mage. Shit would hit the fan if the mage started lobbing fire balls or calling up lightning storms, so it would be up to the chosen to deal with any mages and their tricks.

Ygdri was seated for the second time that day upon a warg that seemed very unlikely to cooperate with the bulky orc woman. She wasn’t the sort who dealt with the beasts often, but sometimes a plan involved her lying back and thinking of stabbing a mage in the face. She wished that her pipe wasn’t so damn long now; she could kill for a smoke while riding the beast. Even then, there was the problem of losing the thing in the thump of a hard ride.

I need to invent some sort of mini-pipe thing…Disposable too…Maybe I can wrap some weeds in a leaf or something?

Thoughts of revolutionising smoking forever were discarded when she spotted the first problem that the chosen would be busy: namely, a golem that managed to smack Kolach onto his flat, armoured ass. Ygdri’s face curled up in a mix of sympathy and annoyance. If Kolach came into her tent later, expecting her to rub an ointment on his sore arse-cheeks, he would have it shoved up his pucker instead.

Kolach was getting manhandled, and Ygdri was trying to turn the warg towards the golem when help stepped in. The man who took charge was the bestial grey-skinned orc Ushgar. Ushgar had been making a name for himself recently: being the biggest orc inside the chosen by a long margin and being the only person as good as her with a shield. The difference in style between them meant that they hadn’t competed for a title or anything yet, but the idea of a scrap tickled her.

That was, until she saw the brutish orc go toe-to-toe with the golem. Ushgar fought hard and took some heavy blows, blows that would have broken bones on anyone else. For every blow Ushgar took, he gave one back. Soon, the golem had taken a few blows that seemed a bit more cosmetic, and now Orthaug was leading some other orcs into a counter attack on the golem.

Ygdri made a bold decision. Her companions could take on the golem; the chosen had a different job. Ygdri smacked the flank of the warg, willing it into action. She needed to find the source, or more of these golems might start popping out of the wood works. Ushgar had taken far too many hits to happily shrug off, and fighting another would put the group at a major disadvantage.

The warg jolted forward, and Ygdri was forced into holding laying close to the beast and letting it go about its work by its own accord. She had no real control, and just hoped that it would hunt the mage quick, instead of some deer or some shit.

Thankfully, Mutt had trained this one as well as all the others, and it feasted for the company’s enemy’s flesh…at the moment. The beast’s nose had caught onto a few scents in the mist, and soon the doctor was staring down five ‘umies. Four of them were soldiers, wearing furs and holding axes, yet the one in the middle was something altogether more important: a mage.

“Found ya, piggy.”

Ygdri’s grin was visible through the fog: broad and vicious and hungry for war. She was an orc, through and through and now she was hungry for blood. The human warriors recognised her as a threat, but she was already rolling off of the back of the warg. She was on her feet by the time the first one charged. She slammed frontline into his gut and then slammed her elbow into the back of his neck while he doubled over, winded. A sickening crack told her all she needed to know: her blow had severed his spinal cord with an efficient snapping of the bone. Her doctor’s knowledge was more than enough to deal with one man in a single blow.

The other three circled around her, surrounding her in a semi-circle that kept her away from the mage, who concentrated on the golem or perhaps on another spell. She couldn’t let that happen now, could she?

The semi-circle closed in, and the humans began jeering. One commented on her being an orc, while another mentioned her being a woman. Same old crap, everywhere she went. Every battle was either ‘I’ll kill you’ or ‘I’ll rape you.’ Same fucking shit, every time. Each one of the fuckers who ever levelled the threats against her soon ended up dead. These three would be no exception.

Ygdri was drew the Falchion in a single movement as the first human lunged in with an axe. She parried the blow but didn’t counter as she instead stepped away from the thrust of a spear. Last up was a swordsman, who jabbed at her left side and found every thrust hitting the shield in her hand. She was waiting for something, the humans just didn’t know what.

They soon found out. The warg that had so recently been dismounted had swung around the group and leapt upon the spear wielding warrior. The two other men panicked, and Ygdri surged forward, bringing her Falchion over her head and slamming it into the skull of the axe-wielding human; embedding the blade several inches into his skull. The Falchion, embedded into the axe-human’s skull as it was, was quickly discarded, and Ygdri could do little more than scoop up the dead man’s axe, and lob it at the mage before he could do anything more to interrupt her combat, or summon more golems to mess with the chosen.

“Die you magic using-whoreson!”

"Er, take good care of 'er." Derthag grunted to the company's warg handler on deck, an elderly orcish female with a balding gray mane, a wart-ridden humpback, and tits drooping down to her belly. He gave her an odd look, shrugged and went off to say goodbye to his mount.

Patting Gut-Drench on her back once more, and a quick scratch behind her ears, the stunted orc departed with his favorite mount now donning a fitted eyepatch. He took to the rest of the chosen, his mind set on the next course of action. Taking a chance to study the map once more, Derthag's heart skipped a beat at the mention of a mage. Surely, he'd never encountered many, and this would be the proper time to engage into something new. Something innovative, and with luck, it'd prove an educational experience to the entirety of the chosen. The party eventually saddled up on newly fitted mounts, few sticking to the same warg they rode in on, and crept their way into the grasslands on their search for the mage. As they loomed back into the Achnal camps, an eerie fog conjured out of seemingly thin air, the bloody work of a wizard.

All around the Chosen, the sounds of clanging steel and clashing shields intertwined with screams of bloody murder and cries of war. Regardless, they were a focused bunch. They were keen, quick to the draw in both mind and body. They were focused on the primary objective, impaling the mage's head on a spike. It wouldn't be not long after creeping through the dense fog, however, would the sounds of some stomping giant roll in as if it was crushing the earth beneath it.

"Hark there, mates! Something wicked this way comes." The pale orc grimly stated in his harsh, deep voice. Two brightly lit, green auras suddenly appeared towering over the group.

Koloch was flung off his warg, the beast scattering back near it's rider. Derthag rushed to his aid, glancing back to witness the goliath of an orc butting heads with an animate stone figure. The thing was huge, taller than Ushgar himself, and beheld pure and raw physical prowess over flesh. With the help of a few of his kin, they attempted to bring the Drillmaster back to his feet.

"C'mon, Rosie. You'll not perish in this bloody fog, ya stubborn bastard." All the while, he heard the exchanging blows of crackling rock and clanging steel.

Ol' Tarlung was impressed, to say the least. Albeit rather concerned, as flesh and stone were two elements essentially unevenly matched. Nonetheless, he admired the mountainous orc's established resolve and intent will to crush his boulder of a foe into mere pebbles. Swiftly scanning the field for his comrades, he noted Orthaug's leap of faith atop the golem's backside. It was time to join the fray, and a determined Derthag jolted his mount's hind legs toward the lumbering thing. Nearly ten feet out, Ygdri was already on her way past the stone automaton, undoubtedly hunting the mage.

Stubborn tuskah! She's a wild one, if not reckless. He thought, straying his course and charging after her. She'd need backup, especially considering the range and power a mage could beheld, and any apprentices it might have nearby. Rather hopelessly, she was quickly lost in the fog. The pale orc was helpless, how could a tracker find his way through such a dense cloud of mist? He closed his eyes, and followed the scent of burning flesh and charred wood. The wailing screams of his own kin came barreling through the fog, as several orcs bursted through a wooden palisade. The lot of them were engulfed in flames, and Derthag could do nothing but watch in horror. Something was behind it all, and as he charged his warg full speed through the broken palisade, a molten ball of fire spiraled through the air and struck his mangy mount. Clinging on for dear life, the burning mane of the warg filled Raghir's nostrils with the toxic stench of smoked hair. The warg eventually plummeted headfirst into the ground, sending it's rider flying through the air as it bucked upwards. The landing was less than graceful, as his shoulder dug into the muddy grass and skidded a few inches.

Disoriented, his vision hazily adjusting to the smoke and fog, he became aware of around five Achnal spearmen surrounding him, their tipped blades only inches away from his still singing, burning beard. His steel helm trapping in smoke, he opened up his visor to let out a small plume.

"Aw, the smell of it!" One spearmen muttered. "Someone outta' stomp out that fire..." He continued, raising a fur boot above the helpless orc's bearded neck.

"Ah! Bloody-!" Was all he could mutter further, as a wooden-handled ax dug itself into the heel of the wordy rat. Rolling forward, palm clenching the ax handle, the satisfying crunch sent the ax back to it's owner and the afflicted human wailing. The four other Achnal quickly had their spears back on him. One Achnal with his foot twisted around the bone, halfway cut through, would be yelling for help. More would come, and he'd have to think fast.

Standing upright, his face merely a foot away from the flames of his beard, smoked pillowed out into his eyes. A red haze overcame him. "Raagh!" He shouted, holding up an ax in both hands. With the left ax, he chopped a spear in half, sending his blade across the lad's neck with the right ax. Yanking the boy in front of him, he sent his heel into his back, causing one of the spearmen to impale their own as the force of the push sent the surrounding Achnal to the ground.

"Waaagh!" He screamed, jumping up onto the back of the recently impaled warrior, putting the weight of his momentum onward to send his right ax cleanly through the skull of the Achnal struggling under the boy. The last two scattered a few feet away as they regained composure, their mouths agape. With a stomping charge, he flung his right ax sideways through the neck of his first victim, blood pouring from his esophagus. The last one dropped his spear and darted towards the opposite direction. It was all for naught, as the half-orc dug his ax in the unlucky sod's right shoulder. Thrusting it back, he sent the human downwards, and proceeded to climb on top of him and rip his fur garment off his chest. The man pleaded for his life, struggling every second of the way. Flames from Derthag's beard were creeping up closer now, he could feel the heat up to his forehead. With a bit of ingenuity, he sent forth his fists into the bare chest of his victim. A grim realization was made aware to the man, as his sternum cracked inward and pierced his heart. Already driven into shock, his chest was torn open as the blood thirsty orc reached in with both hands. Clenching the heart of the Achnal, he detached it with ease and dove his face into the opening after tossing off his helm. Sipping, slurping, twirling and lapping up the insides, he flew back in a moment's notice and gasped for air as puddles of red oozed from his mouth and gory bits drooled off his tusk.

His entire face stained with red, his facial hair now fully unbraided and extinguished by the blood, he became entirely aware of his surroundings and thoughts once again. Attempting to stand upright, his ears ringing loudly, the bloodied orc struggled to dig his axes back out of their entrenched positions in the flesh of the fresh corpses. Wiping away what blood he could from his eyes, he would soon see a robed figure nearly ten feet ahead just as he placed his helm back on.

"M-master!" The figure shouted. "Somebody! Anyone!"

"'Ello, rabbit." Derthag greeted, in a dark and deep tone. He grinned as he stated his intent. "Did'ja forget your spells, rabbit? I have a spell..." He continued, calmly walking towards the mage's apprentice.

The robed Achnal warily took a step back for every one of Derthag's step forwards. He clenched a weathered tome tightly, his pupils widening as he scurried through the pages. "Oh yeah...I have a spell." The orc grimly stated. "It makes rabbits afraid...it makes rabbits frightened, makes 'em run..." His pace was quickening, his tone lowering deeper and deeper. "It makes their blood pump faster, makes 'em taste...fresher soon as I rip into 'em. Mm, rabbit haunch. What sorta' powers might I gain if I were to roast up your liver, grind your brain matter into chum, and devour your still beating heart raw?!" He exclaimed, his voice raising with every word.

"St-stay back, vile fiend!" The apprentice nervously shouted, before speaking words in some foreign tongue.

With a whisk of his fingers, a bolt of fire struck Derthag's plate, and the orc winced back as he quickly cut off his straps and tossed aside his platemail. Just in time, as well, as the steel soon melted down where it had been struck. Ol' Tarlung roared, lobbing the ax in his left hand and storming towards him with the one in his right. The apprentice darted towards the other way, scurrying through his ancient book. The thrown ax embedded into his left thigh, and the cowardly robed figure was sent to his knees. Pouncing unto his back, he sent his face deep within the mud and drove a hard, clenched fist on the back of his skull. Flipping him back over, their eyes locked on and the apprentice mage was distraught, disoriented and soon to be disemboweled.

"'Twas a nice piece of armor you ruined back there..." Derthag stated, taking off his helm. His chin held high, eyes aimed downwards. "It's gonna take at least a few weeks ta' grow me beard back ta' full length..."

The magic-wielder was speechless. "Oh yes...Ol' Radush Eyedrink'ah is gonna have a drink on me tonight! But before I pluck those juicy eyeballs out their sockets, your gonna bear witness to your own emasculation, chap!" Emasculation..., a word he'd learned from Ygdri, explained by Koloch. The humans always had an odd and painful way for torture, the orcs did too, but they had different names and techniques for such things. "Aha! You'd think I'd have time for that! You bloody well pissed yourself, mate."

Only minutes after the recently ensued conflict, the apprentice's head was halfway strewn across a wooden stick nearly eight feet in length, dug into the ground. His eyes were plucked, his mouth open wide. Derthag aimed to regroup with Ygdri, trotting off on foot towards where he'd heard some fighting not far by. In his pouch where he kept his tomahawk, two pages were torn from the mage's tome and were wrapped up nicely, containing inside the fresh eyes of a fresh kill. He'd be sure the CO would appreciate the gift. But first order of business, kill the mage. Who knows, with luck Ygdri would already be on her way back with the primary target mage's head hauled off her back.

The mage was tall, muscular man in riding breeches and boots, with a moustache even, and he seemed terribly arrogant. Ygdri's axe surged forward and he didn't modify his stance, either. He stood there, smiling in a feral and indulgent fashion at the orc-maid as the axe hit something in front of the man's head; sparks flew and the axe careened off at another angle after hitting something that seemed hard. Beneath his feet was a circle of some sort, all arcane glowing runes in a fog-shrouded clearing. He never set foot beyond it, not once, though he came at the edge to look down his long, somewhat pointed nose at Ygdri, completely self-assured despite the danger of the situation.

"Little orc-girl, did you really think you could just ride around my golem and throw an axe at me and end it?" His tone made it clear that he was more amused than anything, perhaps a bit impressed with the bravery of the plan even as he was chiding her for underestimating him. But however benign the demeanor, the fact was that he gestured lazily at her with something in his hand -- a rod of some sort, with a dragon's head sculpted at the end of it. That did not look terribly good...

--

That knock took the wind out of Koloch, but he'd spent a rough childhood, brief as it was, under an armsmaster that regularly knocked him windless as a matter of training and conditioning -- Koloch was not the strongest or fastest orc, but he had reserves of stamina and grit to spare, the ability to growl, 'keep going' when his ankles and legs cried out for relief and his arms went buttery and wobbly.

Or when he was sucking in air through his teeth and trying not to think of how much pain he was in. He managed to get to his feet with the assistance and managed to grunt his thanks for the assistance, though he could feel the bruise underneath the plate and the mail. The thing throbbed badly, and that was with his blood up and everything swirling around him. He tried to put the pain in its place enough to function, and that was strictly a matter of vitality. He was dismounted, and had no idea where Kalshkar until he heard some human scream and the growls of the warg; apparently, she'd gotten right to work, rider or no.

As it turned out, the noise and the sudden attack on the mage's position alerted Achnal troops in the area, though these fellows weren't the typical Achnal, draped in furs, wielding bows and mounted, or slinging around lances. These were lamellar-wearing men in helmets with visors, kitted up for an actual fight on foot and heavy, much heavier than the typica Achnal types, on weaponry.

Looks like the Chosen were in the right place then, locked in some fight with what looked like the mage's personal bodyguard. He managed to strike for Kalshkar with his halberd in hand and land the spike of it into some human's back, taking the spine right out and leaving the man to crumple and mewl piteously from the sudden paralysis -- he'd bleed out, but he was no longer Koloch's problem. Five of them were on his warg, four now, and he gave a loud whistle to the old girl so she knew to break off the fight and head his way, even as he lashed out with his halberd at the next man. That one got taken with the staff by the legs and then got the axe when he staggered, leaving him a cleaved and bloody, but dead, mess. His warg had two more taken care of, one already dying and the other about to, while the last man...well, he landed some blows on Koloch and got his attention.

"Die, tusker!" came the snarl. This one had even better armor than the rest, and a fairly ornate axe and shield. The stuff was a little too frilly for his tastes, but some warriors loved the display; this one had engraved muscle and so forth on his breastplate, and the whole appearance of some sort of pretty boy statute made into life. I bet you're as ugly as I am and your lance isn't as long Koloch thought with a fierce grin. He knew what the psychology behind that panapoly was, and he started laughing -- intentionally. Booming laughter, from behind his visor. He was sore, beaten and drenched in sweat now that the battle was joined, but he boomed laughter as if he were some silly orc berserker.

The taunt from an orc, of all things, had its effect and the well-trained, exquisitely armored warrior suddenly seemed to take offense that some crude scum orc was laughing derisively at him. An exquisite defensive position suddenly became a liability when Koloch demonstrated that he really did know what he was doing with that halberd -- he hooked it onto the man's shield, gave a hard pull toward him and sent the mage's guard captain stumbling just enough to allow him to drive the spike on the head of his halberd into the man's eyeslit. If Koloch could be accused of being overly fond of a specific tactic, that was probably one of them -- he was deceptively fast on the counter and able to bring that spike in line with the man's head. He practiced on melons with a helmet strapped on as a matter of course.

There was gore on his weapon when he yanked it loose from the still-twitching body. He briefly regretted that he wouldn't be able to loot this bastard until later, after someone else might take some of the best loot, but he had work to do. His warg was savaging some man's intestines, but he left her to it -- he was no warg handler, and she seemed to be quite content to do her own work. It was only after a moment, peering through haze and listening, that he forged ahead toward the next orc he could find.

As it turned out, it was the snake tongue, and that was probably the tusker he was most happy to see -- long ears and sharp eyes in this foggy haze were the best possible defense. "We've got a damned golem and tuskers scattered all over fighting the bunnies. We need to find the mage and end him before he ends us. Any idea which way?"

"Kill the Mage." was all Lontok could think about since Eyedrinker made his decree. As he saddled up on Smiler again, and prepped himself and the beast in all the fittings of war, "Kill the Mage." rang through his mind. The armored skullcap didn't lessen the taunting as he threw it on, nor did the snug pull of the leather tunic, gauntlets, and boots. There was a quick glint has his large dagger found its home on his thigh, bound by leather straps, and an even more sinister glare as Lontok thought of the things he would do to a sorcerer if given the chance. He had many puckered wounds that never seemed to heal completely from those noxious potions and malicious spells that haunted his youth as a slave. The damned Drow loved to practice darker arts on their slaves, and Lontok had not been exempt. He still had images of young 'converts' slinging mumbled hexes and garbled wards across the grounds of the compound. Of course Lontok had been collared and chained in iron to a boulder as to dissuade any attempts to avoid the target practice. The apprentice who came up with the blasted idea had been one of the first to have his throat slit when Lontoks escape came. It didn't do well to dwell on bad memeries and harsh feelings, least said hummie lore. Lontok just spat and launched into the low haunch of the warg as he and the Chosen set out to battle.

The fog was unnatural. brought on by dark arts. Lontok could tell as much, and his nose knew that the haze hid bloodshed too. There would be death today, and the Captain wished for it to be the Mages. His grip on his bow tightened as he felt rumblings of what he thought to be carvery or siege equipment passing by. His eyes nearly fell out of his head when a dark shadow loomed out of the mist and sent Koloch flying. No, that was not band of horses or battering ram; it was a cursed mountain! His warg barked and lunged under the arc of the flying Rosie(Lontok might have even been able to grab him, but it'd have been folly at his trajectory.) and dove under the large gait of the golem leaving the rider, Lontok, to quickly smash himself into wargfur to avoid clipping the behemoth. Speaking of behemoths, as Lontok rose up with arrow strung ready to fire, he had to realizations. One; firing arrows at a stone golem was akin to firing volleys at a mountain. Two: Ushgar(who Lontok already thought was unnaturally spawned) had decided to fist right said mountain. He could only cock an eyebrow in confusion at these circumstances before his friend Ushgar's heel came swinging around to hit him square in the temple as the golem attempted to throw his assaulter off. Lontok went to sleep faster than he would have with a belly of spirits and a bed of whores. The cap went flying, as did Lontok from the saddle as he landed in a heap away from the golem's shadow. Smiler, his warg, circled around, attacking an Achnal spearman that went after the dismounted archer.

The kick might have knocked him out, but landing square on his face sure did wake him back up. His tusks plowed up fresh earth as he swung his head furiously trying to catch his bearings. He could find his bow until he jumped up and fell back down with it twanging across his ankles. Smiler growled and jumped past a still confused Lontok to a hummie that bared an axe. The splash of blood missed the Captain but reminded him he needed to take action. Sharp orc eyes scanned the battlefield, spotting Ygdri in combat with a group of squishies, and the burgundy glow of Koloch's armor as he fought a very fancy guard of somesort. Why was it not crimson like usual? Did the fall knock his tinker around enough that the enemies had changed? This must be the personal magesguard, or so he thought. The explosion of a fireball in the distanced explained why, as the flash put a strange hue on Rosies armor. Lontok could have swore he saw Derthag in that meteor. No time to worry now as he slapped at his lower back to find quiver and bolt which he strung up swiftly with lethal intent. He was still spitting dirt from his mouth and the grit stung his eyes as he let a shaft loose into an Achnal pikeraider far behind Koloch.

"We've got a damned golem and tuskers scattered all over fighting the bunnies. We need to find the mage and end him before he ends us. Any idea which way?" bellowed the halberd-wielder loud enough to be heard

He threw an arm out pointing in the direction of the pompous mage who stood defiant in his leyline powered rune of protection. It would ward away any physical or magical attack that was sent his way as long as he stayed within the small area. Grim news for tuskers indeed.

"The shebitch wants magesblod! She found it too!" he screeched as he tore and swatted the dirt from his face in annoyance.

Then he stared down at the handful of dirt in a very bemused manner. The spark in his eye could light a candle, but for now it would have to kill a mage.

"Cover me, this just might work!" hollered Lontok as he ran and leaped in a crouch onto Smiler's back, who in turn rose up on her hindquarters in surprise.

At the peak of the warg's stance, one would have seen Lontok in quintessential archery pose, one leg on his mount shoulders standing in the saddle, letting a arrow fly straight toward the mage. Unbeknownst to the mage, this big orc bolt carried with it a secret. It was covered in the very dirt Lontok had fallen in, and in that moment of clarity/head trauma, he had a epiphany. The flashback of memories watching learning mages pelt each other with dirtballs, the native earth being magically inert to any protective ward or spells due to the leylines it hailed from. It also worked well for arrows too, and the fact that arrow came from a burly orc longbow only made the package even more deadly for the mage.

Things had gone from good to crappy in a rather wild swing as Ygdri was left staring down some rather unfavourable odds. She had failed to outright kill the mage, and now she had both him and the swordsman to deal with at the same time. She might have been worried if she wasn't so high on adrenaline, and she pretty much ignored all of the pompous mage's words...except his remark about her being a 'Small orc-girl.' She muttered under her breath as she tried keeping an eye on the swordsman who, even now, attempted to circle around the shield-maiden. "I'll enjoy collecting your teeth, mage." The words were spat out, barely contained venom in her voice as she tried to conjure up a plan or two.

The Mage seemed to have his own plans though. Ygdri’s thought process had to change as the fucker raised a rod of overcompensation and pointed it at the doctor. She grinned as she saw an opportunity and waited for the man to fire whatever magic he had stored in the tip of the rod, just waiting to blow its load. Gritting her teeth, Ygdri had to quickly plan for a way to encompass every single possibility that might come from the Mage’s attack. Thankfully, she had an answer.

She had to be swift for her plan to work, and if it went wrong, she’d be dead. Probably a good thing she didn’t plan to do it wrong then, wasn’t it? She knocked aside one of the swordsman’s slashes as he tried to take off her head again. She’d intended to dispatch him before, but she’d been keeping an eye on the mage. Now, her diligence could pay off. She hadn’t drawn her own axe yet, having thrown the dead man’s weapon as opposed to her own before. Instead, she’d just have to dispatch of the swordsman without a blade.

She kept one eye on the mage at all times, and when she saw what she assumed to be some sort of energy in the dragon shaped-rod’s mouth, Ygdri set her first plan into motion. The Orc surged towards the swordsman and slammed his sword out of the way once again. She then pushed on until she was as close as possible to the human, before slamming her forehead into the bridge of his nose. A loud, satisfying ‘crack’ sound let her know she’d snapped the bone. The human now dazed was shoved in front of Ygdri and in between the mage and the medicine maiden.

She didn’t see what came next: but she felt it. A heat unlike anything she’d felt before slammed against the swordsman and tickled at her green flesh past her meaty shield. The rod was spitting an intense heat and Ygdri couldn’t even imagine how much it probably hurt the dazed swordsman. He only screamed for a couple seconds though: a piercing death-cry that would permeate through the fog and overshadow all others.

When the heat stopped tickling her skin, Ygdri threw aside the charred corpse and looked at the wizard. He was tossing the flaming rod aside for some reason, maybe he’d gone and emptied it already. Either way, Ygdri was not gunna let the opportunity escape her. She had thought of something while hiding behind her human shield, and that would probably have to be enough.

She surged forward now, shield raised as she fished inside the pouches attached to the inside of her shield, pulling out a flask, filled with a green ichor of sorts. The plan was equal measures simple and genius; a combination Ygdri had always found the most successful. She’d observed a few things thus far: Weapons didn’t go through some sort of shield he had up, at least nothing as solid as an axe; she’d also found out that things like fire could; and it probably had something to do with the rune-thingee on the ground. That meant her best bet was to either figure out what went through the circle of bunny-letters or make him go through it.

She kept moving forward until she was only a few feet away before uncorking the green flask and lobbing the contents inside towards the mage’s face. Inside was a corrosive acid, but most importantly, it was something that stunk like a combination of warg vomit and horse shit that had fermented in some rancid ass. If the acid didn’t hit him, the stench would.

At the same time as Ygdri lobbed the flask, she saw Lontok leaping through the air towards the mage. She wanted to shout out a warning to him, but elected not to. The pig-fucker was probably going to end up finishing her kill, or he was at least going to provide a nice distraction. Worst comes to worse, he’ll slam into the magic shield and she’ll reset whatever bone he breaks after the company killed the mage.

There was no hesitation though. No fear...The mage would die, and she hoped she got the opportunity to make it slow.

As Orthaug leaped into the air with his warg into the stone giant's back, Ushgar administered the last blow to the golem's left shin before shattering it to pieces. Sidestepping to the left, he barely evaded the falling construct due to the force of Orthaug's impact changing the direction in which the golem was collapsing. The ground was imprinted with its shape, raising dust and ash left by the battle. Orthaug and his Zasha jumped off its back before the golem planted itself face first into the dirt and continued to circle around it. Unfortunately, a creature that does not feel pain in the classic sense of the word cares not for such setbacks. Even lacking half a leg did not diminish its willingness to crush meat and bone. The golem readjusted its arms and began to lift its massive stone body from the shallow crater it made.

Noticing this, Ushgar jumped onto its back, sending the now filthy statue back to hugging the ground with his full weight and he continued jumping, thus making a quite serious situation somewhat funny to observe in a dwarven kind of way. With the battle haze lifting from his mind, Ushgar finally noticed that his allies were fighting around him and that he received quite a beating from the walking boulder that was now under his feet, trying to get up. With Orthaug being closest to him, the greyish giant barked an order at him in orc tongue.

"Oi! Help the Drillmaster! Leave the pestling this thing to dust to me!"

He did not wait to see if his comrade obeyed before starting to bash the golem with his maul again. Though his blows were not as strong as before, Ushgar guided them all toward his animated opponent's head in attempt to decommission it for good. If the eye caused such an erratic reaction, smashing its head was sure to make it a useless pile of rock again. The golem struggled incessantly to break free, but each hit to the back of its head deterred any progress it may have made. Visible cracks started to show and followed by an orcish roar, the final blow was struck, crushing the head of the magical automaton. All movement ceases at that moment with Ushgar breathing heavily and collapsing on his knees on top of his enemy's pseudo-corpse.

He coughed up some blood, his body remembering that a landslide worth of physical force is bound to leave a mark on the internal organs. Moments like these reminded Ushgar why his dislike of magic sometimes bordered on full-fledged hatred for anything remotely magical. He had always seen mages and wizards and witches as a kind of cheaters, the ones that cheat at life. As far as he knew, the power they wielded never come from within themselves, but always from some pact with spirits both benevolent and malevolent, outsiders or even unspeakable forgotten horrors. But of all spellcasters, he hated the summoners and puppeteers the most as other creatures did their dirty work. He could not fathom how someone could discard their pride as a warrior to allow others to fight his battles. He could not understand how they could not face their fears as he faced them every day with Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi. He may have nearly soiled his armour when he put himself between Koloch and the golem, but he did it anyway. Such mages were worse than cowards. Cowards at least do not pretend. That's why he preferred normal bunnies - that's why no Achnal dared to attack him right now even though he was nearly spent.

Kneeling on the golem's remains, he noticed a glowing fragment of its eye in the rubble and picked it up. Ushgar could swear that someone was still looking at him through it. He guessed it was the mage who controlled the boulder he was on top of. Realising this, Ushgar attempted to speak out in broken human common tongue he started to pick up from Lontok's lengthy monologues.

"Ooman mage. I'z da biggest an' da strongest dere iz. Yer fing'z broke. An' yer dead when I find ya!"

With that said, the champion of the mercenaries crushed the fragment in his hand, turning it into fine dust and scattered it through the fog. He leaned onto his maul and got up to his feet and looked around him until he spotted Koloch fighting off some humans. Thinking that he should help, he began to limp toward the other battle. But, luck was not on his side that day. After the few steps he made from the golem, something struck him in the back with great force, sending him flying across the battlefield. When the orc made contact with land, he rolled several times before stopping. Dazed, he managed to make out what hit him like a group of angry bears.

The golem.

It was not finished yet. It was still combat worthy even if it lacked half a leg and a head, despite all other damage Ushgar inflicted upon it.

"Blood and thunder..." Ushgar muttered, uncertain if even he could take on that thing once more. Even worse, this turn of events now encouraged some of the Achnal warriors to approach the orc menacingly like vultures.

This time, Koloch played the savior; Ushgar drew the attention of warriors and Koloch came in, limping, battered, already done in quite a bit from the fight with the captain of the guards, but he drove in at the first one on the flank of that little grouping and had him on the ground with a gut full of halberd spike before the other bunnies could do anything, roaring a wordless battle cry of blood lust; there was a groan and a spray of blood as he gave the halberd a savage yank that caused a gout of dying blood to spray up from the disemboweled bunny. Koloch was not the most savage orc ever, but he was savage enough -- he had the barbaric instinct of the kill that most orcs did, though the Achnal did as well -- the ingrained tendency to blood lust that often gave them an edge in coming to the fray, often assuming a fight was inevitable.

These were no Achnal, they were civilized warriors, and those often underestimated the killing instinct of the more primitive humans or the orcs in general -- Koloch had that extra momentary edge where others might hesitate or decide where he simply killed or be killed.

Koloch was not the largest orc there, either, but he was prodigious sinew beneath the steel plate, and easily took the blow from some human trying to fend him off with a sword -- a scrape to the pauldron that resounded with a clang that he'd been trained through years of teaching and experience to ignore even as he brought his weapon around for a sweeping counter-stroke that took the opponent's arm off in return.

What Koloch was known and famed for, however, in the company, was not his prowess, though that had him as a part of the Chosen, but his voice -- he was one of the loudest orcs in all of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi and he used it now, "TUSKERS! RIP THAT MAGE'S GUTS OUT; ORTHAUG, USHGAR AND I HAVE THE STONE BEAST!" Humans that didn't speak Orcish would probably mistake it for some sort of battle-cry.