All of you are different. Some of you may be the same race but your people are different. You have endured different things. You have lived in different lands. No matter where you came from, you are seeking a new life for your people. Whoever your leader is, your people follow with loyalty.
Whether you were driven out of your home, or simply seek new lands to call your own, you have all come here without knowing of the others' presence. You must survive.

• Brownskin

• Redskin

• Greenskin

• Blackskin

• Brutes

• High Elves

• Wood Elves

• Dark Elves

• Barrow Elves

• Folk Elves

• Whitebeards

• Ironbeards

• Goldbeards

• Blackbeards

• Redbeards

• Brownbeards

• Longbeards

• Softskins

• Bloodskins

• Stonehides

• Furhides

• Runeskins

• Exile Ogres

• Forest Trolls

• Rock Trolls

• Dark Trolls

• Blood Trolls

• Sand Trolls

• Ice Trolls

• Unchosen

• Greenskins

• Blackskins

• Blueskins

• Commune Goblins

• Hillfoots

• Rockheads

• Bumblerunners

• Kenderkin

• Familtons

It is my preference that you use one of the subraces above, but if none of those suit your fancy then you could do a custom race. Preferably, this would be in the form of creating a new subrace rather than an entirely new and wholly unfamiliar race.

If you are using a custom race, you must go through the additional step of posting your concept on either the OOC or the Discord getting it approved. Only after that may you jump in IC. When pitching your custom race, please specify averages, strengths and weaknesses.

---

You land upon the continent, and decide to settle... (pick a spot, take a screenie and crop it down with a dot or something)

If image is too small, try right-clicking it and opening it on a new page. You should be able to zoom in then.


Choose a color to represent your kingdom. May be any single color. This matters because the settlements I put on the map will have text bordered with the color of your kingdom, so that players and non-players alike can see what settlement belongs to who. You can choose any color, just include it in your post.
Additionally, write the name of your new settlement! You may have written the name of your kingdom, clans, characters, former homeland, etc., but have you thought of a name for your new town?

When the first ship had managed to beach itself against the sandy shore, a great cheer had gone up from not just those on board, but also from other ships that were following behind that could see the promise of a new land before them. The ships themselves were ugly and battered things; They appeared to have been made in haste with limited resources by people who might have had a basic understanding of how to make boats but had clearly never had to contend with the trails of traveling across the open sea before. More then one ship in the ram-shackled fleet that was coming ashore had sunken on the journey, taking many of the souls on board with them despite the efforts of some of the other ships to fish their fellow orcs from the icy ocean waters.

Despite the losses and the hardship through, the orcs themselves were in high spirits. They had done what many had believed to be impossible. The Dark One had long ago segregated his slave and worshiper races into specialized rolls in order to prevent any one race from being able to rebel effectively against him; While orcs could create fishing boats and make shift transports in order to gather food and ferry troops across minor bodies of water like rivers or moats respectively, actual sea faring naval craft and their production was kept in the hands of his branded human cultists. No one believed that an orc could make a ship that could survive three days out in open waters, let alone make an ocean crossing. With the impossible achieved, it was with great pride that the orcs celebrated their arrival in a new land.

Their chosen landing zone had actually been somewhat inland, taking advantage of a series of bays that were open to the sea that offered a landing site that was sheltered from the elements. There was a fresh water river leading into the final bay, with a light splattering of trees to the west and a literal forest to the east and a mountain range to the north that promised sources of metal and ores. Even before the scouts had a chance to go exploring in detail, it was clear to those de-embarking from the ships that this was going to be a wealthy land to call home.

Indeed, once Rukdug the Hunter himself had stepped foot on the new shore, he had commanded the scouts to follow the river north towards the mountains with the intent of finding a location for their people to develop a stronghold they could safely mine resources for, the warchief himself remaining behind to help organize those coming off the ships into groups to transport what few supplies they still had to follow them.

Their new fortress home wasn't going to build itself after all.

Ambiance

Nexonia saw the first rays of dawn shining over the land. With careful fingers she plucked the squirrel and the arrow with which she shot it out of the wood. She then sprung off the tree limb on which she was standing onto one lower down. 10 minutes later the squirrel was toasting on a miniature spit on the forest floor. 10 minutes after that she was chewing on roast squirrel. Her thoughts changed to constructive ones as she headed back to camp.

Time to wake the recruits. She thought.

Coming back to the slowly glowing campfire and the tents she woke each tent by banging on it. Time to rouse. Get up. She blew on her whistle.

She saw the recruits. Some 30 in all. Bleary eyed and yawning. She saw Meekus amongst them and handed him the lower torso of the squirrel for breakfast. Meekus was the son of much vaunted general Meekus of the troll war. Unlike most of the rest he was a Male and had just come out of his fever 5 months ago. Unlike his brother before him, he had survived. This was put down to the fact that hed been born with a cowl, something very auspicious to the midwives and druids. He still carried around with him a wooden box from his fever times. What it did no one knew, but they expected great things from this Meekus the second. And that was why he was here training for the Wardens, protectors of the Wanderer nation, under personal oversight of Pathfinder Nexonia, chief of the tribe.

Actions:

A.) Train Wardens to forage for food.

How this works is it is an improve food action but also increases the self sufficiency of the wardens when in the wild. I.e. they don't suffer such food shortages.

There, on the beaches of these new lands, did the orcs of Bukradul land their boats, weaved together with trees commanded by the shamans who asked for the aid of nature to side with them. It had been months at sea, once they had numbered ten ships, now they only numbered a mere two, with the winds and the rough currents of the seas fighting them at every turn, claiming many for its own maw. The sea had been a foreign enemy to them, a foreign enemy that was quick to fell them when it had the opportunity despite the powerful connection to nature that the orcs had commanded. Yet, now they had escaped its clutches, the two ships beaching themselves and those more capable jumped onto the sands to scout out their landing, moving the start of a forest.

No threats could immediately be seen, giving a breath of relief for these orcs who merely wanted to rest and find some moniker of peace to bless them. Gradually, the women and the children came off of the ship, followed by many of the shamans who began to unravel the twisted trunks of the trees to begin making some rudimentary form of shelter for the entirety of the tribe's survivors. In the bowels of the largest ship, sat the form of Guthug the Damned, his light brown skin hunched over the carcass of deceased boar that had not survived the voyage to the new land.

A shaman approached him from behind, laying an old hand on the shoulder while leaning against his staff. "Grok was a good boar," the shaman commented, allowing a toothy smile to overtake the wrinkled face.

Guthug turned his head but did not look at the old shaman, his gaze moving back to the boar before bringing his arms around the boar and lifting Grok up, cradling it like a newborn. "Grok was the first beast to rally to our cause, and the last to die on this voyage," Guthug said solemnly, turning to finally look back at the shaman, who raised an eyebrow before reeling back and headbutting the grieving chieftain who nearly dropped the corpse of Grok.

"Are you challenging me, Uruk?" Guthug growled moving his hand cover the spot which Uruk had just struck.

Uruk let out a laugh, "No, but I have been called mad! Tell me, Guthug, are you so blind to the other animals that have helped us through this journey?"

Guthug snorted, before answering the shaman, "There are no other animals. They all died."

"Is that so? Then how come you see not the smallest of mice? Perhaps you truly are blind!" Uruk laughed, motioning to a small, brown mouse moving along the intertwined branches of the ship. Scurrying up the gnarled staff that the shaman held before taking the mouse in his hand. "Remember that even the smallest of creatures help. This mouse has brought plenty of seed for us to grow, for even he has more foresight than the mighty Guthug the Damned!"

Guthug huffed before moving past Uruk, continuing to cradle the body of Grok.

"Grok will serve as a friend in your death, unless you decide to push away nature itself that is," Uruk continued before a wall unfurled itself to serve as a window to the orcish people that moved away from the beach, fathers and sons laughing, mothers and daughters playing. The shaman wrapped his arm around the taller orc, speaking again, "Look away from the loss and see what we are gaining! You cannot be such a pragmatist forever!"

Guthug nodded before looking back down to Uruk, "Maybe you are right, Uruk. I have not seen these people this happy since we have left for this new place."

"Go! Go and get some of that happiness, boy!" Uruk laughed, bringing a light smile to the Damned. Though a sudden headbutt swiftly brought that smile down in annoyance, causing to walk away from the mad shaman.

As Guthug hopped off the side of the ship, he walked towards his people, those who noticed him ran up to him with happiness of finally being free of the ocean's embrace. As they saw the body of Grok, however, they were quick to embrace the chieftain and give a swift pet down the snout of the deceased boar, a last sign of comfort for the spirit of the boar before it departed into the heavens. The people helped to dig a grave for the boar, moving on to digging graves for the few animals that they needed not to throw overboard out of fear of rot and evil spirits. It was silent for the most part, as the people grieved with the chieftain before many attempted to bring his mood up through song and dance, and it worked.

They made merry into the night, the shamans calling for them to a swiftly crafted longhouse made from the same trees that had made the ships. The people continued to make merry and Guthug watched them from a dune, a soft smile across his face which grew as a group of children ran up to him.

"Chieftain Guthug," a small girl began, "What are going to call our new home?"

For a moment, Guthug thought to himself, running his hand across the stubble of his chin before he picked up the girl and hoisted her onto his shoulder, laughter following. With a mighty shout and thrust of his hand into the air the chieftain called out the name of their new blessed land, "Sumbad!"

Soon the other orcs began to follow, chanting the name of their new home.

Sumbad! Sumbad! Sumbad!

“Right, issat how you want it, bruv?” Oogor asked and pointed a fat sausage of a finger at the poor excuse for an attempt at a tipi. Rog-mohog thought to himself that the way the sticks were stacked somewhat reminded him of an unlit bonfire. The pelt lazily wrapped around them appeared as though it was meant to keep the sticks nice and cozy, and the half-attempt at tying anything together with sinew was reminiscent of thread’s natural tendency to knot itself together.

Rog-mohog dug two log-like fingers deep into his eyes and let out a groan that could’ve been mistaken for a minor quake. In a voice like grinding stone, he muttered, “No, Oogor… Tha’s not how I wanted it. You bloomin’ thick in the noggin or somefin’? I wanted a house - a house - ‘n all you’s given me’s a lump’a sticks wrapped in a bundle. What’m I gonna do withit, huh?”

Oogor hung his head. “Oi, I worked pretty hard on it, y’know.”

Rog-mohog retracted his leg, skipped once to close in and sent a mighty kick into the stick bundle, sending it straight into the nearby mountain wall and shattering it into splinters. Oogor winced and hunkered down underneath his hands. The chief stomped over and grabbed the shivering male by the messy hair on his scalp. He tugged the whimpering ogre’s face up to his own and gave it a salty scowl.

“You’s gonna make a bigger, better hut for your boss, or I’m gunna smack you so hard you gonna have a twitch, I swear on me dad.”

Oogor nodded desperately. “Sure, sure, sure! Got you covered, bruv! You can trust me!”

“I don’t, you bloomin’ git, so you better make it good.” He let go of the hair and Oogor sprinted over to salvage what he could from the wood piles. Rog-mohog growled to himself and stomped off. A moment’s concentration on thinking about what weapon to beat Oogor with eventually brought him to a cliff overlooking the rest of the camp in the making down below. Herds of animals flocked around the outer rim of the settlement, shepherded by furry giants wielding sharpened sticks. More and more ogres managed to erect decent tents in time, and primitive fences made of bone, grass and wood were slowly being erected around designated animal pens.

“Oi, big boss.”

The voice broke Rog-mohog out of his contemplation and he turned. It was Wololo, the tribe shaman, his crooked stature seemingly caving underneath a huge boar pelt over his shoulders and head. He supported himself on a staff made from the trunk of a sapling oak. Rog-mohog bobbed his head at him. “Wha’chu want, sham?”

“Is almost time for prayin’, boss,” Wololo responded in his feint shadow of a voice. Rog-mohog nodded again and got to his feet with a strained sigh.

“Oight. I’m gunna find a right fine hog. We’re giving to the Boar Spirit today, right?”
Wololo nodded. “‘S right, boss. Boar Spirit needs a toppa’ if he’s gunna keep our pigs fat ‘n cows milky.”

“‘S natural,” Rog-mohog reasoned and descended the mountain. With difficulty, the old, crepid shaman snailed down after him.

The camp seemed to part before the chieftain, many ogres either slinking away sheepishly or standing up to nod or grunt a greeting. Therefore, the stroll to the outer edge of the camp took merely a few minutes. There were three great clans he had to govern - his own, the Pig Clan, the Ox Clan and the Goat Clan. In the Pig Clan, Rog-Mohog did not have the biggest herd - not by a long shot. That honour belonged to his cousin, Crunch the Lad. To say the least, Crunch and Rog-mohog did not get along very well, not even as subject and leader. Since it was prayer day, though, he could not avoid interacting with Crunch to ask him for a donation. Of all the things in this world Rog-mohog did not like, interacting with Crunch was fairly high on the list.

The furry visage of Crunch came into view among the shepherds. The ogre stared Rog-mohog down and the chieftain stared back, sparks igniting between them and scaring the pigs. Crunch stabbed the butt of his stick into the grassy ground and grunted in tow with a few curious pigs.

“Oi, wha’chu think you’re doin’ here, HUUHN?!” Crunch bellowed at the chieftain. Rog-mohog eyed Crunch up and down, then judged the boars trundling around their legs.

“Here to snatch a pig for prayer day.”

Crunch gurgled up a ball of phlegm and spat it at the ground. Sadly, it hit one of his boars and it looked at him, betrayed. The shepherd left the stick standing in the ground and shoved the chieftain aggressively. “Oh no, you’s not! Snatch one of your own, you git! These’re my pigs, got that understood in that thick noggin, huh?!”

Rog-mohog staggered backwards, then snarled and curled up his fists. “Boar Spirit gunna be bloomin’ mad at you if you don’t gimme a pig right this moment.”

“Then he can be mad for all I care. Sod off!”

Rog-mohog roared and sent a stone-like fist straight into Crunch’s jaw. The shepherd had barely any time to react and fell straight to the ground, knocked out cold. The onlookers blinked at the chieftain shaking his aching fist. The boars around them ran in every direction, squealing. Thinking fast, Rog-mohog sprinted for the nearest one and caught it in a hold. He picked it up by one of its hind legs and hauled it over his back. It squealed and kicked, but this was necessary for the good of the tribe.

He turned at eyed the still-unconscious Crunch. A smile spread across the chieftain’s mouth. Boy, did he love being the boss.

Director Glough stood firm and proud before the window of his ship’s bridge, his oversized and silvered mustache waxed to perfection and the slight balding atop his head concealed by that signature red hat of his that the entire party had quickly come to imitate. He was not one for flattery, but he did appreciate uniformity. The Director was a hard man; he was nearing the end of what one could call ‘middle-aged’ and his life’s experiences and a long history of command had left him with little patience for anything short of excellence and disciplined obedience. It was easy to fall in line and not question him, because his voice could (without warning!) go from a gentle and fatherly tone to the booming roar of a drill instructor, and he had an intimidating form to match the sound! He was a towering gnome, just shy of four feet tall.

Even after his fall from grace, a good deal of his party remained loyal and strong. They had failed to petition the king to see reason and deploy the army to displace or exterminate the giant savages that threatened their homeland’s borders, and after that, they had failed to covertly incite war. Now the faction had been proclaimed treasonous, but in the resulting strife and series of high-profile arrests, Glough had managed to escape the king’s clutches relatively unscathed. Blazes, some of the soldiers and police sent to stop him had been party sympathizers that had instead joined his new separatist army. All had expected nothing less than a civil war, but to their surprise, the Director had instead had his private army storm a royal airfield, commandeer the largest airship they could find. The party named it the Red January, after the bloodfilled month in which they’d seized it, and then they proceeded to board Glough and his strongest supporters and venture off into the sunset. Royal loyalists and civilians could only speculate what his motivations were and whether he would ever return from exile.

There was overwhelming blue to be seen all around, like a smothering blanket—the blue of the sky above and around, the blue of the ocean below. They had been flying for a long time, and Glough was growing restless from being stuck on the zeppelin for so long. They all were, but few could hide it as well as him. The Director turned to one of his senior officers. “Delfus, reiterate your proposal statement.”

“...certainly,” one of the gnomes answered. He was confused for a moment, for Glough was not a forgetful gnome and he always paid attention to the details and committed them to memory. But perhaps this was not for the Director’s own benefit; restating the reasons for their departure and the logic behind it would surely raise morale and reassure any wavering officers present.

“Our force projections were clear—we could have inflicted major damage, but ultimately it would have been a losing war to try to face the Royal Army. It will be better by far to establish a stronghold elsewhere, to effectively achieve our goal of self-governance for free whilst allowing us to bide our time, gather our strength, and perhaps later retake the kingdom should such opportunity present itself.”

He paused for breath, then continued, “According to our calculations, the world is a spheroidal object of far larger size than is accounted for in all the maps of the known regions. We are likely to come across entirely new lands as we maintain this latitude, but even if we are met with bad luck or it comes to be that there are no uncharted lands beyond the sea, we should have sufficient supplies to-“

Delfus, easily distracted, turned his gaze toward the distance where a flock of seabirds approached fearlessly. Director Glough clenched his jaw at the nonsensical interruption and almost turned red with rage when all his other staff began to point and clamor about the stupid animals. But then Glough realized the implications, and even his stony face broke and showed the hints of a smile; birds often indicated the presence of a nearby landmass, for they needed to roost and could only range so far—

There was a horrible sound, like the roar of some mythical monster. Metal screamed as it grated and ground upon itself, and then the ship began to lurch. Something had gone horribly wrong with one of the propellors! Unsecured items and careless personnel on deck began to slide. Glough was immediately shouting commands and ordering damage control; to their horror, they realized that one of the accursed birds had flown into a propellor and somehow jammed it. They were losing control! Attempting a landing would have been suicidal, even if they were able to see more than the faintest hint of a distant beach.

The response was quick, just as it had to be. The Director sent in the best and bravest mechanics. Dangling by ropes and harnesses off the side of the leaning deck, they carefully worked to unjam and restart the propellor. They had the spare parts, but it was hard to get down into the damned thing..! One of them jabbed a wrench into the loosened blades and pulled, pulled, using it as a lever to tear the deformed piece free. But he overdid it, and with a gasp he sent the jagged piece of metal flying upward. They all looked up in horror as it punctured the balloon above and they began losing air. Rapidly they had to attempt to patch it. They did so with impressive speed, having been well drilled, but even so the patch wasn’t quite airtight and they all knew it. Their shio was bleeding its lifeblood, and after losinf as much air as they had, they were already being forced to dump huge quantities of ballast just to maintain their altitude.

Another flock of birds approached, heading directly toward the zeppelin. It was a deliberate attack! Sabotage! The Director knew this, for birds were rather small and therefore logic would dictate that they were cunning creatures. It was well known among gnomish scientists that a species’ size and intelligence tend towards an inversely proportional relationship, as a larger being must devote more of its brainpower to mundane things like muscle movement as compared to high order thought. For examples one needed to look no farther than ants, perhaps the most organized and intelligent of all animals, or the gnomish race itself, which the ‘Red Caps’ held to be clearly superior to the barbaric, primitive, violent giants that were all the other breeds of sapients.

In any case, the birds’ small size and demonstrable intelligence made their betrayal and refusal of his ideals (nay, his party’s very life and presence) all the more insulting. The Director ordered his crew to battle stations, then issued the command, “Vaporize them!”

The ray and lightning cannons made short work of those seagulls. The breeze was just right to carry a brief whiff of roasted poultry. But then, the impossible! One of the accursed birds had slipped past all of the weaponfire, and it managed to fly straight into a different propellor...

Over the next day they’d struggled mightily to keep the Red January airborne, but she had sustained fatally targeted injuries that they lacked the means to repair without further supplies and a dedicated hangar, much less while in flight. It was a wonder they kept her as long as they did, but then again, they’d abandoned any semblance of an attempt at navigation. Plains and forest passed by beneath them completely unseen, for they all spent the entirety of their focus on damage control, but even that was not enough. On the second day they finally abandoned hope for the Red January and began evacuation preparations. They crated what provisions and loose equipment they could, and then issued out parachutes to all the crew, but damned there were too many passengers! There weren’t enough parachutes for everyone as well as all of the supply crates, and Glough had half a mind to deny some of the more useless or traumatized gnomes their parachutes in favor of ensuring the cargo crates’ survival instead. But that would have been bad for morale...

It was near an idyllic river and some mountains that they finally jumped overboard. As they slowly drifted down to safety, they observed the Red January make its final descent. The now crewless zeppelin hit the ground and exploded in a huge fireball, as oversized vehicles were wont to do. Director Glough steeled his face in seething rage, while some of his more sentimental party members openly wept.

Well, at least they’d found some land...but now they were trapped, with no way back, no chance to map the area, no infrastructure, and no idea of whether there were any giant savages to be found in this queer land. The stoic and cold Director let his mask crack for just a moment.

The land that they had landed on and decided to settle Riverforge was perfect... maybe even a bit to perfect. The land was untouched, bountiful with food and lumber... and yet, no one else had chosen to settle here. As Rukdug gazed over his new home in the light of dusk, he couldn't help but feel somewhat uneasy about the lack of a prior settlement in what would on the surface appear to be an ideal place to do so.

This wouldn't make him consider relocating somewhere else; Just because another race hadn't decided to take advantage of such a bountiful location wasn't going to frighten him or his people away from what was now rightfully theirs, but he wasn't going to rule out the possibility that there was some danger lurking that they hadn't borne witness to yet. Scouting parties would almost certainly be sent to explore the surrounding area, but first they needed to cement their foothold on the land so that no man or beast would be able to drive them away like they might have done to weaker races.

The first step to securing a new land was rather simple: Establish and fortify a stronghold that would serve as both defensive position and home for the marching force in question. The standard method employed by the Dark One's forces was normally to either claim an old ruined fortress or city that had been abandoned during the ebb and flow of the long war or to claim such a position from an enemy force and making it their own. These methods did have the benefit that it saved a lot of time and resources building such a position from scratch, while also providing some means of shelter and protection from counterattacks during the digging in phase... but that was clearly not an option here.

Stone (ideally enforced with metal) would have been the material of choice for constructing defensive works for the stronghold of Riverforge, but while both would likely be found in the hills and mountains of the area his caution about the dangers this new land might pose warned that it would take far longer then he was comfortable with waiting for the stronghold to be built from the ground up via solid stone. Thankfully, there was a viable alternative within ready reach. Wooden defenses and homes might not have been as solid as stone, but the resource was rich at hand and a wooden wall was better then no wall at all.

There was also the benefit that once they managed to get a lumber yard up and running to supply the foundation of Riverforge, that lumber could also be used in making some fresh, better constructed boats to replace the ram-shackled ones that had managed to survive the ocean crossing and were being used to fish... as well as the creation of wagons to aid in their mining efforts once they got it started. Hell, having some solid supports would make mining a hell of a lot easier in the long run as well.

His mind made up, Rukdug the Hunter turned away from where he had been gazing to go and track down some of his captains. Duties had to be assigned, orders had to be given... Even if it was made of pine, a stronghold required a lot of work to develop. Building a lumber yard and getting it operational would be the first step (with room to allow for expansions to allow the creation of pine tar and possibly turpentine if they could find copper nearby and the trees were right), with the first priority being the creation of a defense wall. After that the lumber could be used for whatever ends were required, but a solid defensive wall that would last long enough to be replaced by proper stonework was the first step.

Nezonya, Nexzoniea, Nexonia!

Nexonia blinked at the realisation that someone was calling her. The pathfinder proverb was true, after spending years in the wild you can't remember your name, but it feels good to be out of the rain. Nexonia had spent 5 years in the wild. That was one more than was needed to qualify her as a veteran Pathfinder. She enjoyed the wild, perhaps more than acting as Pathfinder, but there were people to care for on this Wander.

She was passing two parents trying to restrain their youngest from running into the grassy field. "Leave him be, he'll come in when he's done" she shouted back . Released, the young man ran ,"its so easy a child could do it", "it's so easy a child could do it", "it's so easy a child could do it" he was chanting and then ran and grasping a stick begun writing things in the mud of which only he could understand. Poor poor yougling, struck with the fever. He dared inspiration in her game and, like the lighting must strike ground, too his inspiration must be allowed to strike, lest it build up.

It was early dawn and she came upon the crowd waiting outside the long house made from the largest catamaran. The druids had been quick to set up a garden in between the two upturned hills shielded from the worst of the wind. She had petitioned them to bless this long house and they were taking their sweet time.

After a while the druids came out, led by the most senior. Neave the master druid gave his signal for the other druids to dows the long house with their potions. Each taking more than 8 hours to prepare, and each doing a different part of the ceremony. When they were finished the sacred words were said in old tongue. Just then a sunburst shone golden light onto the long house and the potions shone in the sunlight with a golden glow. The crowd stood in awe, and all of a sudden it was over as quick as it had begun. Neave the druid uttered the last of the holy words in old tongue and turned to leave. Is that it? said Nexonia as they were turning. The druid stopped by the door and held out a hand, a new sprig of leaves was sticking out of the wood. "Give it time" he said in a strong and husky voice.

Meanwhile Hexia the huntress was stalking a Jack rabbit in the foothills. She had 4 already slung round her back making it hard to wield the short bow. The Jack danced it's way up towards the rushing stream passed some rocks and over. Clambering higher still Hexia peered over the rocks. The Jack jumped sailing over a clump. Then Hexia lowered her bow. That was not just a clump! That was a deer. A fresh kill from last night. Whatever killed it had scorged large claw Mark's in its flesh. Hexia could not tell what had killed it but knew others might be able to. Making a quick decision she about turned and made her way down to tell the others of what she had found.

Some of the smaller catamaran had laid anchor by the small natural harbour and a few had stayed aboard to keep ship. Only the largest had been hauled a shore on rollers and made into a long house.

The remaining few were transporting their passengers and belongings to the shore. Cife the magician was supervising his belongings, some covered in ornate fabrics that were part of his show. "Carefull now, that one contains the other half of a woman" he said pointing... it didn't hurt to do some self promoting. Just then he saw hed attracted the gaze of a small youngling waiting with her parents. He bent down on one knee in the stony beach. What's that I see? He reached behind the younglings ear and retrieved a small silvery kipper. Is that yours? The young girl grinned and shook her head. Well you'd better keep it just the same. The youngling took the fish eyes gleaming.

Rog-mohog sat next to a heap of broken sticks open which laid a sad, mouldy cowhide. His unibrow hung low with annoyance over his small eyes and between his underbitten jaws his molars were making quick work of a dry, old slab of yesterday’s pork tah-tah. His teeth struck a particularly stubborn stretch of sinew and the ogre made a dry “pfft” with his lips before collecting the string in a ball of phlegm and spitting it out on the scalp of the knocked-out-cold Oogor lying bloody face down on the ground beside him.

“Y’know,” Rog-mohog mumbled to the unconscious, in-desperate-need-of-medical-aid Oogor, “you make for a terribull bloomin’, wossname, builda’. Don’t botha’ askin’ for your reward, ye git.” He got to his feet, planted an additional kick in the side of Oogor’s bruised rib cage and strolled down towards the village below. He had smelt it in the air: The fires of sacrifice had been lit at the foot of Big Rock. Rog-mohog had an offering to attend to.

The crude altar to the great Boar Spirit already had amassed a great gathering. All three clans were represented - wait, no, only two were. The chieftain stopped midway through the crowd, confusing the others in front of him who were very much used to the familiar sensation of Rog-mohog trampling down the unfortunate in his path. The chieftain squinted his eyes, staring hard out over the crowd and causing several sketchy-looking individuals to dive for cover behind their comrades.

“OI!” the chieftain suddenly boomed, inciting some fearful squeals. “Where’s the bloomin’ Ox clan at?!”

There was a collective shrug. From the altar came a frail voice, “whot he say?!” Rog-mohog turned to look upon the decrepit, feeble form of shaman Wololo whose torso seemed to inch closer to his feet with every passing day. The message was passed on through the crowd towards the elder, then repeated four times next to the elder’s ear before it finally reached its intended audience.

“Ooooooh, the Ox clan!” the shaman Wololo finally said and the crowd sighed in relief. “They’s out lookin’ for more, wossname, oxen.”

Chatter spread through the crowd like wildfire. The chieftain sent it running for the hills with a loud “HUUUUHN?!” followed by: “Why’s they goin’ out now?! Roight before a bloomin’ offerin’?!”

Wololo did his best to shrug. “They boss said they found some cows up norf. Wanted to get’um before they went off.”

Rog-mohog growled a groan and continued through the crowd towards the altar, satisfying the unfortunate before him by ending the uncanny pause in their suffering. Once at the altar, the chieftain beckoned in no particular direction and desperate pig squeals soon drowned out all other sounds. Rog-mohog’s wife, Porky, carried the boar-to-be-offered by one hind leg and handed it to her husband, offering him an airborne ‘mwah~~’ with her free hand. The chieftain took the pig, ignored the kiss and slammed the pig down on the altar with such force that the beast was knocked out cold, and probably severely broken. He then deposited it on the altar and nodded at the shaman. Wololo feebly nodded back and turned towards the altar with the revolution speed of the galaxy. He grabbed the shard sacrificial stone and raised it to the sky, shouting:

“OH, GREAT BOAR SPIRIT! We offa’ you this here piggy so that you can eat nice ‘n proppa’ and make sure we do it too. That a deal?!”

Wololo then poked feebly at the boarskin before an assistant came over and helped him cut into the heart. There was a pause, one in which most of the ogres liked to believe the spirit was answering the shaman in his mind or something similar. Statistically speaking, however, there was always those among them that was convinced the whole spirit shebang was just a scam to get them to give up a hog once a month. However, ever since Ub-lub the Herritik had invited the chieftains of old to a civilised debate about the flaws in their religion (chief among which was that they offered boar meat to a boar god), and subsequently met the convincing counter-argument known as “fyst, club ‘n deff”, few dared speak up about the matter. After enough time had passed, the shaman took another afternoon to turn back to the chieftain and offer him a toothless smile.

“The Boar Spirit’s happy to help,” the shaman Wololo assured. The chieftain nodded.

“Roight, what’s it told to do?”

The shaman tugged at the boar’s bloody heart inside the bloody carcass, and the assistant once more dutifully helped the elder out by ripping the heart out, cutting it into neat little pieces and offering them to Wololo. The elder took one and put it in his mouth. It was not as dramatic as the method of his youth, where every offering had been a tutorial in how to butcher one’s enemies in the most brutal of ways, but modern problems required modern solutions. He did his best to chew the meat to get all of that sweet spiritual knowledge out of it, but his dry gums would have more luck piercing stone than to chew apart raw, gooey boar meat. Eventually, he just swallowed and hummed fraily.

“I fhink…” he started. The ogres leaned in to listen. “I fhink the Boar Spirit wants us to build better pens for ‘um.”

Porky peeked out from behind Rog-mohog. “Whot pens?”

“‘Xactly,” Wololo confirmed.

Rog-mohog knew not to ignore the spirits’ commands - doing so wasn’t very smart, and it was a known truth among ogrekind that they weren’t particularly smart, or at least, they weren’t the smartest. So humble were they that they understood this - truly, they did. They were pretty high up there, naturally, but even ogres had to draw the line somewhere. Rog-mohog understood this perhaps best of all - that’s what made him the smartest.

Naturally, therefore, the only smart thing to do was to do as the Boar Spirit said!

“We build pens, then,” the chieftain commanded to the sound of a collective groan from the crowds.

“Why’s we gotta do thaaaaat?!” came a complaint from the back.

“Worked all week on me hut, I did, ‘n now we’s gotta made pens ‘n boggers,” came another.

“We get free lunch, roight?”

Rog-mohog growled and the complaints quieted down. When it came to ruling ogres, the general rule was that strength was the key to power, and strength comes in many shapes and forms. It wasn’t that Rog-mohog was particularly mighty; plenty of ogres outsized and outweighed him. Rog-mohog wasn’t necessarily particularly wealthy, either; he had a number of boars, yes, but his herd size paled in comparison to ogres like Crunch.

No, what Rog-mohog had in terms of legitimacy was a mind like his father’s. Therefore, none dared oppose him. Most ogres knew to punch and kick, but someone titled ‘the Brainy’ was bound to know a third attack - and who could defend against such a secret technique?

So sure, infighting was certainly common in the tribe, but only a small, teeny, tiny minority dared directly speak threats and challenge the big boss himself. Rog-mohog knew this well, and milked it for all it was worth.

“To answer all your queshuns,” the chieftain started and walked over to the first who had complained. It was a lady, from the goat clan judging from the sour stink of old milk and the horned ram skull dangling from a dry sinew necklace about her neck. She was a head taller than him, but shrunk to half the chieftain’s size as he approached. Rog-mohog stared her a few feet further down. Then, he grabbed her by the thick fur around her neck, destabilised her and used her own weight to toss her over his leg, sending her tumbling into a nearby tent, bowling down six others in the process. The chieftain kicked a cloud of dust in her direction and spat, “GET TO BLOOMIN’ WORK, YE LAZY GITS!”

None dared speak up, for the chieftain’s word formed a lid on the conversation so heavy that ‘up’ became a fictional direction. With hung heads, the ogres began to gather bone, sticks, tall grass, rocks - whatever could be used to made fences and walls. They begun to dig away at the surface of the steppe around their camp with some aid from the shovel-nosed pigs - it was necessary to keep sufficient mud for the pigs to wallow in when it got hot. Ogres went over to the nearby brooke running down the mountainside, gathered water in their hands, lost half of it on the way back, and dropped it on the exposed clay to create mud. They stomped and trampled the wet mix, and the boars rolled around in ecstacy.

The fences themselves were of shoddy quality, however, and even blind pigs could easily escape them. As it turned out, half the workforce had abandoned the project before it even started, leaving the other half to start it alone, which subsequently caused another quarter to leave out of sheer belief that their dwindled number would never ever finish the project - ever. Now Rog-mohog was annoyed - angry, even - and rounded up all the workers again. This next time, however, he divided them into work teams and gave one on each team a club each.

“Roight,” he told the clubbers as they admired their crude weapons. “I’s gunna give you a job now, aight. When the others start workin, you-- Crumpus, Crumpus! Pay attenshun!”

The ogre known as Crumpus stopped watching the neat little dung beetles on the ground and stood back up. “Sorry.”

The chieftain sighed. “Roight! When others start workin’, you keep an eye on ‘um. If they stop workin’, you smack ‘um ‘ard ‘n good. Got it?”

The ogres exchanged malicious grins and patted their palms with their clubs. The chieftain nodded in approval. “Good. You’s my taskmasters - someone do somefin’ bad at work, you smack ‘em ‘ard so they don’t do it again.”

“Roight!” the taskmasters yelled and stormed off towards the pens-in-production. Rog-mohog watched them with pride in his chest, then light disappointment as one of them already begun to hammer away at someone who actually had been doing their job, only that the job consisted of sitting still to tie sinews to the bone fences.

Oh, well, at least the work was moving along smoothly.

The tribe was busy, their makeshift huts sprawling across the landscape in a shanty, disorganized fashion as the sun dawned over an already awakened and contemplating Guthug. It was clear that they could sustain themselves on the food they hunted, but for how long was a question that he did not have the answer for, especially if the tribe was to grow into this rough land. As he leaned to pick up a rock, Guthug inspected it before the sunrise brought light into his eyes, the chieftain tossed the rock up, allowing to fall back down and land in his hand before repeating the process of tossing and catching. The shamans had told him that they needed to connect with the local nature in order to thrive, in order for the gods to grace them with bountiful hunts and harvest, should they find somewhere to plant crop in the rocky place they now called home.

Guthug grunted as he crushed the pebble in his hand, after a moment the leader waited for the wind the grace him with a touch before throwing the remnants of the rock into the air.

"Akrosh guide me," he said as the debris took flight, moving inland and towards the great beasts that feasted on the land and the carnivores that hunted them. Guthug could only once more think to himself before he made his way back to his own hut, gathering a spear made of wood and stone, along with a horn to summon the shamans to his aid. With his supplies gathered, Guthug made his way to the edge of the tribe's outskirts and blew into the horn, its deep and booming sound moving across the land and the tribe to summon those elder shamans to his location. While he waited, Guthug stabbed the spear into the ground and knelt before it allowing himself to think more on what task he wished to chase and which animal the tribe would first associate itself with. This was no easy matter to decide as whichever animal they chose would grant them only a specific boon from the gods that they wished to commune with.

The mighty wolf, the first choice and the first tamed by Akrosh, it was these mighty beasts that allowed the ancestors to thrive and learn that working as one, as a pack, meant success. It was the wolf that loyally served, the wolf that die for its kin, the wolf that was the hallmark of a leader as an alpha to guide the tribe down a righteous path. Guthug knew Akrosh would approve of this choice, but with all the versatility and power that the wolf had made it arrogant, a sin they could not afford to plague themselves with lest they wish to see the ire of the ancestors and the gods. Perhaps one of the other choices would please the ancestors more.

The boar, the second chosen but the last to be tamed by Akrosh, a savage beast that proved to be a threat even to an orc in his prime with tusks easily bigger than their own. They were ruthless, powerful, and ever vigilant on what it would next eat, whether that choice be a natural found herb or a carcass that it sought a right to devour. Their tenacity would prove to show the tribe's will to survive in any place they set their mind to, willing to do what they must to survive and to defend itself from whatever is a threat. However, the boar was aggressive and dangerous, it would drive away potential animals to be tamed and brought into the tribal fold and it would make any native tribe more cautious and skeptical of their intentions in this new land. Then the last choice.

The graceful and cunning hawk, the third to be tamed by Akrosh but the first chosen by both Orzg and Mork, able to spot potential prey and able to grasp a potential meal with talons of iron. It would be the hawk that would think and strike without even being seen by its prey, able to out think even the wolf and match the tenacity of the boar should it be desperate. Their meaning to the tribe would be one based on traps and to travel great distances, nothing would stop them from taking flight. However, the hawk distanced itself and made it unknown to those who sought to befriend it, it would make the tribe more cautious and more skeptical of even the best of omens. No doubt, it would make the orcs seem strange and wild to even the noblest of people.

Guthug could smell the burning of herbs, the shamans had arrived.

"Guthug the Damned, what have you summoned we few for?" a shaman spoke.

"I seek to invoke the Rite of the Land so that I may bring the first beast to us, to define our path so long as I may live," Guthug answered, his voice stern and his knelt form unmoving. He knew that a crowd had gathered, voices whispered behind the shamans as the placed the burning herbs behind the chieftain before pushing the staffs into the back of him.

"The Rite of the Land may only be invoked once, the beast you chose will be the mark of the Bukradul for as long as you shall live. But the gods must know the choice you make so that they may bestow the proper blessing onto us," the shamans said in unison.

Guthug moved to stand, feeling the staffs being pushed deeper as they urged him to quickly make a choice and end the ritual, but he had hardly the time to deliberate on which animal to chose. The wood bored into him and he remained silent, the people began to speak in their hushed voices as they were curious as to why their leader was taking so long to chose which of the numerous sacred animals. Eventually their whispers began to grow, talk and then a debate. After another moment, Guthug raised his hands into the air, silencing the crowd before he spoke, "I chose the elk!"

The shamans retracted their staffs.

"The Second Chosen and tamed by Akrosh, for its power and strength through times of trial, as well as the protection of a herd," Guthug continued, retrieving his spear form the ground.

"The let it be known, Guthug the Damned, that you have chosen the graceful and noble elk. You may not return to the tribe until you have tamed a mighty stag while wearing the skin of one of its herd. Let Akrosh guide your hand, and may your hunt bear bountiful harvest." The shamans said in unison, allowing the chieftain to sprint into the wilderness to claim the herd as his own.

"Admiral!" Forthwine turned. The sky was dark, the waves grey with ash. Occasionally a burst of solar sorcery or the flash of a ship's battery illuminated the wasted hellscape. Dozens of vessels were locked in grim, desperate combat. It was difficult to tell who belonged to which side, or indeed, if any sides were to be had. Armored warriors and otherworldly creatures swarmed the decks and rigging. Behind this bleak tapestry, Thronehold burned. "Admiral!" He kept turning. He felt drunk. In one fist was a saber drenched in blood. In the other was the standard of Empire, somewhat diminished as its holdings rose up in open defiance of the Crown. Standing at the bow of his flagship was his wife. What? That was impossible. Beatan should be safe at home in their country estate, far from the fighting. Flag and blade dropped to the deck. He reached out his hand... "ADMIRAL!!!" His eyes opened.

Forthwine Bannammar listened to the sounds of Brightwater. The river rushed past, ropes creaked, cookfires crackled. With the ease of long practice, he rolled out of his hammock, bare feet landing on dry rushes. The hammocks were one of the few things they'd been able to salvage from their ships. Most of the settlers had taken to regular sleeping bags or bedrolls. But Forthwine had practically grown up being swayed to sleep in a hammock. Even if there was no gently moving deck beneath him. Standing nearby was Thatlas, his first mate. Former first mate? A spare man, lean, bald and bony, his face a gruesome map of pockmarks, burns, and other old scars. Normally stoic, he looked concerned.

"You spoke in your sleep, sir," he said, blunt as always. Forthwine moved slowly over to a basin of water and began his morning toilet, saying nothing. Thatlas hesitated, watching his captain. His Lord-Protector. Forthwine washed, shaved, and brushed his hair and beard with the meager supplies available, and then dressed in hose, tunic, and jerkin. After a moment, Thatlas moved to help him pull on and lace his knee-length boots and buckle on his sword belt. The sword was unfamiliar to Forthwine, awkward in his hand. A heavy cutlass, taken off some corsair on the Sorrows. His own saber had been lost at Crown Bay. His eyes were distant, remembering...

"The rest of the council has been waiting. Your overslept." Short, to the point of being a trifle rude. Forthwine glanced over with some concern. He was no longer a young man, his auburn beard and shaggy mane of hair going grey at the ends. His face was worn and tanned, lines of worry and doubt creasing his broad forehead and square jaw. Grey-blue eyes surveyed their surroundings with calm determination. "Have a care, Thatlas," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "It will not do for the people to hear you address me thus." Thatlas rolled his eyes in response, leading the way. They wove through the muddy lanes and alleys of Brightwater. The buildings were for the most part assembled from the broken down ships of the refugee fleet, though by time and necessity, local timber and stone had been slowly added to the construction. Canvas served as awning, ship's rigging for clotheslines, windows from captains' quarters decorating their one chapel. Children ran past or squatted in the mud. Mothers quickly pulled them aside, curtsying as the Lord-Protector strode past, their eyes turned down. In fear. Shame. Guilt. Hope.

Forthwine and Thatlas entered a pavilion sewn from canvas and old battle-standards, a confusing fusion of vivid iconography and drab practicality. Inside was the rest of Forthwine's "council." Loegaire slumped by the entrance, sweating through his heavy yellow and red robes. He mopped a ragged kerchief against his gleaming pate, watery eyes flicking across the tent's occupants. Old Sir Chann de Stroy stood rigidly to attention opposite from him, torn surcoat over rusty mail. His long mustaches drooped over a face as solemn as a basset hound's. Seated at the camp table were a man and woman, as opposite as night and day. One had once been immensely fat, but the long voyage had been particularly hard on him. Now his skin hung from his frame in loose folds, his eyes were great yellowed disks above black bags, and his hands never seemed to stop shaking slightly. But he was kind, and wise, always with a smile and a treat or a toy for the children. Opposite him was a woman shaped like a steel cord, her hair cropped short like a boy's. She was all hard edges and sharp looks, her one eye dark and untrusting; the other was covered by a simple leather patch.

"Denys. Mallory." They began to rise, Denys with stiff jerks and quiet grunts, Mallory almost before Forthwine had finished speaking. "Be seated, I bid you," he said gruffly. Denys relaxed with a relieved sigh, Mallory eased back in to the camp chair in a stiff, awkward position. The Lord-Protector stood at the head of the table, arms folded before him. "My wise councilors and trusted companions. I have assembled you, the best that Brightland has to offer--" (There was a muffled snort from Thatlas) "--in this, our most dire hour. Few of us yet remain, here, on the edge of the world. But Aureth provides." "Aureth provides," the assemble echoed, to varying degrees of enthusiasm and piety. "By the Grace of the Goddess, much work is ahead of us." He gestured to Thatlas, who reluctantly stepped forward. He spread out a crude blueprint on the table.

"Here, and here, is where we'll begin the digging..." Thatlas muttered, pointing at various points up and down the river. "The dam'll go down upstream, above the bend. This local wood's not as sturdy as what we're used to, but it's more flexible. We've not found anything close to yew, but..." Mallory nodded, her face guarded. "Those curious deer might provide useful material for recurve bows. In time. And those horses are some of the finest stock I've ever seen. We'll have knights in a generation, Goddess willing." Chann shook his head, slowly, sadly. "Fine horses do nay make knights. Courage, loyalty, a noble heart..." That, and mail, swords, and lances. Which we are low on as well, to be sure. Forthwine turned his head, eyeing Loegaire and Denys. "Something troubles you, my lords?" The priest wrung his hands. "Are food stores are critical, your grace. Many will starve if these plans are not completed before the harvest..." Forthwine nodded, his mouth set in a sad line, but his words were harsh. "There are berries, birds, and rodents. Let them bring slings and snares to the fields. If the work is not complete, we will all starve come the next few years."

Denys and Loegaire shared a look, but did not argue. Thatlas nodded, as if that settled the matter, and rolled up the charts. "I'll assign a work detail, yer lordship," he said, with begrudging courtesy, and then hurried away. Mallory followed like a shadow, not meeting the Lord-Protector's gaze. Forthwine watched them go, wondering if he was making the right decision. Only the Goddess could tell him, and she wasn't talking. Had Aureth finally forsaken her chosen people?

Thatlas, who was the council's "Steward", set about his assignment swiftly. He gathered as many able-bodied workers as the settlement could spare and set them to the task of digging irrigation ditches and channels from the river in to the fields, where a vast network of farms would be plowed and tilled for the generations to come. Upstream, the river would be partially dammed, to begin creating a reservoir for fish and a floodplain to further nourish the farmland. The dam would also serve as a mighty bridge, in time, but such a construction could take years to fully complete; the irrigation ditches were the primary concern. To feed the workers and the rest of the works in the meantime, foraging parties were sent out with sacks, slings, and crude traps. They avoided the savanna for the most part, sticking to the more gentle plains in search of berries, rabbits, and the like.

There was a flash, a deafening boom, and then a wave of heat. They struck Glough in that order, and for a few moments the cherry-red flames of that explosion (which had been far too close for comfort!) consumed the small shadow that the gnome’s similarly diminutive form had been casting in the evening sun. But the plan had worked!

From out of the trees-turned-splinters there flew dozens of birds, some in the form of pulverized and burnt meat, others as smoking corpses propelled by the blast, and a lucky few as panicked survivors flapping away as best they could after being disorientated by the sudden explosion of their wretched homes and all their vile co-conspirators.

Glough suppressed a chuckle as he took aim with a pneumatic rifle and fired; hilarious as it was to think of the imminent doom of his enemies, laughter was known to cause shaking of the hands and reduce weapon accuracy by approximately 23.33 (repeating, of course) percent, an empirical figure that the Royal Army had invested many studies and a substantial amount of tax dollars in order to derive. Now it was military doctrine!

As Director Glough pulled the trigger, cartridge of compressed air was breached and the pressure used to propel a dart; the tiny projectile was nonetheless deadly, as one of the fleeing birds found out. Other gnomish rifleman had taken up position around the grove of trees and similarly fired. They quickly reloaded and fired again, exterminating and driving off the last of the surviving birds that had been lurking in that cluster of trees.

“Delfus, prepare for the next assault. We press the attack until dusk!” the Director proclaimed, much to the dismay of a rather nervous officer.

“Director, I’m afraid that er, won’t be possible-“

Glough stormed over to his subordinate before he could get out another word, and then he roared, spittle flying from his mouth, “WHAT?!”

Delfus took a moment to breathe in and steady himself, for he was a senior officer and important party member, not some stammering fool. He stood in the position of attention and reported, “That was the last of the blasting powder and air cartridges. No more have been recovered, and we think very little of the arsenal was ever successfully jettisoned and parachuted, making further search efforts unlikely to bear any metaphorical fruits of the sweet sort!”

Glough burled his fists as his face changed in color to match his iconic hat. “Have the engineers improvise some weapons in the meantime,” he ordered. “We’re going to continue extermination efforts. We shall not rest so long as enemy saboteurs stalk these woods and mountains! This may be a wretched wasteland, but it’s my, I mean our wretched wasteland and temporary home, so we’re going to pry it out of the cold and dead beaks of every last evil bird...”

The Director’s ravings continued for some time, circling round and round to his newfound irrational hatred for the birds. Delfus, for his part, was hardly listening. Instead he was wondering how he would continue spinning this to make the plan sound sane. To detonate those dozen barrels of blasting powder beneath a couple of trees and then exhaust every bit of precious cartridges that remained for their pneumatic weapons? Just routine quality assurance checks, of course. Killing all the birds? Just hunting to brush up on the food stores. But how would he justify killing all of the birds in ten miles?

Pah, that was a problem for tomorrow. More immediate was the concern of how they’d “improvise” to continue the Director’s plans and meet the daily
bird-kill quota that he’d imposed upon the party. Delfus endeavored to delegate that problem unto Engineer Bronzeburn. If anybody could do it, it would be him because his unorthodox thinking and penchant for using odd materials in his inventions had already left the gnome branded a madman. But that was just as well, because surely that meant that he would be able to create some sort of deadly contraption out of the available materials, there was plenty of twigs and grass and bird corpses to work with. If the mad genius could make something work, he stood to rise quite high in the party’s ranks.

And then of course, Delfus had to keep track of the ongoing efforts to rally any remaining stragglers, and further establish the base camp here at the crash site, and salvage whatever could be found amidst the Red January’s horrid wreckage...there was also the manner of the strange report of something having been seem watching them. Glough himself claimed to have seen it, but so worried was he about the birds’ presence that he’d not bothered to worry much.

Other/Explore

Vas-Ramman smiled as a kneeling young follower delivered the news. To hunt slaves and beasts was a fine passtime, to hunt the exotic was an opportunity that could not be passed up. He was a rough, broad and powerful elf, come on the expedition to bring honor and glory to his family and himself through feat of arms. Let Mondros and his lessers handle the dull work in the outpost. "Shamesh, gather the men. We're going on a hunt!". The follower rose and left without a word and the camp soon came to life with slaves and retainers hurrying to fulfil their master's wishes. They were headed to discover the source of the tracks that had been found and intent on bringing back game. Perhaps they'd get a better understanding of their surroundings in the process.

A mysterious ruined fortress dug into a mountainside in a bountiful land, long abandoned and sealed from the outside with no other signs of life around it. Truly a great mystery.

Rukdug hated mysteries. Mysteries got people killed.

He trusted Gorkun's report, but viably it painted two scenarios in his mind about what had happened. Either an invading force had come and sealed off the gates of the fortress to trap whomever was inside in there and then buggered off without bothering to wait around and claim the fortress for themselves once their enemies were either softened up or dead... or the fortress was sealed by its owners to contain something that they couldn't take head on, be it an enemy, illness or some vile curse without counter.

He had heard war stories of orcish bands either invading an abandoned dwarven mine or digging a bit to deeply themselves and pissing off something big and nasty before...

"Gorkun, gather some more scouts and go and get some of those magical buggers to get off their lazy asses to go with you back to those ruins. I don't want you going into them, but I want you to see if you can work out what they originally belonged to and if there is any evidence as to why it was abandoned and sealed up on the outside. Have whatever warlock or shaman you grab see if they can detect any nasty magic in the area as well... Last thing we need right now is to unseal the gate to discover that anyone who crosses the threshold has their skin melt off."

......................................................

With the lumber yard set up and progress beginning at the relatively slow pace that all such industries started off at as local resources were collected and inspected, methods of treating the wood were developed and the means of efficiency to improve both the collecting and treating portions were yet to be developed, the next step was several steps that ended up where they wanted to be; The first was to construct carts and barrows to allow an easier time moving timber and other resources around, followed shortly by the development of Riverforge itself.

The first defensive wall would be the primary goal, but resources could be diverted to aid in the construction of the buildings where they were going to live. Personally he would have preferred stone for both projects, but wood and sod were hardy materials in their own rights. Granted the buildings they were going to be making out of them were little more then minor alterations on the standard military barrack buildings that popped up once the armies of the Dark One had really dug themselves into an area and thus would provide little in the way of personal privacy, it would serve the families who claimed them just fine.

It was the middle of the day. The wealthiest and stronger of every clan, the shaman and the chieftain formed a tense pentagram in the scarce hills grass next to the sorry excuse for a chieftain’s hut. They sat in glaring suspiciously at one another, the chieftain’s eyes scanning the porky face of Crunch of the Pig Tribe, the goat skull atop Snaglag of the Goat Tribe’s head; the bull horn in Lop of the Ox Tribe’s nose; and the thousand wrinkles covering the face of Wololo. In the centre of the shape laid the odd stick of wood and metal. Rog-mohog gave that thing an especially suspicious glare.

A whole day had passed since Goop the scout had brought the stick. Since then, rumours had spread throughout the camp, and Rog-mohog hated rumours. It wasn’t because they could eventually undermine his rule or cause a panic, no, no - when rumours spread throughout the camp, they created factions, factions who were so darn sure their version of the rumour was the right one, and whenever two factions collided, a section of the camp would usually be leveled from the following brawl.

Feeling that they had all been glaring enough, Rog-mohog slapped his thigh and said, “Roight! Are yuh’all ready?”

Click, click, click...

“Roight… First fhing on the agenduh…”

... Click, click, click… Heh, heh, ehehehe.

“... Is…”

... Click, click… Eheheheheheh…

“Snaglag, ye git, put the bloomin’ stick down!”

The ogress immediately dropped the stick back into the circle and twiddled her thumbs innocently. “Sorry.”

The chieftain growled quietly. “...Roight, as I was sayin’... First fhingy on the agenduh is--”

“Whassat?” Lop asked.

“Wha’s whot?”

“Agenduh.”

“Yeah, I dunno either,” Crunch backed up in a surly manner.

Rog-mohog rubbed his eyes. “Is a list of fhings to do.”

“Oh. Roight, why didn’ ye just say that, boss?” Lop complained. Wololo hummed a tune to himself, and it was uncertain whether he truly was mentally present. Rog-mohog picked up a nearby rock and lobbed it at Lop’s head. The giant fell backwards and smacked into the ground. Rog-mohog patted his hands.

“ROIGHT! First fhingy on--”

“OW! Tha’ hurt, ye git!”

“Lop, I swear t’ tha’ Anceste’ Spirit…”

“Ye wanna foight, HUHN?! I’ll smack ye shoit, I swear on me mum!”

“Did someone say foight?!” Crunch thundered gleefully.

“THE BLOOMIN’ STICK, YE GITS!” Rog-mohog thundered back and there was a silence. Lop and Crunch both looked down at the stick.

“We foightin’ the stick?” Lop asked.

Rog-mohog smacked his forehead so hard the others thought he was going to pass out. “NO, YE BLOOMIN’ GIT! We talkin’ ‘bout the stick! The fhingy that Goop brought in the other day ‘n where in the spirits’ name did it go…”

... Ehehehehehehe… Clickclickclick…

Rog-mohog sent a fist like a boulder into Snaglag’s temple and took the stick from her subsequently unconscious hands.

“THIS!” He shouted and pointed at it. “This is whot we talkin’ about!”

Crunch and Lop looked at one another. “Tha’s no fun. I’d rather foight,” Crunch said.

“IswearI’llendallofyouoneday…” Rog-mohog muttered into his palm. “Rooooiiight, whot if I give you a foight, then?”

The two snapped their eyes to the chief and made wide grins. “Oooooh, bloomin’ ‘ell, boss! Tha’s generous o’ ye.”

“I still owe ye for that punch the other day,” Crunch said proudly. “Crunch always payin’ his debts, he does.”

“‘S roight.”

Rog-mohog stared longingly at the edge of the fifty metre tall cliff before facing the others again. He sucked in a deep breath and said, “Oi…”
Crunch, Lop and the recovering Snaglag all looked at him curiously. “Whot?”

“Do ye wanna plunder a bit?”

“Plunder?!” they shouted as one and clapped their hands excitedly. “Whot we plunderin’?”

Rog-mohog smirked and beckoned them in with a finger. The three leaned in and sharpened their ears. “Accordin’ to Goop, y’know the scout, there’s a bunch’a wood ‘n shoiny, bloomin’ metal somewhere far, far off to the west.”

The three tribe leaders straightened up and blinked at one another. “Half the fun o’ plunderin’ is killin’, though,” Crunch muttered disappointedly. Rog-mohog stifled a frustrated roar and beckoned them down to his level again.

“Roight, roight, roight… Buuuuuut, roight… There -might- be fhings to kill there.” He gave a shrug and the three leaders looked thoughtfully at one another, if that was possible.

“‘E does ‘ave a point,” Snaglag admitted.

“Aye, there -could- be fhings there…” Lop agreed.

“... How far west, y’say, boss?” Crunch said suspiciously.

Rog-mohog pointed frantically in a semi-western direction. “As far as y’can. Just go and go ‘n keep goin’ until ye cannot see the Big Rock anymore. In fact, if ye get lost ‘n don’t come back, that’s means ye found it.”

The three ogres once more made their finest attempts to appear ponderous.

“Makes sense,” Lop concluded.

“Aye,” Snaglag agreed.

“We’ll be off, then, boss!” Crunch said happily. “Enjoy bein’ bored back ‘ere, ye git!”

The three of them cackled as they walked off. Rog-mohog snickered. “Enjoy dyin’ out there, ye gits.” He turned to Wololo who had fallen asleep. The chieftain pocked the shaman and the old ogre’s manner of waking up simulated rising from the dead.

“Whot?! Whot I miss?!” he shouted fraily.

“Nothin’ special,” the chieftain muttered.

“Whot you say, boss?”

“I said, nothin’ special!”
“Naffin’ speshul? Whossat mea-- Oh! Nothin’ special, roight…”

Rog-mohog once again gave the cliff a thousand yard stare. Would anyone miss him, he pondered for a moment? How did the Ancestor Spirit look upon such an act? Likely not very kindly.

“So… Whot we doin’ now?” Wololo asked.

Rog-mohog eyed the pile of sticks behind him with a skin draped over the top.

“Someone’s fixin’ my hut,” the chieftain thundered and stomped down to the village below.

The shaman blinked. “Nixin’ my cut? Who dunnit? Oi! Boss! Who’s nixin’ my cut, HUHN?!”

And so, another day passed fruitfully in the camp of Big Rock.

Surrounded, outnumbered, but not without hope.

That was the situation that Guthug had found himself in, so close to finding the elk herd only to have it snatched away before his eyes by these bestial people and he felt as if he were running out of time as his people needed the herd. However, by now, the doe had startled the rest of the herd, but he knew that if he got away now then he could find the herd by tracking where the female had run since they always run back to the herd. Though his focus remained upon the bear people that now stood around him, massive and clearly after the same target, he could not help but remember the words that had been passed down through the shamans regarding the bears.

The mighty bear, tall and imposing, the fourth tamed by Akrosh yet the third to be chosen, a most powerful threat that could run down an orc with little effort and with little in the way of natural threats. Their kind were solitary yet not immediately aggressive, often times merely defending what would be their territory while scavenging for berries or meat to store for inside them for the winter. Yes, Guthug knew the bear very well, knowing how they would react to a perceived threat and knowing that should one recognize their strength and not challenge them, then they would not kill. It was this fact that Guthug had little choice to count on as these bearmen pointed their arrows at him, ready to pierce his body if he made one wrong move. Yet, reasoning with them may just prove to be just as hard as Guthug knew not if they could even speak the language of the orcs. There merely was no easy way out of the situation.

After a moment of thinking and tense silence, his eyes flicked between the four bearmen as his grip tightened is spear before a thought had wormed its way into his mind. Keeping his body close to the ground, Guthug loosened his grip and took his off-hand away from the spear, slowly lifting it to his side as he looked towards the one that he had first encountered. The orc faced his palm towards the creature before bringing his hand back to himself, his palm flattening itself against his chest.

"Guthug," he said, slowly enough for the bearmen to know what he was saying and what he meant. He continued with hand motions doing a slow slash through the air while shaking his head, "No," his voice went. He then motioned to his spear, "Hunt". He pointed to the bearman, "You"

His eyes flicked between the bearmen around him, making sure they were not about to loose their arrmors and turn his form into that of the porcupine, or rather some vegetable resembling one.

His hand motioned to the spear, "Hunt". Guthug thought to himself for a moment before employing a simpler means of hand motion as he pointed to where the elk had been, "Elk." The orc then raised his free hand into the air before finishing his statement, "for Akrosh." Hopefully, he had been able to get his point across, however, he knew that it was only up to Akrosh to what these beastmen did next.

---

The clan was at least fairing better than Guthug was, living their lives to the best of their ability in this new land as many merely awaited for their leader's return while the hunters hunted and the shamans sought refuge within themselves. However, as time past and without instruction, the people began to grow lazy as they waited and waited for their chieftan to return from the rite, much to the dismay of the shamans who knew that the land was harsh and they knew not if it would strike sooner or later. The shamans spoke to one another on the matter of what to.

"Togruk, the people grow lazy while waiting. We must do something," the oldest said.

"I know, but that matter is what they must do, there is too much to do and we know not of what the land will do to or whether our hunters will come home empty handed one day," Togruk responded, stroking his beard before he threw some herbs onto the fire allowing them to release their smoke into the air before quickly being charred beyond recognition. The shaman took a pinch of dirt and sprinkled it into a small bowl, mixing it with small bones and grass. "Hrrmph, the ancestors are quite," he commented before placing the bowl to his side.

Uruk sat in the back of their shoddily constructed hut, his hand drawing within the dirt as he responded with laughter, "Good, the dead are not supposed to speak. We all know that."

"But we need guidance, fool!" Togruk snapped, chucking the bowl at Uruk who allowed it to sail into his chest only to explode into more laughter.

"Enough you two," the oldest chastised before turning to another shaman, "Have you any ideas, Durbag?"

"Perhaps," Durbag started, putting his hand above the fire and allowing the smoke to move around it before he continued, "If we cannot go and tame animals until the Rite is completed by Guthug, then we must at least seek protection from those wolves for they grow closer and closer every night as they adjust to our presence. There is plenty of stone for us to build some earth works to keep the more bold of them at bay."

Togruk snorted at the idea, "We share our land with these beasts, we shall not construct something to keep them out."

"But feral animals will do us harm, remember the hare that took a chunk out of your foot when you strode too close?" Durbag responded, taking his hand away from the fire and stood before his peers. "We must protect our own, even if it means to keep even the mighty wolf out."

The oldest raised himself to his feet, looking between those who had not spoken and to those who had. "We must protect our own, we must thrive in this harsh land or else we die. This place is not like the serene forests we had come from, the animals are harsh and so too must we. These are not the wildlife that we have seen for generations, these wolves know not the orc and so we must be ready to drive them away should they attack, or if anything else were to attack. And eventually, we will encounter them. Until Guthug returns, we cannot do anything about it other than shore our defenses."

The oldest looked to Durbag, "Go to the people and instruct them to make earthworks around the camp with no more than five entrances to watch."

Durbag nodded before stepped out of the hut.

The shamans must continue to seek guidance from the ancestors, even if now they were silent.