There were clangs, scraping whines, and occasional booms as Glough’s inspectors sifted through the crates of salvaged machinery and took an inventory. Most tools of value had been evacuated from the Red January in parachute crates prior to its martyrdom at the hands of the party’s enemies. In the days since, recovering those tools had been a high priority, and by now the gnomes were confident that they’d recovered most of what had survived. All of this would come in handy, but of course many of these tools were as useless as a cave-dwelling troglodyte without the proper fuel.

The gnomes had an advanced understanding of chemics, as evidenced by their knowledge of blasting powder and their ability to harness lightning in their weaponry. But such methods of storing potential energy were considered volatile and inefficient; it was for that reason that the gnomes preferred pneumatic rifles to blasting-powder based ones, for instance. Well, that and because the recoil from a high muzzle-velocity chemic-based-explosion-driven projectile of significant mass was hard for the small gnomes for withstand.

From a pocket, Glough produced an energy crystal. The sparkling thing was a wonder of gnomish chemics and technology; they produced such crystals from a complicated procedure that involved processing semi-rare minerals. For that reason their current supply was limited and rather precious, but Glough would hear nothing of it. He inserted the gem into the slot of a jackhammer, but in a rare show of restraint, deemed such a thing excessive. Or perhaps he just decided that it was the wrong tool for the job; jackhammers were powered tools for breaking stone, and jackaxes were better for chopping wood and butchering enemies of the state.

He removed the power source from the jackhammer and then ordered an assistant to bring him one such jackaxe, then activated it and adjusted the setting to full force. Laughing as the axe-head automatically whipped back and forth at a blurring speed, he brought the tool upon the trunk of one great tree and felled the stupid thing with ease. Baby birds chirped in terror as their nest in the upper boughs came crashing down. Glough looked at the pathetic survivors with contempt, then crushed them beneath his boot. Finding a gummy mixture of blood and feathers annoying stuck to the bottom, he used attachment number 23 from his multipurpose Gnomish Army knife to flick the remnants out from the treads of his shoe. Let none say that the Director asked of his gnomes anything that he would not do himself!

“Delfus, I believe that this tree might provide sufficient timber to silence Treecog’s whining for the time being,” he did declare. He casually tossed the deactivated jackaxe to a waiting technician so that the felled tree could be debarked and cut into planks and small pieces.

“Yes, that is very well Director, but should we really use our resources so frivolously?” the official stammered.

“A display of force and power is necessary! Do not question party doctrine!”

Even as he chastised his old friend, Glough twirled his mustache in contemplation. “But I see your point,” he admitted. “Very well, now that we’ve salvaged and recovered all of the tools-“

“Well, there were a few pneumatic rifles unaccounted for...” Delfus tried to interrupt, only to be spoken over the whole time.

“...recall the teams and have then search the mountains to the south. Look for any passes through the range, and prospect the area using powered drills and jackhammers and jackshovels. We should have sufficient power crystals in storage for them to do some probing.”

“Yes, Director! A very logical move!” That had gone better than Delfus had expected, so he tapped his red cap in salute and prepared to make a hasty exit before Glough could change his mind.

But then the dwarves came. Glough’s reasonable and good mood went up in smoke at the sight of those uncouth barbarians outside his camp. Speaking of cave-dwelling troglodytes...

“How did those hideous things get into our land unseen?!” Glough demanded to one of his following sycophants. While the party officer tried to find an explanation, Glough was simmering.

“This will not do! Find me a trained animal handler! Or ten!”

“Those things might not quite be animals, Director,” Delfus turned to protest. “Observe their small stature and metal arms, the details of that one’s textiles-“

“Bah! Then find a psychologist too, and have him administer the Zekel-Voight-Greasegear Analysis of Intelligence! I would know just how sapient those foolish looking creatures are before I decide what to do with them. Have the animal handlers on standby in order to tranquilize or slay the beasts if they try anything untoward, or...or if they turn out to be the masterminds behind the evil birds of this land!”

He was confident that the Zekel-Voight-Greasegear Analysis, with its empirically-derived formula to determine levels of sapience from such observations as height, cranial volume, and political alignment would be able to provide a good guideline on just how to proceed.

Stepping into the corridor Peidro Callibiano remarked on the top his father took him to see the Monks of Vaquizialle decades ago, before the war started and when he was but a boy. The trip was to, in his father's words: to make him a man. The walk through the red valley had filled him with a daunting dread as the uneven and misshapen rocks loomed overhead. The sunlight that streamed in from the narrow crevasse of a roof of the valley filtered a blood red. He had gone there to be plunged into darkness and into water, to be isolated from humanity and so all he could confront was himself. For three days and four nights he was left adrift in a shallow pool in a closed tomb feeling the madness of hunger creep in on him and until he could confront himself with the sword of his mind.

And now bathed in the citrine glow of the painted halls of the Caramellion Company he was again off to confront a challenge of the mind. Though he no longer was to fight himself, and that which he came to confront was by no means an enemy. It was just simply what was to be laid out for him that was to be his new challenge in life. His hand went to the hem of his cloak as he approached a door, and he bowed to the guard there. The door was opened to him.

When Peidro had gone to the Monks of Vaquizialle, his last meal was of bread and simple water, as all the monks ate, and he was soon ushered after into his darkened tomb as the abbot stood above him reciting his prayer, “For life is as a flower, to die in one season and bloom again. Our seeds on the wind is our mind and our sword” and the lid was shut. For a time that felt like an eternity he felt he had urinated in the dark water, and for a century after it began to no longer matter. His first experience was that of reaching and groping around the tomb to find an exit, or a hole, or some sort of escape. But alas, it was sealed against his escape and from light. Even sound was muted to him and all he could hear was his sloshing about, the ripples of the water magnified by a force of a thousand in sound sensitive ears that held him away for millennia. The creeping dementia of madness later coming to him as his partner and offering up his phantoms and his futures with soft whispered words.

Beyond the door the citric light of the stained glass was broken as the room opened up ahead of him onto a wide rich balcony with flowing vines wrapped around the columns and railings in marital veils of scarlet and pink. Beyond which in its frame was the city of Compa Deál Sal and its ancient planned promenades and its brick apartments and colorful merchant and guild halls. Above which was the towering caps of the Temple of the Lady Merciful.

“Don DeMolle.” a rustic voice said from the far corner of the room. Seated in a reclining coach lay the figure of the Sub-Admiral of the Company, Sesta Cómplainoma Ille Monte. A richly deviled man with a lion's mane of a beard whose eyes shone sharp even in the subdued light, “Thank you for coming.”

“Don Monte.” Peidro answered him with a bow. He approached the couch nearest him and took a seat.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” the admiral beckoned with a gentle wave of his hand, “I don't want my guests uncomfortable.” as Peidro right himself Sesta continued, “You have made it this far, so I imagine you have the request in consideration?”

“I have your honor. But it's a matter of question right now. You see; I don't entirely understand what is going on?”

“It's easy to understand, so I felt- but it's unusual for our history. But the kingdom needs its jails emptied. And our honored king – his name, may it be blessed for all time for surely he is good and we shall not speak ill – wishes for us to expedite the problem. He at the court as we have too at the company heard, there is some strange new land far out to sea never before known by any sailor since. There have been movements towards claiming pieces of it and we would rather not be left or, or rather I should say this brings us a great advantage. As our king is merciful - his name, may it be blessed for all time for surely he is good and we shall not speak ill – and instead of simply executing the lot wants them to start over again and prove their piety and virtue. Such and such as I wrote down when I sent my dispatch. Surely you understand this?”

Peidro nodded.

“Well excellent. In any case we have outfitted enough ships to take across the sea and establish territory where you land, organize, house, and maintain your charges for the duration of their services. Administer punishments and parole for their behavior and all together see to it that their virtue and loyalty is proved. After which, they can return at the earlier convenience and have what bit of their land or titles are owed to be returned to them, or they can stay in the new world and reforge those same legacies as they have had here in their home countries in a new land and be entirely new men.

“The prisoners are not your only charge. Taking on this command you shall be offered the obligatory companies of marines to help keep order or to defend the expedition; however you may wish to use them. As well, a number of already free peasants and free men have volunteered themselves to be fed to this new world. These last people, they are fortunate. You have mostly nobles and their men at arms at your disposal and various other criminals. I don't think their skills would be all that great to you, if they have any. Many are fighting men, not farmers or craftsmen. And besides the sailors you'll need all the trained hands and men at your disposal as you see fit. And it'll be good to dispose of the excess population, frees up space for the rest of us. Less beggars on the street. Filthy animals. They'll be domesticated well in the new world.”

“I know that.” Peidro said. “But what I really would like to know is how I'm supposed to do this?”

The admiral raised his head and nodded. He sat up, “Care for a walk?” he invited, holding out a hand. Peidro took it and the two strolled to the balcony.

“This contract is a peculiar request and will be an adventure of the highest order.” Sesta went on, “We need creative geniuses and you have been everything beyond a creative genius, from the handling of the company merchant marine and our various other demands. Your life, both in up bringing and in profession is admirable and respected. Further: you have the attention of the king – may his name and so forth and so forth – you have a war record, and when we submitted our proposal to he and the court you were chief in our highest rated candidates on our front. The faith invested in you comes not from me or the Admiral-Magistrate of the company but from the Crown itself. A crown which is willing to place upon you the full title to the territory should you see it through its development. It's a charge of land that will be passed down from you to your children as titled house of not just your filial land but of a whole brave new world. Dynasty: and nothing less. The embarkment to be at the forefront of an empire that shall not know a day without the sun. For-

“Humanity is a flower and its seed is the word and the sword. I know.” Peidro finished for Sesta.

“I was going to say for all life. But the gist is all there. I wish I had some wine, this would make the occasion much better. But I don't.”

“I feel as though the idea would be intoxicating enough.”

“A grand and glorious dream!”

“I still do not understand, is there anything to be expected from this?”

“That is up to you. For now, it is for us to deal with prisoners and rebels in a way that benefits the Court and nothing less. We are being given their coin to see this carried out with honor and trust. And the Admiral-Magistrate is expecting results, however they might best come about.”

---

A ship is only a coffin with sails. As worms pry between the boards so too does the water leak through. A slimy mold and tar covers the walls to seal it, but only so well as the waves splash against it. And level on level the galleys of the ship are laid atop one another like a tomb. The air is musky and full of piss and shit, a yellow melange is not see but is felt in the air and the breath of the living cargo who spends their time sitting over buckets or wandering the decks in a choleric haze. Every so often one of the bodies dies, and passes into a second death. The death is too repulsive for the ship. The soldiers and ship hands move to drag it out of the holds and giving it simple rights toss it into the swirling green sea. A line of sharks follows the lumbering and towering four-masted carracks. Their hulls are as black as a hearse wagons, covered so thick in the pummeling of the sargassum of the sea and for their thick pine and coal tar sealant packed tight into the heavy oak boards.

Impregnated by the winds, the red and orange sails of the prison fleet are full on the mast. Every sheet is down. The canvas is full and lively. Everywhere in the rigging is a sailor, either resting as he plays watch, or at work with the ship's maintenance. Every so often on the breeze shouting is heard between the ships as conversations are made at the height of roaring shouts or the learned whistles of the mountain people, their conversations go further and cut deeper through the sound of the crashing waves.

Days out, perhaps a week from leaving harbor with their hulls full up of excommunicated and dishonored nobles and their retinues a storm struck the fleet and nearly crippled a ship as a wave broke over the decks and flooded into the holds, endangering the stocks of powder and food underneath. Ropes were snapped and the taught lines nearly cut the sails as they were sprung loose. When the day cleared the fleet moved on slow as the dingheys moved between the boats carrying the officers as they went to council to decide on what to do with the injured ship. In the end, solidarity was decided and the fleet moved slower through the deep dark sea and its abysmal black waters as the crews toiled to set the ship right and salvage its stores.

And the people died on the voyage. Disease was rampant. Rats had brought fleas. An entire ship needed to be quarantined for fear of an epidemic and the transfer of supplies was done so with such choreographed caution it seemed to pass that nothing could ever be moved out of fear of the ship's plague. The bodies aboard this ship rained out from over the rails. They began to no longer wrap the bodies and simply plunged them into the sea, their skin a vibrant yellow-green. The sharks became so excited that the bodies would hit the water and explode in blood and viscera. But as its body count climbed, so did the number of deaths and eventually the great flaring diseases subsided and its inferno passed.

But even as the passengers died, and death followed the fleet close behind, so did the mid-wife of life. In the putrid and claustrophobia of the ships the secrets of love were still managed and women gave birth or showed sign of pregnancy. On one, ten newborns entered the world and midwives from one ship had to be ushered onto the one, both because the ladies refused to see the surgeon, or he could not see to all of them. And among these peasants, the seed of life was passed.

“Arcadio, it grows.” says a middle-aged woman, as she reveals a lump of clay she had hidden in the pocket sewn onto her blouse. In her hand a dark clump of earth and clay sat shaped in gentle careful hands. Growing from it, a hardy sapling grew, its few twisted purple leaves as misshapen and crushed as they were bearing the sign of life.

Arcadio, a younger man with a rough face looked down at it. The emptiness of his expression filled as he saw the tree in the woman's hands. “It does. How have you managed it?” he asked.

The aging woman smiled a croaked smile. She was a peasant's wife, who never once given birth. For it she had been expelled from her family and her village when her husband took a much younger girl as a wife and had eight children by her in the span of fourteen years. But she: she had not sired one human child. She had however brought many a tree to life.

“Madre Arquistra, her energy and stubbornness knows no bound or limit.” she said in a soothed voice. She held the sapling in its clod of dirt with the gentleness often afforded only to infants, “I have watered it from the mildew that seeps through the boards. Through the blood from my own fingers. I keep it close to my heart, so it can feel the warmth of my breast.” she said, holding a hand to a spot over a secret pocket in her shirt that only she knew about, “The ship is horrible, but not so much to kill it. As long as it lives most of us shall live, and as long as it lives, so to shall the children here live.”

“Does it know how long we have until we land?” asked Arcadio.

The woman smiled, “It doesn't speak to me. But I see in its life that it knows we will make it. Perhaps soon, it is alive after all. It has the secret hope that Arquistra provides. It refuses to succumb, as weaker men have. We need only persist.”

---

Don Acorianado had been a knight once. At the height of his prominence he had lead into battle five hundred men and commanded an estate with two hundred servants and peasants tied to him. But when he rode into battle against the king he had been struck from his horse with a mace to the face. His helmet saved his life even as it caved into him and sent him tumbling to the ground. The high ostrich feathers that crowned his opulent armor were stolen by a passing by men at arms as he lay bleeding and unconscious in the mud of the battle field and ever hand that passed him took from his person a trophy: his sword, his feathers, his sash, pieces of his armor. He had been found later by the priests who dragged his naked body to the pyre to be burned, believing he had been dead. But the spark of heat that lit the fire awakened the spark of life in his chest and he burst from the fire like a desert flower after the rain and darted to and fro in a confused daze before being captured. Interrogated, he gave his name in confusion as he thought he was with friends and dully arrested and imprisoned. Fighting infection in prison and the delirium of losing his honor he fell into a dark rhapsody of melancholic mourning wishing only for his own annihilation. But when the Virtuous Mother failed to give to him death he finally surrendered to circumstance, not even the gallows or the ax came to save him and he boarded the ship a husk of a man.

Once handsome he had commanded a head of the finest golden blonde hair which fell out with lice and illness and he was bald all over his body. His nose was once finely chiseled and remarked upon as being the finest sigh of classical beauty, but the mace that had broken his face had shattered that and now it was broken and flattened awkwardly against his face. His cheek bones were uneven, and one eye had been swollen and lost to infection. He was a one-eyed creature of disillusionment and an ogre to behold. Aboard the ship when a part of his humanity returned he fully realized the hideousness of his face and covered it with a shroud and became like one of the desert folk of the far south but pale and ivory like a ghost. He refused contact with many of his shipments, especially those he considered too beautiful for himself which were many. He secluded himself in the hold, rarely emerging to eat and acquired the associated identity of a rat eater, to the relief of those youths already so low; because they could come into the light.

By the time the ships found shore, the sunlight blinded his one good eye and he shrank back in the row boat against the shoulders of his fellow prisoners.

“Stay calm, brother.” advised a former knight such himself, taking pity on him, “It is only the light of the merciful sun.

“By the damned gods it is too bright!” moaned Don Acorianado as his hand twisted infront of his face, “Damn it, put a shade on it!”

The boat laughed as it pushed off from the galleon and drifted out towards the shore. With time his eyes adjusted and Acordianado could look out at the world around him. The boat was adrift on sapphire blue waters towards an island so packed with trees the forest at the shoreline formed what looked to be an impenetrable wall as daunting as any castle wall he had stood before with canon and sword. He was amazed by it, by the mountains beyond and a sky filled with only nature and the birds. They seemed to be the only ships on the waters, the only life on a vast continent. What was a man like him supposed to do with a wilderness so untamed? Where were the finely nurtured orchards, of forests so well tamed a man could walk unblocked from one end to another like he was on the road? He first thought it was a land too wonderful for a ghoul such as him, but then as they came closer and he could see the darkness of the forest that it was exactly the catacombs for a ghoul like him and he was just deeper in his prison; all of the sunlight and open air could not hide this fact.

He looked abroad and saw in one boat the gilded flags and glistening armor and spears and muskets of the fleet's admiral. Of Peidro Callibiano deMolle and he recognized him at once as the bastard noble that had stolen away his estate and absorbed his last charge in that fateful battle with the mace and he grew angry, for what little he could feeling the overburdening despair at this new land. What bastard like him with his full armor, his crimson cloak, and fully crested helmet had any right to be here: with him. Why couldn't there be a lesser noble, some exceptional peasant even who rose through the ranks of the company? The ex-knight felt immediately cursed, insulted at by the gods as he looked upon Peidro with his strong round chin, eloquently small nose, bright green eyes, and sagely autumnal beard. His host on his boat enhancing an imperial image and prestige as it made landfall and they stepped out for immediate inspection. There was a map, a chart. A plan perhaps and as they came up just behind the ordained task was realized immediately: they were work crew.

Peidro did not speak to anyone, but turned to look at them with a passing glance over all their heads and with a nod surrendered it over to an underling. A captain with a large black beard and whose face was obscured by the shade cast by the brim of his helmet, “Pull the boats on shore, make way for the rest. Pull out the axes and hatchets and clear out the brush! Prepare to lay out for the tents!”

---

Actions, I guess:

Turn 3

@Bright_Ops



@CleanBreeze Has dropped out! :( Will be replaced by new player starting this turn.



@Lauder



@AdorableSaucer



@Cyclone



@Schylerwalker No post found.



@Pirate No post found.

"W-We should go back, tell the boss that Gorkun is-"

"Oh shut the hell up you cowardly grot!" was the answer that cut off the smaller, somewhat skittish looking scout, coupled with a meaty smack as he was roughly smacked over the back of the head hard enough to actually knock him face first into the ground by Shugath, one of the larger of the magic-belchers, but far from the eldest one there. "The idiot can't have gone far, there isn't any magic in the air and there's no sign of a struggle so if you're that worried about him, put those bleeding tracking skills you all boost so much about to some zogging use and figure out where he's gone!"



For what had to be the first time in his life, Rukdug regretted his decision to send the magic-blechers to make themselves useful to the scouting party near those ruins. Granted, he wasn't quite sure they would have known what the deal with the stag skulked creature in front of him or the sickly looking wolves at its side... but this seemed like the exact kind of unknown problem where throwing the magical buggers at it seemed like the right solution.

Whatever it was, its presence went a long way towards answering his questions about why there were no other settlements here... or at least offered a reasonable theory. It wasn't hostile... at least, not yet. It wasn't here to scout or spy because it had clearly exposed itself; It wasn't exactly trying to be subtle or cunning. So it was either here to talk... or it had come to attack but the speed of reinforcements arriving had caught it off guard so it was trying to stall for more of its wolf 'pets' to come.

Showing fear wasn't an option. He was the Warchief damn it and he would not undermine himself by bulking in the face of this unknown freak of nature.

Rukdug stepped forward before calling out "This ends in one of three ways. The first is that you say that you've come here to say. The second is that you turn around, take your pets with you and never return. The last... don't want to spoil the story, but the ending is me pissing on the ashes of the corpses of both yourself and your 'pets'. The choice is yours!"

"He said WHAT?!" Glough screamed as he grabbed Bronzeburn by the collar. Between the flying spittle and violent shaking back and forth, it was like the poor engineer was being swept away in a hurricane. The proverbial tempest was so mighty that it knocked off the engineer's hat.

Glough finally released Bronzeburn, and the terrified (and embarrassed) gnome scurried down onto the ground to reclaim his precious red cap. All the while, the Director was now turning towards his lieutenant to scream, "My pen, paper, and portable writing desk! NOW! I have a proclamation and a sentencing to make! This absurdity will end here! And have the fool dragged before me!"

Delfus and the Director's other assistants hurriedly complied with their orders while the Director raved on and on in one of his fits. Finally, an excruciating 53 seconds later, they had unfolded a table and presented him with the pen and paper. As if time itself had slowed, Delfus saw his party leader scribble gigantic letters 'H...I...G...H' and immediately, almost precognitively, such was the power of his superior gnomish brain, realized what was to come. "Wait!" Delfus cried out.

The red-faced Glough dropped the pen and turned to eye Delfus diabolically, twirling his mustache in icy anger. "You can't mean to have Treecog indicted for high treason and executed! All he did was-"

"Blatantly disobey the orders of my appointed officer and refuse to work, all over some petty qualm about quality control!"

"But that's not high treason! He didn't betray us to the birds or any of our other enemies!"

With a scoff, Glough turned back to his paper and crossed out the word he'd written. "HIGH LOW TREASON" the top of it now read. He began scrawling a summary of Treecog's crimes, for posterity and party records, before finally writing the declared punishment at the bottom of the paper. His arm moved like a whirlwind, and the entire thing was done by the time Treecog was finally dragged before them all by two burly gnomes that were formerly Royal Infantry.

The nearby procession of dwarves might have watched some of these proceedings in confusion, but the trained animal handlers diligently tried to distract them and herd them a fair distance away.

"Treecog!" the Director spun around and declared, facing the terrified prisoner with a devilish grin. "for dereliction of duty and low treason, your party membership is revoked! You are hereby exiled! Enjoy living off the land and among all the nasty wildlife and local animals, you sub-gnomish cretin!" Glough let out a satisfied sigh as the bewildered (and weeping) Treecog was prodded along and led away from the base camp.

"Now that that's been dealt with..." the Director said, wiping some imagined grime off his hands, "Delfus, I've arrived at a decision regarding these so-called 'dwarves'!"

Delfus internally sighed, expecting that he'd be told to convey orders to vivisect them so as to ensure the accuracy of the estimated Zekel-Voight-Greasegear rating. Or maybe to just have them killed.

But Glough was anything if not predictable. "With a rating of only 0.3 on the logarithmic scale, I find it unlikely that they could be capable of manipulating and controlling the birds. If anything, it seems likely that they might be manipulated by those evil birds that attacked the Red January. Time and further study will be needed to determine what to do with these dwarves. If they scored in the vicinity of a 0.15 the obvious conclusion would be that the animal trainers should try domesticating them as draft animals, any gnomish infant could see that. But here? I will not pretend to know what niche they should be put into! Let the animal handlers do as they see fit."

The disheveled Bronzeburn still hadn't left, though. Delfus saw the timid gnome and asked, "Director, what is he to do now that you've exiled the supplier for his project?"

"He can find a new one! Or hope that the expedition sent into the mountains finds something usable. I still expect results! We need more weapons!"

Rog-mohog gave his hut a proud, fatherly pat. Even though he hadn’t built it, his authority had directly caused its inception and creation. He never planted the seed, but this tree stood because of him, and he wondered for a moment why his thoughts had drifted to trees. Trees… Leaves… Branches… Branches are made of wood… Wood is a building material… Ogres use wood to make stuff; ‘stuff’ is part of a category of words that describe unspecified items generalised into a single group… Within this group is furniture.

Rog-mohog peeked in through the tent flaps. It was empty, save for a boring mat of goat fur. He hummed. A proper chief needed a fancy chair - one like the Ancestor Spirits described and constantly, smugly teased him for not having. Even now, Rog-mohog could hear the distant snickers of his father Mohog mocking him for not owning a fancy chair.

This would end today.

“MASTA BUILDAS!” he thundered. Nothing happened. He groaned and boomed again, “MASTA BUILDAS!”

A familiar collection of shabby workers wielding rocks for tools slumped up to the chief’s tent. The leader of the workforce, the esteemed Slamjam, snorted out a booger the size of a pebble and grunted. “Wossit, boss?”

Rog-mohog pulled aside the tent flap and pointed inside. “Wot you see in there?”

The master builders crowded the entrance as they looked inside. Polite hums buzzed between them as they tried to think of the answer. “Boss’s sleepin’ furs?”

“Besides that.”

“Oh, uh… Noffin’.”

“Da’s roight, ye gits. Wot kinda chief got noffin’ inside his hut?”

“Well, plenty, actually. Up-slup da Big was known for ‘avin’--”

Rog-mohog sent the protestor flying down the hill. The other builders gulped. “Up-slup was a bloomin’ git! Ancestor spirit says that daily!”

There came nods of agreement. “So, wot you want us buildin’, boss?”

“Build me a fancy chair. A real fancy one - none’a that not-fancy-chair-business.”

The builders huddled together and whispered in the way one does when one wants to be very obvious about laying a plan. After thirty seconds, they broke apart again and Slamjam nodded at the chief. “Roight, boss. We got it. Gunna makes you a fancy chair.”

“Very good,” Rog-mohog praised and waved them off. As the builders slumped back down the hill and collected their companion along the way, the tribe shaman Wololo peeked out from behind the tent with the quickness of pitch.

“Boss, ‘ave you got a moment?”

Rog-mohog grunted. “Aye, wot you needin’, Wololo?”

“‘S about time to read the five spirits again.”

Rog-mohog groaned. “Wot, again? Didn’t we just do it?”

“Is a yearly fhing, boss. Been ‘xactly one year.”

“Issat so? Well, noffin’ to do but do it, then. Wot we needin’?”

“The usual - a boar bone plate, a dog toof, an owl feavva’, the foot o’va dead ogre ‘n some fresh moss.”

“It gotta be fresh? There isn’t any moss around ‘ere,” Rog-mohog complained.

“Gotta be fresh,” Wololo insisted. “Try checkin’ around Big Rock. Might be a cave or somethin’ with some shade ‘n moss.”

Rog-mohog frowned in a surly manner before eventually nodding. “Roight, got it. It’ll be ready by tomorrow.”

“Readin’ the spirits is important for knowin’ what comes, chief. This’ll be good for us.”

“Mhm.”

---

Somewhere far to the west…

"So, whoss we gonna do with this'un?" Crunch mumbled out loud as he dangled the gnome by the collar. "Y'fhink it's tasty?"

"Not as tasty as a slice'a bacon roight about now," Snaglag muttered as she picked her teeth with a stray metal pipe.

"Oi, don'chu like mutton better than pork? Ye call yeself a goatie?"

"Who you callin' a goatie?!" Snaglag spat back and shook her fist menacingly. Crunch frowned curiously back.

"You're not a goatie?"

"'Course I not! I'm a ogre!" She stomped off angrily.

Crunch's mouth flattened out until it had about the same appearance as his bushy unibrow and his eyes shifted back to the gnome in his hands. "We're surrounded by gits, isn't we, lil' gnome?"

"Surrounded by what now?" the gnome choked out despite his collar being accidentally clenched so tight that he could barely breathe. "I demand that you release me at once!"

Crunch gave him a hard, pensive stare. "You sure talk a bunch fo' such a lil' fhingy. Is you some kind'a dog, per'aps?"

The gnome's face was turning about as red as that funny cap on his head, and not just from embarrassment at the conundrum he found himself in--oxygen deprivation seemed to be an equally important factor. His tiny hand tried in vain to wrap around two of the ogre's fat, sausage-like fingers to pry them off.

Not understanding the very evident biological signals portrayed by the gnome, Crunch gave the futile effort a confused frown. "Oh, lil' gnome, didn' ye parunts ever teach ya that big boys make short work'a small boys, 'n that it don't work the ovva' way?" He suddenly got a thousand yard stare. "Mine did... Mine sure did... That bloomin' git Nathan in the neighbour hut nevah left me alone... Oi, why's you coughin'? Is you sick?"

"Can't...breath!"

"Wot ye mean 'can't brief'? You insultin' my skill at shortenin' stories for the sake of convenience and understandin'?"

The gnome went limp and further responses were not forthcoming.

"Huh. 'S wot I thought." Crunch dropped the gnome to the ground (where it promptly crumpled and stayed) and began poking about in a nearby junkpile. "You don't just say mean fhings like that 'n don't expect anyfhin' to come back at ya. If ye can't accept tha', then I'mma just smoosh ya."

The lack of response from the gnome caused the ogre to look over his shoulder again. "Wot, ye sleepin' now? Oi, don't you ignore me. Wot do you even know about me, huh?"

Nothing, saith the body. Crunch scoffed.

"Bet you was jus' a small humie after all." He plucked a sharp iron rod from the scrap pile. "Oi, Snaglag!"

A moment passed before the ogress peeked over from behind a wrecked balloon frame. "Yeah?"

"'Ave the gits grab as much'a this..." He slammed the iron rod against a nearby rock with enough strength to dent and bent it - however, to his surprise, it didn't break. "... This 'ard sticks as they can."

Snaglag uncovered her ears reluctantly. "Wot was that?"

"'Ave the gits grab sticks like this'un. Owl Spirit's telling ol' Crunchy that this'll be a nice fhingy to shank with."

Snaglag pursed her lips and furrowed her unibrow. "... Issat so..." She pulled a crooked iron pipe out of the wreckage and pressed it against her palm. It drew a few droplets of blood and she sucked in a pained breath. "Owie! Crunch, I cut myself!"

Crunch frowned back in concern. "You ever wonder if ogres was meant to survive past teenhood?"

"Wossat?"

"Noffin'. Let's get to it."

A moment later, the ogres had grabbed whatever iron splints, rods and pipes they could and hoarded them in sacks fashioned from ripped balloon hides. Gathering up curious stragglers, the ogres eventually began to make their way homewards. However, Crunch was stopped in his tracks by one of his fellow Boar Clan ogres. He drew a long sigh.

"Wot is it, Digganob?"

"Boss, is just, uh... Didn't that gnome say there was more of 'em about?"

Crunch eyed the gnome carcass in his hand. His intention was to bring it home and give it to his kids, but the thought of bringing back even more tickled his fancy quite seductively. "Aye, he did say that... Oi, Digganob, you got kids?"

"Sure do, boss."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh. Woss their names?"

"Gob, Rob, Nob 'n Elizabeff, 'course."

Crunch nodded. "Wot would you say to bringin' home one'a these for 'em to play with?" He shook the gnome corpse teasingly until it started making broken bone sounds. Digganob clapped excitedly.

"Oh, that'd make 'um really happy, boss! But, where'll I find 'um?"

Crunch sniffed and looked around. "Uh... Try stayin' in the ruins. Take about, uh, half of us 'n just see wot you can find. Just remember not to snack on 'em."

"They any tasty?"

Crunch shrugged. Digganob hummed pensively.

"I will--"

"Don't try it."

"--not eat any."

Crunch nodded again - approvingly, this time. "Good. Bring 'em home - alive, if ye can. Kids love it when their toys move on their own."

Digganob saluted clumsily. "Roight, boss," he said and strolled off, herding together about half of the war party. Crunch, Snaglag and the rest strolled on back towards the camp, happily carrying lots of iron, some balloon hides and one very brutalised gnome.

They walked back through a forest that seemed conspicuously lacking in birds, with the few ones around seeming skittish and shy about singing their songs. Indeed, Glough's war upon them was already starting to have some noticeable effects. The ogres tromped along in a generally westward direction, oblivious to the warning signs and telltale demonstrations of gnomish might. There were no more of the tiny creatures to be seen, even past the wreckage where they'd salvaged the iron rods, and they started to grow bored and disappointed. But then, just as some were beginning to contemplate turning around or having their thoughts stray to dinner, they heard a strange sound--it was some sort of high-pitched wailing, coming from a copse of trees up ahead. Digganob gave the trees a suspicious glare, his lazy eye dangling in his left socket.

"Oi, Brutus, check that out." A massive hunk of ogre lumbered its way past Digganob, an oak sapling in his hand. His torso caused windshear as it swung from side to side with every earth-shaking step. He squinted, and his miniscule eyes tried their best to see past a small forest of eyebrows onto whatever was hiding in the trees.

There was a small splotch of red visible through the leaves, its stark contrast letting it stand out even to the beady eyes of the ogre as he stomped forward.

"WHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!" Treecog shrieked out to the bristly pine in front of him, the only thing that would listen. He was so consumed by grief at his having been exiled a few hours ago that he didn't even notice Brutus until the ogre came close enough for him to smell (which was admittedly still a decent ways away, such was his reek!) at which point he turned about and started. With a yelp, the gnome instinctively ducked around to the other side of the tree to hide.

Brutus' nose was in contrast much more accustomed to the indescribable stench of its owner - learning through abuse was a tried and tested ogre strategy, after all. As such, it effortlessly picked up that something was not quite right - or rather, it was right in the sense that it picked up the scent of the exact creature they were after. The faint cologne of mustache wax was unmistakable, mostly because it was utterly foreign to him, like any other cosmetic or hygienic ointment. With limbs like logs, he reached around the poor pine and mumbled, "Oi, I smell you, y'li'uhl..."

As the great, thundering beast approached, a thousand things went through Treecog's genius mind. There was the Director's words, the fate he'd been sentenced, _{"Enjoy living off the land and among all the nasty wildlife and local animals, you sub-gnomish cretin!"} Indeed, a small part of his mind considered the idea of trying not to resort to flight or flight when confronted by these beasts, but to attempt to set them at ease and live among them, making of his life the new goal of domesticating, training, and ultimately dominating the giants through sheer wits and gnomish ingenuity. These creatures were huge, so it was obvious that they were score quite lowly on the Zekel-Voight-Greasegear; they were probably somewhere between a small dog and a crafty kobold in terms of intelligence...

But they were huge! And smelly! And scary! Those smaller, woolly creatures that had marched into the Crash Site seemed much likelier candidates for cohabitation, and honestly, he'd already come to the half-baked idea of looping around the Crash Site so as to find those so-called 'dwarves' on their way back to wherever they came from...assuming that Glough and the animal trainers even allowed those dwarves to leave on their own.

In the end, shot nerves won out over the appeal of surrender, or of a challenge, or whatever madness whispered for him to do anything save run or hide. The inventor still had a sharp wit about him! He reached up, feeling at the stupid red hat on his head. He was surprised that they hadn't confiscated that upon revoking his party membership, but then again, that wasn't really a symbol of authority or belonging. It was just extremely fashionable. But what had fashion ever done for him? And what had the Red Cap Party done either, for that matter? The hat meant nothing! He tore it off his head and placed it atop a gnarled root sticking out of the ground a few feet away, then scrambled into a nearby pile of pine needles. By the time that Brutus' hands came groping around the other side of the tree, Treecog was already hidden. At least, he hoped so.

Eventually, Brutus' bratwurst fingers felt something soft. With a dumb smile, the fingers clasped around the item - only to find disappointedly that there was no sensation of breaking bones or dying squeals. He pulled the cloth shrapnel to his beaten nose and took a deep wiff, sucking in a number of red scraps. His nose wrinkled as if he was about to sneeze, but he was left grimacing. With a hum that sent tremors through the ground, he turned. This piece of filt had indeed expelled the scent he had picked up before, and no one would willingly tear up such a fancy hat just to run away - of course not. It was a really fancy hat - like, really fancy. He eyed the remains in his hand with pursed, pensive lips. Half of it was salvageable, so he put it on the small vulcano of black hair erupting from his shrunken skull. He didn't have a lake to mirror himself in, but he was certain he looked swell. He spun on his heel, leaving a small crater, and lumbered back to the group.

As he heard the ogre go stomping back the other way, Treecog let out a barely audible sigh of relief. He'd been holding his breath that whole time! But then cold panic crept into his veins--would the beast have heard him?! Hopefully the cracking twigs and pine needles beneath its feet, combined with its laborious breathing, overpowered the sound of his exhalation. The fading sounds of minor earthquakes hinted that the ogre was either too deaf or too simple to have made the connection between a distant gasp and the fact that someone may have been hiding.

Brutus returned to the other ogres, a grin still about his face on account of the hat. Digganob eyed him curiously. "Oi, Brutus, did you find anyfhin'?"

Brutus put two colossal hands over his head. "... No." Digganob's eyes hardened.

"So there really was noffin', huh?"

"No."

"Noffin' at all."

"Nuh-uh."

"No birds?"

"Nah."

"No pigs?"

"Nope."

"No gnomes."

"Noffin'."

Digganob muttered to himself. Another voice came up behind him. "Oi, wossat you coverin' on your head, Brutus?!"

"Is noffin," Brutus mumbled back.

"You hidin' somefhin'?"

"No."

"Boss, he's hidin' somefhin'," said the ogre and stomped over to remove Brutus' hands from his head. Before anyone could stop him, Brutus had already removed one hand, fastened it around the assailant's neck and tossed him to the ground. Digganob frowned.

"A'roight, Brutus, don't--... Don't kill 'um, roight?"

Brutus let go with a quiet "roight". Digganob put two fists on his hips and looked around. "Well, noffin' here then. Keep going or go home?"

"I'm tired. Wanna rest," came a complaint from the back.

"Me, too!"

Digganob sighed. "Roight, then... Let's rest up 'ere, then. We'll keep lookin' tomorrow."

"Roight!"

Treecog, meanwhile, had been listening in silence. So the monsters were going to stay for the entire night, which meant that he too would have to stay for the entire night beneath a pile of itchy pine needles, lest he risk getting caught if he tried to break a run for it. The realization was degrading and humiliating, but not so much as what would happen if they found him and tried to use him as some sort of chew toy...

---

Akrosh had truly blessed these people, the white stag being a boon that their choice to settle into this land, albeit harsh, was the right move for these orcs. Guthug knew this, and for the blessing of Akrosh and his mighty stag behind him, he would be eternally grateful even into his death. The thing that made him happier was his people jubilant over his success, now being able to tame animals of their own knowing that their gods were watching them. Even as he settled some stones at the base of what was to develop into his home, he would see people place their balled fist over their hearts as a sign of faith.

However, as he set stone after stone into place, the thought of those bearmen and how they had given them an idol and the symbols of various animals that Akrosh had trained. Guthug paused in his building as he took the pouch off of his waist, opening it to examine the crudely made idol only for the vivid memory of that event to play within his mind. When he felt a ginger hand touch his shoulder, he almost jumped as he believed that one of the bearmen had come towards him, but when he looked to see who it was, he saw that it was his wife.

Technically, however, she was not his wife, but they were betrothed, only unable to marry in this new land for there was no ground that had been consecrated for such an occasion.

“Yutol…” Guthug said softly, a smile coming across his face as his hand went to touch hers.

Yutol, a large and imposing figure compared to most other females of tribe, let out a laugh at Guthug’s jump as she sat next to him. As she moved her body closer to his, she could not help but spy the pouch that had been gifted to him. “What is that?” she asked, inquisitive.

“A pouch gifted to me by bearmen I met on my trial. They gave it to me after I mentioned Akrosh,” Guthug stated, holding the contents of the pouch up for Yutol to see.

“That was nice of them,” Yutol said simply as she looked at the items before she looked back at Guthug, “Perhaps you should seek them out to give them a gift for such a successful trial.” She twirled a finger around the dreads of his hair before leaning her head upon his shoulder.

“A fine idea, but we have nothing that would make a good gift just yet,” Guthug said, his eyes moving to the ground as he shut his hand around the gift. He knew he would have to look for something, knowing that the kindness that had been bestowed onto him must be reciprocated lest there be a breach in the kindness that the stag stood for. Guthug knew that he would have to search the nearby lands for anything that may make for a fine gift.

“What of our wedding, Guthug?” Yotul asked.

“We must wait, the shamans have yet to consecrate any ground.”

“And when will they?”

“When they have attuned to the land,” Guthug answered with a huff.

Yotul let out a sigh, clearly displeased with such an answer but unmoving from her position next to Guthug. The two had not been able to marry in their past land due to the circumstances of war and the divide in faith, but now they found themselves hampered by the will of the shamans while all they could do is be patient or go against what was sacred once more. Nobody wanted to experience a second conflict after being forced to flee.

“I will talk to them once I have finished our home, if they have not by then. For the time being, I only ask for patience,” Guthug said as he moved to stand.

Yotul looked at him with an indifferent expression before speaking, “If that is how you feel.”

As Guthug walked off, he looked to the unfinished wall, seeing many people working to erect it so that those wolves would not be so bold in their attempt to steal what food they had. He approached some who were taking a break from the tedious building and motioned for them to follow. They obeyed their chief without question.

“We will roam our territory for things that would make for fine gifts,” Guthug said simply as the group grew, men eagerly wanting to serve their chief even if it were for a simple task. By the time they left the camp, they had grown to fifty men, all ready to dig or craft with what they find in their new lands.

---

Turn 4

@AdorableSaucer @Cyclone Read below! Contents of this hider has some info for both of you.



@Bright_Ops



@Lauder



@AdorableSaucer



@Cyclone



@Schylerwalker No post found. Post this turn or you’re automatically dropped!



@Pirate No post found. Post this turn or you’re automatically dropped!

As Rukdug stared into the fire he was seated in front of, he watched the shadows it cast dance as his mind pondered the information he had received and witnessed first hand.

It had been mere hours since sundown and the 'Lord of the Forest' withdrawing into the forest after its show of force. Rukdug had summoned a war council of his captains with haste to bring them up to date on the situation... before dismissing them after the briefing so that they could have a few hours before the war council started properly in order to think about the situation at hand. The Hunter knew well the feeling of blood boiling in ones veins in rage after a threat had been given... and even more so the frustration that lingered afterwards from not being able to strike then and there. But such feelings, while powerful, tended to be impulsive and reckless; Traits they couldn't go into a war against an unknown foe that knows the terrain of battle so well with.

So he had informed his captains of the situation and gave them time to think and have a meal so that the initial surge of fury and desire for blood would have a chance to cool and they would start to put those brains to use instead. It also gave him the chance to do the same, since the desire to smash the skull of the so called 'Forest Lord' with his bare hands was a strong impulse and he couldn't let it effect his judgement... if he wanted to make this nature lover truly suffer, he was going to was going to have to consider it with care.

By comparison, the incident at the mountain was an simple affair to deal with. After the scouts and magic-belchers had a chance to enjoy a night in the relative safety of the walls of Riverforge, he was going to send the scouts and some (but not all) of the magic-belchers back to the mountain ruins with tools to open the door up to start exploring inside the mountain. He did not know this human witch who claimed to be the mountain or what her goals were, nor did he trust her in the slightest. But the belchers were insistent that she was powerful in magic and had chosen to aid one of his people rather then kill them on the spot. He was willing to be diplomatic, if only to figure out how much of a threat she was and if her personal desires would put her at odds with the desires and ambitions of his own people.

Currently she was a mystery, and Rukdug didn't like mysteries. Mysteries got you killed.

As the warchief watched the dancing flame and shadow, an plan started to develop in his mind.

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

While he had never seen the political gatherings of other races or witnessed the political courts of monarchy himself, Rukdug suspected that at the heart of all political organizations it was just like being apart of an orcish war council, but with pointless restrictions, laws and different weapons. All orcs with the skill and ambition to attain the rank of Captain had an ego to them, though it had to be said that it was bigger in some then others. Most were either self important busy bodies who only wanted to be captain for the perks or narcissists on an ego trip from the power the position offered over their fellow orcs... and the number of captains that he knew had been content with this level of power could be counted on one hand without risk of needing additional fingers.

The Mustaqilun Tribe's own war council of captains wasn't much better, but Rukdug had at least made sure that his captains had earned their rank through talent as well as loyalty to him. If they didn't like or get along with each other sometimes as acceptable as long as things didn't spill over into a body count and they could work together like professionals when the need arose. Thankfully, having some strange and unknown outside force making a show of force and threatening them and their people to deny them anything, let alone a resource was a hell of a rallying cry.

For a time, Rukdug listened to the ideas of his captains. None of them by themselves were better by their own, but elements of them could be used to enhance the scheme that was brewing in his mind as the warchief finally raised a hand to silence his captains to speak. "Having listened to your suggestions, I believe we have a solid plan to work with going forward. I fully intend to do what most of you suggested and and increase the number of patrols along our western, north western and south western boarders, as well as booby trap the hell out of them to ensure that any incursion is going to suffer heavy losses. The lumber mill will remain where it is, but for the time being we won't be drawing wood from the western forest."

Before any of the Captains had a chance to speak up about what seemed like weakness like their leader, Rukdug firmly hammered his point home "As far as I am concerned, we are now at war with this upstart forest lord and his walking fur pile he calls an army. We were at war the moment he threatened our people and mobilized against us. However, our enemy in his arrogance has allowed us the opportunity to make the opening move because he believes we cannot hurt him." The smile that grew on Rukdug's face was a wicked thing indeed.

"He is going to learn otherwise. Once the traps have been set, I fully intend for a fire break to be built to shield us from the western side of Riverforge... and once we're stockpiled enough lumber that we can afford to lose the current lumber mill in the event of an attack, with a little extra potencey and resilience from the magic-belchers, that forest is going to burn." There was a moment of silence before Rukdug continued. "I doubt that even with the magical assistance of the belchers that the whole western forest will burn completely. Either it will burn itself out or the upstart will manage to stop it before it completely consumes his so called 'sacred forest'-" there was a small scoff from the Warchief as he shook his head "- but I believe that is a suitable way to start the war properly, don't you think?"

A flustered Keylock took off his spectacles and began rubbing them in a bid to stall for time, his near-blind eyes looking at the blurry outline of the dwarf (which now, to him, rather resembled a lumpy boulder) and betraying a hint at the incredulous attitude that came about when anybody questioned one going about party business. Fortunately, a smooth talker was on hand to defuse the confrontation.

Steelwin, a gentlemanly lad raised as the third son in an old-money aristocratic family back in the Kingdom, had made of himself a fairly successful paralegal. In time he expected to move up a few notches in the Red Cap Party’s bureaucratic totem pole, so to speak, especially with his uncle Delfus there to oil the gears. But for now, his youth and inexperience had held him from attaining any senior position. He was left to do the dirty work, like oversee expeditions out in the savage mountains and negotiate impromptu right-of-passage agreements with the local barbarians...

“Ho there, and good morning,” he called out to the guard as he walked a little ways up the path so as to be able to maintain a conversation without the barbarian being made to shout through his beard. “Be at ease, my good fellow, for we come not as intruders but as friends. You see, I have yet to make the acquaintance of this king, but you may rest assured that the various debris and rubbish scattered across this mountaintop was our property. Not to be troublesome, our Director has generously sent us to pick through what is left. We’ll salvage what’s to salvage and dispose of the rest; you may think of us as a clean-up crew. So come along now, surely your king and kith would not object to us sorting out this here mess? I should hope that this friendly encounter doesn’t need to turn into a prolonged litigation, but if it need be, I assure you that my knowledge concerning property rights is-“

There was a faint clink as Keylock started tossing the first of the red crystals into a small sack, taking care to add plenty of other stuff to pad it before he tried to cram in the rest...Upon feeling the stares of those around, he offered a sheepish grin and claimed, “Figured your talking was nice and all, Steelwin, but isn’t it about time we got back to work?”

“I’ve made my decision, ye gits,” Rog-mohog said proudly. For once, Torog and Gork stopped bickering and turned to the chief expectantly. Gork flashed Torog a smug smile and whispered, “I bet he’s gunna see it my way.”

“None’a you are tellin’ the troof, so I’m takin’ the pig ‘n the cow,” the chief declared. Both the others’ jaws dropped to the ground.

Gork raised his hand in protest. “Wot?! That wasn’t even an option, chief, ‘n--!”

“It wos, ye git. I’m the chief!”

“Buh-but…” Torog was at a loss. “Nuh, this ain’t roight. My sow was snatched roight unjustly, she wos. I demand recompun… Recompo… Recompusishun.”

“Recompensation?”

“Thassit.”

“Well, you ain’t gettin’ it. That’s wot you get for lyin’ to your boss,” Rog-mohog declared and began tugging the cow along by the horn and the dead pig by the leg.

“B-buh… I didn’t lie!”

“Neither did I!” Gork added.

Rog-mohog groaned. “See, now one of yous is lyin’! Let this be a lesson for ye - lyin’ to the chief is never good.”

Gork and Torog stood dumbstruck as Rog-mohog walked off with his prizes. The chieftain heard them begin to argue again when he had gotten some distance away. To think, not only had he gotten himself some lunch, but he’d also fetched himself a cow ripe for breeding. He’d have to bring it over to Lop’s ranch later so he could get it bred. For now, though, he’d bring it to his own hut.

The chief pulled his new property up the hill to his tent at the ankle of Big Rock. He gave his throne by the edge of the cliff a proud look and started lighting himself a fire. However, before he could get a spark going, he heard footsteps behind him. The unmistakable stench and mouthbreathing told him that it could only be one ogre on the planet:

His wife, Porky.

“Wot you eatin’, luv?” came a happy voice.

Rog-mohog frowned. “Pork, as usual.”

Porky plopped her behind on the grass and stared curiously at her husband making the fire. Her eyes flickered between the wood and her increasingly surly man.

“Wot you want?” Rog-mohog eventually muttered. Porky clapped her hands excitedly.

“Oh, you asked!”

“Wish I hadn’t.”

“Nuh, nuh, you gunna like this.” Seemingly out of nowhere, Porky produced a fistful of grasses and herbs. Rog-mohog looked unimpressed.

“You picked some weeds. Good girl.”

Porky frowned. “Nooooo! Smell them!” She shoved them in Rog-mohog’s face, nearly causing him to light the dry grass on fire. He tried to push her away, but Porky was strong - very strong. A few reluctant whiffs later, Rog-mohog actually found the smell to be alright - almost pleasant.

“Wot issat?”

“Herbs, luv. Found ‘em by the stream round the Rock.”

“Wait, wait… Stream round the--... Oh, croikey! I was supposed to get stuff for the readin’!”

“The spirit readin’? That’s tomorrow, innit?”

“How do ye remember such things?” Rog-mohog looked at his wife in disbelief. Porky grinned and poked her temple.

“‘S cuz I’m real smart.” She wasn’t, really - not even for an ogre. However, in this short moment, Rog-mohog found himself agreeing just a little. He eyed the herbs in her hand again. “Wot were these herbs for anyway?”

Porky blinked. “Oh, roight!” She reached into the sow’s open belly, grabbed the intestines and pulled some out. With well-placed bites, she cut out a section, blew the contents out and sat squeezing out the rests. Rog-mohog looked on in disgust and morbid curiosity.

“Wot you doin’, lady? We use the guts for rope, not eatin’!”

“It makes for weak rope,” Porky replied, “But this, this was somethin’ Wololo made up in a dream.”

“Was he smokin’ too much again?”

“Y’know how it is, luv,” she said with a degree of pity. “Anyway, see, wot y’do is… Hang on, gotta chew somma this… (smacksmack) Mmm… Thash real good, MM! Now somma theshe herbsh... Roigh, now y’jush… Spi’ i’ roigh’ in ‘n… (ptew!) … ‘N there! A sosig!”

Rog-mohog stared uncertainly and with some concern at the length of intestine, tied shut on one end and open on the other, into which had been deposited a mouthful of half-chewed herbs and pork meat, and which now looked like a stuffed sock.

“Wot issat?”

“A sosig!”

“Wot’s a sosig?”

“Pork meat in pork guts! See now, see now.” She held it over the fire for a while until the outside was charred and crisp. Then she handed it to her husband, who gave it a sniff. After a skeptical moment, he took a bite. The sosig tasted better than unseasoned pork, but only marginally. The herbs were interesting, but it couldn’t really compare with a thick slab of bacon. Still, it would be a nice way of using up those scraps nobody wanted.

“How is it?” Porky asked. Rog-mohog swallowed and hummed.

“Is a’roight. Wololo came up with this, y’say?”

“He says all kinds’a rubbish. Last week, he was sayin’ we’ll ‘ave self-walkin’ cows, but these ‘ave wheels and we can ride ‘em. He calls ‘em ‘cars’.”

Rog-mohog shook his head. “He needs to smoke less of that burnin’ bush.” He took another moment to ponder before clapping his hands together. “Roight! Proppa lunch time. Uh, Porky! Don’t mind if you make more sosiges, but I’ve got a job for you!”

“Oh!” Porky perked up. “Wot kind, wot kind?!”

“I need you to find me a dog’s toof, an owl feavvah, fresh moss and a dead ogre foot.”

Porky’s expression lessed in enthusiasm. “You mean do your job for ya?”

Rog-mohog shook his head. “No, no, see - I’ve found a boar bone plate.” He patted the boar carcass next to him. “Practically dun half the job myself.”

Porky took a moment to think about this. “Huh… S’pose you ‘ave. Fine! I’ll be right back, then! Love ya!”

“Oh, uh. Same, I guess,” Rog-mohog responded absent-mindedly as he flipped the porkchop he held in his hand to get a nice char on the other side.

---

“We cannot hunt the beast! Think of how it might be able to guard us! Our mothers and children will not need to worry about some unknown threat breaching our walls,” Frelt pleaded, kneeling in front of his chieftain, who was sharpening the head of a spear. He looked up to meet Guthug’s gaze, merely looking down upon the orc with a judging look before he threw the spear into the ground in front of Frelt.

“And think if it were to turn upon us! We may have Akrosh’s blessing for the time being, but we cannot push our luck. You know the views of the ancestors on arrogance,” Guthug grunted as he stood, stepping forward before he was only a breath away from the kneeling orc. Guthug could see the desire of taming of the beast, but he knew that if Frelt was successful then it would give Frelt a position of power to challenge him as chieftain over the people. Politics ran through the heirless chieftain before he motioned for Frelt to rise.

Guthug wrapped his hand around the back of Frelt’s neck and brought his ear next to his mouth before he would speak, “I give you ten days and ten nights to tame the beast. After that, we will hunt it. If you tame it during our hunt, you may yet still keep it alive. In that time, I will raise hunters to track it with me.” The chieftain knew of Frelt’s desire for a proper challenge, as such, Guthug would gift it to the ambitious man with such a time constraint. While he hoped that Frelt would fail in his endeavour, he knew the desire for a challenge for he had chosen the the rarest animal to track for his rite.

Frelt stepped back at the words, looking Guthug in the eye once more but this time with a wicked smile upon his face before he turned to leave. “You may only pick three people to aid you in this task…” Guthug started before sour words came out of his mouth, “May Akrosh guide your path.”

When Frelt left the grace of Guthug, he could only feel the desire of the challenge growing within him and he looked down upon his wrist to see the bite marks of an old companion that he had earned. He remembered the once great cougar that had become his closest companion. He remembered how they would hunt. He remembered when it had died in their exodus, how it had given its life so that the clan may live. Frelt owed his old friend such an honor, he knew that his old friend would approve of such a challenge.

As Frelt walked away, intending to do this task on his own, he soon found himself flanked by Gureth who intended to walk in his shadow. He hoped that his silence was enough to send her away as he stepped through the rocky fields that the others had resigned themselves to pick through for useless baubles. Eventually, he turned his head to her, she stopped as he did.

“What do you want?” He asked.

“I want to help you,” Gureth said.

“And what makes you think I want help?” Frelt asked, crossing his arms as she tentatively played with her fingers.

“I know that you like these challenges, b-but we both saw the size of that thing. It will kill you if you do not have help,” she said, her voice slowly becoming more confident as she spoke to the one that had held her infatuation.

He knew fully well what she truly desired, his previous suitors had desired the same, but for what it was worth, he knew that she was right. With a sigh, Frelt hung his head before turning away from Gureth, motioning for her to follow. She was one of the only others that knew of this creature and she knew of its tracks.

Gureth almost squealed at his acceptance of her being able to accompany him, but she knew that she had to be careful not to mess things up too quickly! She knew that she could not get in his way, lest she face the full denial of any confession to him, a denial that many had faced before her. She would be as crafty as a fox, as silent as a snake, a helpful as… an otter.

Frelt on the other hand, continued his march before turning to speak to her once more, “Just remember, if this creature is to wound me so that I may not be able to run, leave me to my fate! I will die with honor.”

Gureth could only look at him before she would speak, a full lie, “As you wish.”