[IC] Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi - an Orcish saga

[HeySeuss]

Prologue

She had read stories of orcs, among all the other tales. And, of course, the scripture, which presented them as a base, evil people that only existed to inflict punishment on the goodly peoples. They were always cast as the louts and the thugs, disorganized killers, foot troops for malevolent demons in need of a mortal army or demented wizards addled by their spellcasting into desiring ambition above all other. They were lance fodder for the knights.

Well, Castle Vendal's knights went out with a small force of men at arms and conscripted peasants with their billhooks and bows, ready to repel the orcish raiders.

None came back. In the distance, a day ago, the skyline glowed with the fires and the haggard messengers came back, wild-eyed and in blood-stained bandages, the stragglers of the battle telling tales of demon armies of wolves and armored killers that cut Vendal's defenders down like wheat. It was a chant she heard for herself when the orcs lay siege to what was left of the garrison, but it wasn't a prayer to demons -- it was the orcs carrying the standards, skulls and furs atop a pole, keeping the cadence of the march as they moved forward and into place. Little was there of the wild raiders of the tales, the easy prey for skilled knights, the witless buffoon minions of some warlord. These were green-skinned and fierce, the tales got that much right. But what the tales got wrong was everything else.

Vendal fell quickly, it was hard to say how or precisely where the breach occurred, just that it was terrible armored figures in red riding giant wolves that managed to find a place to vault over the walls and take the gatehouse. More marched in, figures in dull gray armor painted with blood red, festooned in spikes, fur and skulls, to join the fray in the courtyard, fighting with a cold discipline and inexorable strength; their swords were angled strangely, their weaponry wickedly forged in shapes alien to humans, and their use was callous, brutal and bloody, but it wasn't inept. These figures were brutes, but they were brutes that used it to their advantage, battering down their foes and then finishing them in a messy but efficient fashion.

Blood splashed the courtyard below when the human defenders of Vendal finally threw their arms up and gave surrender; surprisingly, they were gathered together rather than slaughtered outright, though there was clearly some sort of argument over it-- a darker-skinned orc than the others punched one of his own out in the course of an argument and bellowed something that sounded a lot like orders.

Adrissa wasn't the only one in the room; Osula and Avera were there, comforting each other and weeping in turn. Vel, the seneschal, had a sword, but he was well past his fighting prime. All they could do, in the chamber where they'd been put as soon as it was apparent that a green horde was laying siege to the castle, was wait out the screams, the howls, and the grunts, flinching with every loud noise. Flinching with every footstep that thudded up the stairs nearby, ominously closer and closer as Vel finally got his sword up and ready -- once a knight, he was long past the fighting prime of his youth and, in any case, never a warrior of great note, but he was tight-lipped, grim-jawed and determined to go down. Dear fool, Adrissa thought.

The door opened, the sword came down and was caught in the flanges of a halberd; and the old man pushed back with enough force to knock the wind from him and leave the sword clattering to the ground; the figure before them wore plate mail, immense and red-lacquered, with the fur fringe and engravings of skulls and snakes and other things of mythology upon it -- well-wrought, beautiful. There was a helmet there, shaped like a snarling demon mask, though the tusks were real, and the thing was created to accommodate the fact that they jutted.

One word came from that mouth, as those baleful, bloodshot eyes took in the opposition before them, "Hold." The halberd was lowered, the spearpoint aimed for Vel's ribcage, and there were others behind this immense figure, giving conversational grunts and harsh consonants in the course of whatever it was they spoke of amongst themselves when it was cut violently short with a battlecry and a death-rattle; the orcs turned to face their foes, also large, also wearing furs, though cruder, and wielding weapons similar to their own...

The tuskers held Vendal for the moment, and they found out an unpleasant surprise -- it wasn't simply a damned strategic holding point that Lord Ren Arad wanted taken to secure the march route for his troops, Koloch the Butcher almost literally tripped some a roomful of bunnies who posed no threat, and then had to fend off a bunch of bunnies dressed as tuskers and wielding tusker weapons, big bunnies but bunnies all the same. The unpleasantness of the surprise didn't flap the Butcher, or the tuskers with him besides the one that got killed by a blade to the back, and they managed to saw through the assassins quickly.

It was Dakgu that pointed out that the weapons were tribal tusker, variety of tribe marks, and so the ruse wasn't intended for any orc. Jagath added his two bits in; whoever arranged for a bunch of bunny killers to kill some other bunnies with tusker weapons was probably looking to set Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi up for something ugly.

Radush Eye-Drinker added the kicker -- if you wanted to get rid of someone important and didn't want to take credit, who would you use? Why not a bunch of tusker mercenaries, throw them away because they're a liability to a man trying to gain the trust of the commons anyway. That went over well enough considering it was a room full of tuskers talking, which often involved someone getting the green smacked off them somewhere down the line, but it made a lot of sense here. The Company, right out of the gate on its first legitimate campaign, instead of just guarding caravans and scaring off bandits, found itself in the position of getting stiffed on the gold and set up as a bunch of killers.

"But Warlord," asked one of the Tuskers, "Whose the bunny girl they want dead?"

Then they found out. Koloch didn't just trip over some bunnies cowering in a tower; the Butcher found Stephen's bastard daughter and now she was in the hands of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi. There was an argument over what to do with the girl, but the old Eye-Drinker pointed out that the entire setup was that they were going to be blamed for killing her, so they better damned well keep the girl alive so they could parade her for all the bunnies to see.

The company made ready for another siege, this time doing the defending, and old Radush Eye-Drinker went to have tea, of all things, with Adrissa, the last of the direct line Orenths. Though Stephen's bastard daughter with some woods witch, she was still, depending on who interpreted the law, a direct heir to the throne of Ceril. The whole damned war was about who was supposed to put their ass on the bunny throne and apparently Ren Arad's plan was to blame tuskers for killing the girl.

Plan B became apparent when the warhorns signalled the alert -- some of Ren Arad's forces were arrayed for a siege at Vendal, moving in to invest around the walls. The idea was probably a lot like plan A; kill the tuskers, kill the girl, blame the girl on the tuskers.

Dakgu could see from his vantage on the curtain wall what was coming; but it was hard for him to relay those things, and sieges weren't what he did anyway. But the bunnies were busy building something. The one down there that looked like he was doing the directing? Well, he sprouted an orcish arrow. Dakgu Elf-Scalper was never one to wait on the niceties of a fight, like letting the enemy notice him aiming at them.

The enemy's first siege engineer went down gurgling and pink-frothing, and the bunnies fired several crossbows at the Elf-Scalper, even as some new bunny started shouting to the other bunnies and went about reorganizing the ladder parties...

[Bright_Ops]

The first legitimate campaign that the company had been apart of and it was very quickly becoming apparent that their employer was trying to use them than kill them. Bel-Gond took a great deal of offense to this. Over the years while working in the company, he had been somewhat surprised to discover that Dwarves and Orcs did have something culturally in common; They both put a great deal of value in ones word. This betrayal would not be allowed to stand and their employer was going to pay what was due one way or the other.

But first they had to deal with the betrayal itself.

Bel-Gond was not the grandest of tactical minds, but his style of fighting had required him to figure out either where the bulk of the fighting was going to be taking place or what was the most vital area to hold. Depending on what they brought to bare against them, they would either try to scale the walls (A very poor idea), attempt to capture the gatehouse and open the gate (A slightly better plan) or just simply tear down a wall or gate with siege weapons (Depends largely on the situation. It might win the battle, but if you want to keep the fortress you have to repair the damage).

Thus it was with as much speed as his armored body could muster that Bel-Gond made his way towards the gatehouse while helping to rally the pikes and the blades towards the walls. Unless the situation changed suddenly, Bel-Gond's battlefield was going to consist of the gatehouse and the area around it. If the attackers wanted to get into -this- fortress without finding themselves tired after scaling a ladder with all their equipment and outnumbered by the orcish defenders waiting for them, they were going to have to try and get past the Metal Wall first. Bel-Gond would take pity on the poor bastards that tried and give them a mercifully shift death.

[Flagg]

"Ain't those the bunnies what paid us to crack this place?" asked Ugore, gesturing at the human formations maneuvering in the distance.

"Aye," growled Half-Face, leaning against the crumbling parapet, "So they are."

"Seems a funny way of fighting a war," said Ugore.

"Pinkskins have a knack for scheming themselves stupid," said Half-Face, taking a swig from a dented hip-flask. Black orcish liquor seeped between the exposed fangs of his scarred face, dripping into his furs. "They ain't angling for a siege, neither. They'll try to storm us."

"More of 'em than us by my eye," said Ugore, "Lots more."

Half-Face shrugged, "We got the ground. And anyway, we've got our orders straight from the Eye Drinker. We're holding this place, so I want the Tally-Man and Nailtooth's pikes formed up proper at the gateway. Bazgu and One Ear can cover the breach in the western wall. The pinkskins come in, they're comin' in to a wall of pikes. Jagath's swords and bows will be on the walls, so good luck to the stupid pinks what try to come in by ladders, but I want you to hold your tuskers back, keep 'em by the stables, 'case things get sticky up here you can rush 'em in and throw the bunnies back down."

"And you?"

"I'll have my best orcs out of the fightin, keepin' an eye on the breach and the gateway- those're our weakest spots. I'll send 'em in if things go sour. I asked Jagath to lend us Tall Shadow for to help us there, but who knows if his royal majesty will condescend to donate the bitch to us."

"Conde-what?"

Half-Face snorted, "Just get your tuskers where I want 'em, make sure the other lads have their boys ready for some ugly work."

"Where're you goin?"

The commander gave his underling an appraising glare, the right side of his face snarling, the left fixed in it's permanent, ravaged sneer.

Ugore took a step back, "I just meant-"

"To consult the witch," growled Half Face, "Then to talk to the Warlord about the Elf-Scalper and his warg-tuskers. I got somethin' ugly in mind."

[Meth Quokka]

The siege had been joyous for Einark; the enemies had been plenty before him and had been scythed through like wheat at harvest. Blood still spattered his armour, dripping from his broadsword and the undistinguishable pieces of something from a bunny was stuck on his mace. The breach had lifted his soul from his body; the clash of metal on flesh and orc against man had brought his memory back to the days of purging the soulless from the land with the Dead Mountain tribe. The defenders had broken too early though, at the first sign of the breach, Einark had launched himself into the focal point of the attack with his five Damned at his back. While he’d ploughed his way into their front line, the Damned had followed him in, the double winged battleaxes swinging through the sky in glittering arcs before they clove through the flesh and bone that dared stand in front of them. When the frontline had buckled and collapsed, Einark had pulled his assault; let the pups of the company chase down the remnants and clear the warren of the bunnies.

He’d sheathed his weapons and headed up to the gatehouse, his companions following him wordlessly as he resisted with all his temptation to offer the sacrifice to the Mountain; even after all these years not being connected with the spirits had not rested with his mind. When the foggy cloud of battle had wandered from his mind, he noticed a slight sting from the upper of his arm and a stream of dark blood stained his grey-white skin. Some blade had pierced his arc of death and even slipped between the join of his gauntlets and breastplate, the price one paid for having flexible joins in an armoured carcass. The gatehouse had been deathly still inside, the defenders long since routed by the tuskers who’d fallen upon the castle had swept through here in a bloody wave. The gate had been sturdy and well-built; the wall had long since fallen into disrepair and stood little chance against the horde assembled. In truth the battle had been too short for Einark; the memories of a few days ago still tempted him against what had been the majority of the garrison of the castle. Now there was a battle worthy of songs and praise, yet still the Mountain rejected his tribulations and withheld the redemption he so craved.

He turned on his heel before any further dreary thoughts could grip his mind and wandered back down into the courtyard, the sounds of battle long since passed; what he could tell from the conversing tuskers in the courtyard was that Radush had led the charge into the keep. He was a good warchief, a respectable soldier and a keen enforcer of discipline; an oddity amongst most orcs but it wasn’t quite the same as his own tribe. The company was still primal and primitive; they fought as a company but still acted on their baser instinct, perhaps it was this that was the future of the orcs. The Dead Mountain tribe had been slowly dwindling in number and strength; the succession of battles against the tusked and the tuskless alike had relentlessly weakened their tribe and squandered their wealth. The shamans had always taught them the Mountain would provide and protect, but Einark had begun to question whether the Mountain still had any power, especially this far from its slopes. He was beginning to become resigned to the fact that he’d never see his blessed Mountain again nor feel the comfort of its presence upon his soul, the bunnies had seen to that many a year ago.

His melancholy was broken by the commotion of tuskers pouring out of the keep, apparently some sort of trap had been laid upon the company who were being used as pawns in another game. He turned to head for the keep, surely Radush would call a meeting of the Chosen for this development before the sound of warhorns broke through the air; orc and human alike. The call went out that an army advanced upon the castle flying the banner of Ren Arad, their supposed employer. The development was quite disturbing to Einark, this was supposed to have been their watershed moment of breaking the orcish reputation and become a serious mercenary company. Tuskers rushed all around him to the walls, organising themselves into the warbands of the various leaders and Einark noticed one of his Chargers fidgeting in the background. “Be still, Shugrush. Battle is soon to be joined again; let us purge more of these bunnies from the world. We hold here, we charge when I charge. Uluk Sun-gar .”

The Charge of the Damned. It was such a poetic phrase that it could not have been conceived in the mind of an orc; no, a broken bunny had remarked that it had been like the charge of the damned when Einark and his men had fallen upon them. While no other orc in the company knew the Dead Mountain dialect, they knew one phrase, Uluk Sun-gar. The Damned were handpicked from the blades and hand trained by Einark; they followed him into battle and sometimes came out from the other side with him. Shugrush had only been brought into the Damned after the last battle, a strong fighter but still had the headstrong energy of the young.

Seeing the Chosen at work was a marvel of independence; everyone knew their best role and where they would be best served. Even the half-breed chosen still had some use in the company; Einark watched grimly as Bel-Gond the Metal Wall ascended to the gatehouse, the strongest part of the castle and most likely the place they’d avoid attacking. The dwarf blood was shining through. His quiet observation was broken by the sound of Half-face’s growling voice barking order to his men and he found his eyes wandering over the formations of orcs as they moved into their relative positions. Disciplined impure orcs; it was still something that pleased Einark when he saw the most bloodthirsty and violent race in the land follow drill command and hold formation in battle. The bunnies would find out once again that the company were not just some mob of raiders but a division of disciplined fighters and the blood would run in rivers during that lesson.

Einark wandered over to the breach, nodding appraisingly to the few pikes that glanced over his way; he could see a few mouths moving and heard discrete murmurs about the Damned. A few of the orcs looked as if they stiffened had been resolved by his presence; the Chosen were well known among the tuskers and were often figures of inspiration in battle. He cradled his great helm in the crook of his arm as he watched the bunnies swarm like ants around the siege camp, some hefted ladders and others formed formations to attack. He hefted his shoulders and rammed the great helm on his head, freeing his hands to unsheathe his mace and broadsword. When he spoke, his voice was low and commanding, his rising bloodlust clear for all, “Hold the breach, the Eye-drinker commands it. Remember, if they break the line “Uluk Sun-gar”.

“Uluk Sun-gar” they chanted back.

[MelonHead]

With a grimace his fingers trailed the stinging line of a cut across his forehead, a mute reminder of how close he had come to leaving his feint too late. In some regards the move had been performed to the pinnacle of perfection, suffering a minor wound without any greater ramifications meaning he had pushed it to its absolute limit, further increasing its chance of success as his baffled foe had found himself impaled upon a sharp sabre point. Still, he’d have preferred it hadn’t have worked and some other fate had befallen the Knight, rather than to have come that close to dying. He had a lot left to do, and dying wasn’t one of those things.

The siege had been short and uneventful for Grolan, he had in fact suffered his injury in the earlier skirmish where he was at his most effective, in the open field. He had hung back until the castle was almost taken, allowing the heavily armoured brutes to take centre stage, regardless of what they thought of him and his seeming cowardice. Now however he was sat upon a barrel and watching events unfold before him. Few gave him a second glance, those who did were unable even to give him the usual malicious shoves as their hands were filled with meagre loot from the castle. He sighed, shaking his head slowly, this siege had been a farce at best. There was no glory to be won fighting a rag-tag militia herded by old and arrogant Knights, and the castle had been even less of a challenge. The walls were barely manned, nor were they in any state really worthy of being defences, almost half crumbled in some spots. Grolan couldn’t help but wonder what the strategic advantage of such a place was, that Lord Arad would hire a mercenary company like Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi to take it. Ultimately he could probably have seized the place himself at a lesser cost, so why hadn’t he?

As Grolan considered the wider implications of the all too easy capture of Vendal castle, the hubbub generated around him actually filled in some of the blanks as he was reaching them. Armed ‘Bunnies’ approaching the gates, with obvious warlike intentions. His eyes narrowed.

“Well played.” He said to himself, though an Orc who had dropped his loot and was running to the gates gave him a look of stern disapproval, and leapt to kick the barrel out from underneath him. Wise to the Tusker’s plan he rolled backwards off the barrel as it flew out from under him, allowing him to regain his feet with a fair amount of acrobatic grace for a Half-Orc in chainmail.

“Bugger Off, Tusker.” Grolan spat, reverting to Orcish slang as he often did when communicating with his ‘fellows’. The Orc looked like he had more to say, but apparently mollified by his hostile response he just snorted and ran towards the walls, as many voices began shouting at once. Grolan watched Half-Face from across the courtyard, trying to marshal troops into some semblance of order. Shame the Company didn’t train for siege defence, which was an oversight on the Butcher’s part, considering his training he should know better.

Grolan had plenty of insight to give on how best to defend a Human castle against Human forces, but he kept it to himself, having found that his advice was at best, laughed at, at worst, unwelcome. He sighed in a remarkably Un-Orcish fashion, lamenting the further degradation of his good looks, and began jogging over to the frontline. At least these opponents might be worthy of his sword.

[GreivousKhan]

The sun was high in the sky when there came the echo of horns and the thrumming of war drums. An alert that they were under attack-- and by their own employers no less! The siege of the castle itself had been a rather straightforward and simple affair. The bunnies had believed, or at least hoped, their walls would be sufficient protection against what they believed to be marauding orcs; no different than the common rabble. They had not counted on a disciplined efficient fighting force. The plan had been as simple as it had been elegant. Ladders or ropes would have been a dangerous proposition. The Bunnies never counted on wargs climbing over the walls. Least of all a minor giantess to haul the very platform they would use to enter the castle. Part pseudo shield part ramp.

Nargesh couldn’t remember whose idea it had been, probably Half-faces, but it had been an effective one. The castle had fallen swiftly after that. In fact, by the time Nargesh had entered through the gate after the first wave had managed to open it, the courtyard had already been over run. The fiercest fighting had been within the castle itself. Sadly outside the realm of Nargesh’s ability to participate. That fact had annoyed her bitterly. Their first true campaign and she’d barely crushed any of the enemy!

Unforgivable!

By battles end Nargesh had been in a foul mood. So much so the rest in the company wisely gave her a wide berth. So it was actually with some relief that there turned out to be more little bunnies who needed killing. Let Xozu dabble in sorcery, let Chief Kavu count his numbers, Nargesh was never happier than when she was in the midst of battle. The feel of adrenalin pumping through your body, the boisterous choir of violence that were made up of the screams, shouts and whistling of arrows that echoed proudly; this was what it meant to be alive.

Nargesh didn't really understand why those paying them were now suddenly their enemies. Truth was she could care less about the reasons, the subtle intrigue of bunny politics were lost on her anyhow, what mattered was there was a fight to be had.

The problem that currently presented itself came in the form of 30 or so feet of solid and thick stone wall. It presented an annoying obstacle that separated Nargesh form the bunnies outside. It was an important strategic piece of terrain to most of the chosen. To Tall-Shadow? An unwanted obstruction preventing her from engaging the enemy. Nothing more. Still she had not been given permission to sally forth and perhaps catch the soft skins off guard. No she was trapped here, pacing the court yard waiting for a chance to spill some blood, the ground shaking slightly with each step. Her constant movements no doubt made the orcs around her jumpy, having learned a long time ago to avoid standing between her and the enemy. There was even a special horn call to open ranks to allow her to engage with a force of blades.

Sadly no such horn call existed that allowed the walls to pull open like a curtain so she could do that now. So great sword resting on one armored shoulder she waited as she paced. Breathing heavier and snarling her teeth as she worked herself into a frenzy for the coming battle. Also waiting for perhaps direction to the best place she could put her sword to use. Though generally she was given a rather generous amount of autonomy like many of the Chosen.

[Vanq]

Runt wiped her mouth with a battle-dirty hand. Grimy, from the dirt, sweat, and blood of the battle, she still felt a high from the adrenaline that had coursed through her in the earlier taking of the castle. The bunnies had fallen before them like...well, like bunnies to tuskers. She had led her warband through the gates once they had fallen, swords at the ready and deep, guttural war cries that rose over the din of battle. One of them had fallen in battle, but Runt had escaped the fray with just a few scratches and mightily sore shoulder. The pain felt good, a reminder that she had lived through yet another battle in her life, a reminder of the damage she had dealt in return.

Grubby hands rubbed at the sore spot beneath the mail while took a few mouthfuls of a liquor she had found while inspecting the hold. It was weak with barely the punch that even dwarven liquors carried. She made her way to a courtyard, a courtyard that had once held nicely trimmed foliage with cared for pathways. She looked at, still perplexed at the things that bunnies - and knife-ears - spent their time on. Pretty flowers and green things. What a waste. Well, at least the flower plots had made a fair smelling latrine for the liquor that had moved through her system. There was something so satisfying about defiling the pretty bunny things in that manner.

Properly relieved, she made her way to the walls they broken through and flooded over. Not long after arriving at the walls, the tell tale signs of an approaching army resounded. With an angry glare, her head tilted up, to the sky that was all she could see above the walls. More bunnies? Her hand unconsciously gripped her falcata's hilt. More blood to be spilt. She rolled her shoulders, the pang of pain momentarily deepening. Whoever thought to take the castle so soon after they had done so...It was an unlikely coincidence.

Her eyes scanned the sudden burst of activity. Her fellow tuskers looked to their betters for direction, but largely moved around her, some acknowledging her. Her status as one of the Chosen granted certain benefits. She scratched at her chin before taking off at heavy trot, down the length of the wall. She knew where she wanted to be for the approaching battle. Perhaps they bunnies thought they'd be dead, or dead drunk. They wouldn't be ready for an all out assault and few things were as fear inspiring as a half-ogre in a blood rage.

"Nargesh!" Her voice was deep, robust, distinctly unfeminine even for an orc. The half-ogre grew in size as Runt ran closer. She was also clearly getting worked up. Perfect, really. "Another round of bunny hunting." A smiling grimace crossed her lips, the old scar puckering and pulling her lips into an odd expression. "Let's get some of the Blades to the gate house." Runt would have almost preferred to have the option of another easy exit. Typically not one for sneaky planning, blindsiding the bunnies and sending them scampering would have been fun nonetheless. There was no time for that now, though, and she knew both she and Nargesh would be happier meeting the fluffy ones head on.

[Sparkwell]

Kavu wiped the sweat from his brow as he helped Narvek haul the final supply wagon into the shadow of the central keep's structure. The non-combatants among the campers had been rapidly and chaotically evacuated into the relative safety of the inner keep, both to ensure their protection from projectiles and to keep them out of the way of the combat operations of the rest of the company. However, space was limited; the keep had hardly been designed to hold a force of over a thousand combatants, much less a thousand Orcish combatants and their entire supply train. All of the supplies were currently being kept on the far side of the courtyard from the breach, with an emergency medical station established just inside the inner keep for those who had been injured in the initial assault. However, the priority for Kavu was long-term survival, and thus Kavu and one of his junior Quartermasters had taken over coordinating the impromptu storage of tons of foodstuffs and supplies, attempting to complete the impossible task of trying bring all the Company's wagons and pack animals inside the safety of the walls before the approaching army could seize them. Luckily, they had been modestly successful, only abandoning a few of the older and straggling wagons and pack animals in favour of ensuring the safety of the rest. Unfortunately, Kavu estimated at a glance that they had lost almost a week of food supplies. Thus, palpable relief showed on his face when he heard the bunny horns sounding the attack; a prolonged siege would have been a disaster for the Company and exhausted their remaining supplies.

Waving his hand dismissively, Kavu gestured for Narvek join the other camper volunteers in bolstering the damaged gates with scrap wood and stone. Normally, he would requisition a squad of Pikes from Half-Face for the task, but with the Pikes rushing to secure the wall breach and remove the ramp that had initially allowed Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi access to the keep, Kavu had pressed some of the artisans and teamsters attached to the supply train into service as a makeshift work crew. With Narvek watching over them, they would be sure to work quickly and efficiently; the junior Orc Quartermaster's nigh-legendary temper with slackers was occasionally joked to surpass that of Half-Face. Kavu grinned lopsidedly as he tightened the knot holding a mule to recently planted post. A fearsome reputation did have its uses in time-sensitive situations, and he took advantage of Narvek's almost as much as he utilized his own.

Confident, at least for the moment, that his duties to the supply train were fulfilled, Kavu turned and headed for the ramparts. Overhead, he could hear the sounds of commands being tossed back and forth between warbands as Orcs rushed to their posts. Though he'd managed to get a general sense of the situation from the scouts who'd reported the approach of Ren Arad's troops, his mind was still whirling with the implications. He didn't doubt Radush's approach in keeping the bunny girl alive, but witnessing that conference had given him some severe misgivings about the safety of their long-term contract with Ren Arad. Clearly, those doubts had been confirmed. Still, he'd barely had enough time to secure the supply train, nevermind deploying work teams to shore up defenses and deploy defensive siege. Thus, Kavu's usual role coordinating the back lines in a battle was quickly becoming irrelevant. He grunted in frustration as he climbed the narrow steps to the ramparts two at a time, shoving a novice Pike out of the way who was taking too long to get to the top. Not a second after Kavu's feet hit the top step of the ramparts, a poorly aimed ballista bolt whistled past where Kavu's head had been just moments before. This did not improve Kavu's mood, and he made his anger known by kicking open the door to the nearby corner turret as he ran for cover. The cursed bunnies had ballistae and were wasting them shooting at moving targets on the ramparts? It would almost be insulting if Kavu didn't know that they would become a real threat once the siege masters of the approaching army got their evidently twitchy crews under control.

It was then that Kavu spied, out of the corner of his eye, a potential tool. Sure, it was old and clearly human made as opposed to the... "refined" elvish designs - Kavu refused to call them elegant - but it would do the trick. Would certainly save him time as opposed to taking half an hour to set up the Company's own siege equipment. It was just a question of why it hadn't been used in staving off the initial attack. Kavu aggressively pushed passed the nearby Spikes assembling in the tower, moving to take a closer look at the crude catapult. Ah. That was the problem; a broken gear in the cranking mechanism. Kavu grunted to himself again as he scratched his head in thought. He was positive that he'd salvaged similar gears in the past... if he could retrieve it and get this catapult operational, it could be wheeled out to the wall and put into use. And he knew just the Orc to provide the right ammunition. Unfortunately, his usual team was distributed all over the keep; it would be quite the effort to round them up.

Kavu grunted again as his frustration got the better of him. Improvisation was annoying; if he'd had even another hour to prepare a defence, his familiar heavy crossbows and mangonels could have been unpacked and used to slow the rate at which the attacking bunnies could have got their siege weapons established. Ugh. At least the bunnies were predictably underestimating the Orcs - from what he could see from the tower, they'd placed their siege weapons just within an accurate striking distance of the walls, likely assuming that the Company had no way of retaliating. Well. Maybe they'd learn just how intuitive Orcs with a purpose and access to the right tools could be. Turning on his heel, Kavu rushed out of the tower. He needed to find Rassmata.

"Rassmata!" Kavu bellowed as he descended the steps. "Ulgor! Warbesk! To me! We've got work to do."

[Sypherkhode822]

Rassmata:

I'm crouching in the cellars with a terrified human steward trying to find a casket of pitch.

"Please, sir, we ha-ha-had stored so-mmmm-some pitch just last mo-montth. It must be around here somewhere."

The frail old man is dressed in his finest regalia, presumably because he had visions of dying alongside his mistress after throwing himself nobly to his death to save her from the cruel orcs, and he wanted to look his best. And when the orcs didn't kill them, he contented himself with looking good as a prisoner. If he had known that he would be helping me find some pitch to replace my used firebombs, I think he might have dressed more suitably.

"No worries, sir. I dint wish to bother you, but I needed your help, sir."

Both me and the steward are uncomfortable with one another and the situation, so we've both reverted to speaking as formally as we can, each deferring to the other. Which, while it could be amusing to onlookers, is leaving both of us with frayed nerves.

I swing the diminutive lantern around the space, a dusty underground room filled with crates and barrels with not nearly enough space for me to stand up in, though the steward can stand upright easily, if he wasn't hunching away from me.
I'm just about to give up and content myself to the firebombs I already have when the steward lets out a victorious squawk, and begins tugging at a hefty barrel set back into the corner of the room, partially obscured by other wooden containers.
Moving awkwardly to where the old man is, I reach over him, grasping the barrel firmly in two hands, and pull it away over his head.
The steward flinches, fearfully reminded of my strength.

"Thank you, sir, for your uhh, assistance."

Ducking my head in a nervous bob, I readjust my grip on the barrel, attempt a nervous sort of smile, and practically run out of the cellar, leaving a confused steward in my wake. Hopefully he'll be smart and return to where they're keeping the other humans. I don't care, it was enough torture just asking one to help.

Stepping out of the cellar, I climb the dilapidated flight of stairs back into the main hall of the castle, with the front doors open wide to the rest of the garrison courtyard and the unimpressive walls beyond. Unimpressive walls that were swarming with orcs looking like they were ready for battle. We were being attacked!
Slinging the barrel underneath my arm, I race out into the courtyard, looking around for Kavu.
A distinctive shout catches my attention, and I turn to look up at Kavu, standing next to an older siege engine. I look down at the barrel of pitch in my arms, and then at the impatient look on Kavu's face, and I break into a grin as I climb the flight of stairs to the boss.

[Beach Burrito]

Half Face shoved his way to the corner tower which had, in the space of just a few brief hours, become the haunt of the witch. Tuskers rushing to their stations gave the mutilated commander a wide berth as he forced his way through the over-crowded castle, but whatever deference they showed him, they showed it doubly around the crone's chambers. A recruit in his cups had once joked that old Ten Braid shared Half Face's tent, since he was the only tusker in the Company ugly enough to have her. Rumor was, the recruit'd vomited blood and maggots for a week afterwards, and had died bent over in the mud, skin all pale and twitching with worms. That was the last time the footsloggers made any jokes.

Half Face ducked through a narrow portal into the room where the witch was working, his lidless eye swiveling grotesquely as he surveyed the scene. It was a charnel house. Xozu was collecting corpses from the recent battle, it seemed, though for what purpose the devils alone knew.

Xozu was as ever an orc apart from the rushing footfalls of pikes, spikes and blades, the old crone prescribing to her own indolent pace as she shuffled from one fallen defender to the next within the confines of her cluttered den. It was hard to tell if she'd chosen the chamber for it's inherent decrepitude or merely poisoned it with her presence, the stale air thick with cobwebs.

"Neophyte" she lulled at the long-expected war chief, voice creaky and cold as she greeted him. The witch's eyes were even less obliging, pinned to the nearby corpse in bleak appraisal.

"The pinkskins betrayed us, just as you said they would." Half Face said, the right side of his mouth curled in a frown, "They're marching on us now; they'll storm us by nightfall."

Ten-Braid had merely raised a hand at this, signaling either a keen sense that he had said his peace or she had heard her fill.

"Dung rarely cools before the flies gather." she'd tut indignantly, leveraging apart a rictus frown set in stark relief across a dead man's mouth. "Let them." crooned the withered hag, bowing at the waist to ply a deep embrace upon the lifeless levyman.

Straightening she passed his tongue unceremoniously into a waiting bowl and thumbed away the evidence of her act "In the end they'll just eat shit."

"Aye," replied Half Face "It'll be a pretty piece of work, though."

"Surely you did not rush up all these steps just to tell what I already know, Neophyte."

"No. These bunny women... Radush is keepin' awful mum." said Half Face, watching as the hag cut out yet another corpses' tongue,

"Better to ask what the girl's worth is to the pretender Ren Arad. It is Orenth blood that warms that thirsty throne, and he hasn't a drop to be wrung. Why would this man suffer allies such as we?"

Half Face's right eye narrowed, and he stayed quiet a moment, head cocked to one side, as though listening for something.

"What're the tongues for?" he asked at length, changing the subject.

"What are all tongues for?" she answered, smiling the sort of smile that only showed teeth. "Away with you now Neophyte, concern yourself with your own tongue awhile. You've yet to wag it at Eye-Drinker, I see from the ugly glint in your eye."

With that she waved him away like an odor that had lingered too long, barking a prediction at his back "That you will return after the sun sinks and banners rise portents gravely for our assailants. As do the twelve arrows you will bring me."

Half Face snorted and turned away, his tattered cloak and furs billowing out behind him as he went. Outside, he grabbed the nearest porter by the lapels.

"Ch-Chief?" asked the stunned tusker, green skin draining under the commander's unblinking glare.

"The old bitch wants arrows." Half Face snarled, jerking one taloned thumb at the witch's tower, "So get them."

[HeySeuss]

Dakgu just looked skeptically at the tusker they sent to fetch arrows from him; he was in the courtyard, caring for the wargs rather than playing the tiresome game of shoot and duck with the bunnies. The good targets were long gone, and Dakgu Elf-Scalper didn't believe in staying in one place and making a target of himself. Some might call him coward -- they'd never fought a running weeks-long battle with a mad, magic-using elven ranger and come out on top. They had no idea. It was more use to make sure the warg pack the company depended on had their needs tended to, a constant process of checking fur and listening to their aches and pains and deducing what was an actual problem and what was just whining -- the wargs were smarter than horses, which meant that they required a bit more babying than sugar and apples.

To the dismay of the company, the meat went to the wargs first; tuskers could always survive on mushrooms and gruel, but the mounts required fresh kills.

Vendel was hardly the strongest of castles, but it was a strong enough position when bolstered, and that's what the Tuskers of the Company were doing; there was a lower wall that they used to storm the place, with the assistance of wargs and a ramp, but now it was a matter of trying to keep the gate, not the strongest, from being rammed, hook the ladders off and otherwise try to hold down a hasty assault that was almost contemptuous in its approach. The ladders didn't even get far and the bunnies, being bunnies, probably didn't worry much about the lives they spent in that abortion of a process -- a few dead peasants.

Then again, what the top tuskers thought about the situation was probably true -- they'd hired Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi to be disposable. It wasn't entirely a new feeling to orckind to be treated as fodder and so it wasn't surprising that some bunny lord decided that they made excellent patsies.

The bows had cut down the ladder attempt quickly enough, along with the fool leading the charge, but now a different situation prevailed where the bunnies dug in, put up pavises to fire crossbows from behind and seemed to be working out of sight from behind cover they put up into the dwindling daylight and toward the darkness. It was hard to gain an accurate count, but the bunny forces looked like they were bolstering as time went on and as they collected forces -- perhaps the bunny commander was sending out heralds to pull in reinforcements as he invested the castle once it became apparent that simply storming it wasn't an option. Too strongly held, more than a few Tuskers managed to survive that first battle to get to the castle, and perhaps that wasn't according to the bunny plan to begin with.

Ten-Braids' errand boy, or it was more likely one of Half-Face's drafted into Ten-Braids' work, was still waiting there. The Elf-Scalper was not known as an orc that liked to be trifled with, but somehow it got to the point where everyone wound up running errands for the old hag, and some were more inclined to question than others. Dakgu, with his deformity and speech impediment, was not one to speak at length or volume about it, but he did have enough words to say, "That witch better make these count. They could be killing bunnies." He had to work at it, moving his mouth oddly, pronouncing the words more nasally, but he could get it out when he had too.

It was true the witch and he shared a bit of a hobby in that they both had a history with the worst enemy the orcs had, and dared to fight the elves, but there was a difference in methodology. While he wasn't shooting the arrows at the moment, he still had an aversion to just sacrificing them because some wrinkled old hag decided that she needed his arrows. Or it was possible that the minion decided that he better get her the best arrows in Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi. Something of that nature. He had work to do.

[Sparkwell]

Puffing his way up to where the Boss was, Rassmata reached the battlements where Kavu was standing. Dropping the heavy barrel of pitch on the ground between them, he focused his gaze upon the catapult, murmuring to himself about the state the humans left it in. Rapping his knuckles on the pitch, he smiled.

"Whole thing of pitch, Boss. Lot more where that came from in the cellar of this place." Rassmata cocked his head as he glanced at the human army approaching, and said, "I'd say we start giving the bunnies some of this as a gift, yeah Boss?"

Kavu shook his head in amazement, his head already whirling with plans to incorporate this new development. To be fair, most of those plans consisted of 'boom, dead bunnies'; it was hard to add any degree of finesse to burning pitch. He was glad that at least one of his underlings had shown initiative in this affair in doing a preliminary inventory of the castle's armory while he'd been occupied hauling supplies into cover, but perhaps he should have expected this from Rassmata. After all, the other Orc was a member of the Chosen just like him. Kavu nodded in approval, and set about clearing a brief workspace.

“By my father's tusks, Rassmata, you dirty bunny-lover, I'd say you earned yourself several mugs of ale when this is all done. Solid work. Go ahead and prime this barrel, this bunny-made piece of dung needs some replacement gears.”

Kavu left the room in a hustle, grunting to himself as he rushed down the stairs faster than he had come up them. He has glad that he had left his own gear easily accessible, or he could have spent precious minutes clearing a path through the assembled wagons. Even now, he saw the unmistakable figure of Tall Shadow standing amongst a group of Orcs on the far side of the courtyard near the sally-port, which he inferred meant they were about to attempt an attack. He grunted once more to verbalize his annoyance – he wanted to avoid any collateral. Grabbing a passing pike by the arm, Kavu conscripted the unfortunate Orc into being an impromptu messenger; he wanted Half-Face to avoid engaging the right flank of the enemy siege camp, as that was closest to their newly acquired catapult. With his duty done, Kavu returned to the task of finding his tools. Now where did he leave that replacement cog...

- - - - -

Meanwhile, Rassmata was working on the barrel. Reaching into his apron, he drew out his tool pouch, and set upon the barrel, saying to himself,

"How can we make this explode more?"

After a few minutes of tinkering, Rassmata heard the sound of Kavu's voice over the shouts and cries of the battle as the bunnies tried to advance their ladders to the wall. Rushing down the stairs to help Kavu carry the heavy box of tools, Rassmata took some of the weight onto his shoulders, letting out small puffs of breath on each step of the way up. Deftly navigating the box off of his broad shoulders and laying it gently upon the ground, Rassmata burst into a rapid drone to Kavu concerning his alterations.

"Drilled a hole into the side, and mixed in some black powder to give that extra kick and some of those magnesium flakes we found last week, so it'll be making for some vurrrry toasty bunnies once it's struck. Plugged the hole up with rope, and we can use that as the fuse. I'd say we launch this at one of their own siege units, make a pleasant bonfire outta, or you could always getem when they crowded round another, break the charge up, yeah? Wish we gots more time cause coulda dug up the sand in the courtyard and used it to make a nice treat for the sally port, yeah? Burning sand is good stuff, not exploding but still good stuff."

Kavu shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. The dwarf-trained Orc was undoubtedly skilled, but he talked at an incredible pace and it made the more methodical Orc's brain hurt. Thinking took time. However, he got the general idea, and grunted in acknowledgment to the other Orc's comments.

“Aye, that's what we'll do. Get 'dis here cog switched, and put a plank on the lobbing arm... yeah, that'll do nicely. Finish gettin' that barrel primed, aye?” Kavu turned his head from his observation of the catapult to observe the other Orc's response.

"Hurmm... this one is all set to blow...” Rassmata paused briefly, glancing down at the lone barrel in front of him. “We could use some more barrels though, a nice human is downstairs, he knows where they are... I'ma get 'em". Turning quickly and rumbling down the battlements, Rassmata had a childish look on his face of unadulterated joy. Kavu shook his head and muttered to himself about bunny incompetence and overeager Orcs as he set about forcefully changing the parts on the machine. He was so engrossed in his work that he barely noticed when Rassmata's voice cut through the din of battle.

"Boss! I got four more of these barrels! The Tuskers won't even need to put on their armor, fight'll be done before it starts!"

Rushing up the stairs with two barrels hoisted between each arm, Rassmata dropped them heavily next to the completed barrel, and is gone before Kavu can speak, running back down the stairs and returns into the castle again. Kavu paused for a brief moment to stare at the newly arrived barrels, then went back to nailing a plank of wood onto the arm of the catapult as reinforcement. After a couple minutes, Kavu stood up and grunted at the ugly apparatus in front of him. It was not a pretty weapon, but it should work. Accuracy was over-rated anyhow. The quartermaster took ahold of the rear of the contraption, and with a might shove began to move it out into the open, careful to keep his head down as he pushed the catapult out of the shelter of the turret and onto an open platform nearby.

Bursting out of the castle again, Rassmata returned to Kavu standing with the catapult, the last two barrels of pitch under his arm. The quartermaster had already cranked the catapult to its firing position, and was currently hefting the barrel of pitch into the slot. Rassmata dropped the barrels nearby and helped Kavu give the final push that primed the catapult for firing. He gestured towards the nearby barrels,

"I'll give the rest of em the same treatment as the first, sound good, Boss?"

Kavu nodded. “Aye, but first we'll see if your work was good. I think I've got it aimed at their lines, so all you've gotta do is light the fuse. I swear, if this blows up in my face, Rassmata, I'll hunt you down from the nine hells themselves...” Kavu grinned, his broken tusk making his amusement a little more sinister than the quartermaster likely intended.

Rassmata nodded. “No chance of that, Boss. Lets fry some bunnies!” He retrieved some flint and tinder from his kit and spent a precious few seconds casting sparks over the dry rope until some sparks finally caught. Moving quickly to hold onto the far side of the catapult, Rassmata and Kavu waited until the flame reached the edge of the barrel before the latter slammed down on the release lever and the catapult shot forward with a jolt that threw both of the Orcs to the ground. Two nearby Spikes were momentarily distracted from the battle by the elaborate nature of Kavu's cursing.

The Quartermaster's cursing came to an abrupt end, however, when he heard the almighty bang that signified that the barrel had exploded mid-air, raining burning pitch down upon the bunny ranks below. A quick glance over the battlement showed that they had fallen far short of the bunny siege camp, but Kavu satisfied himself with the fact that he'd hit part of the right flank's front lines with tar and shrapnel. The screams of the bunnies warmed the small part of his heart that still resented the jibes and kicks of his childhood. Turning to Rassmata, Kavu grinned his lopsided smile.

“Alright, 'mata, load up the next one. Attempt two...”

((Thanks to @Sypherkhode822 for the collab!))

[GreivousKhan]

Sortie of Blood

Nargesh’s pacing was stopped short when Rulfim, or Runt as Nargesh teasingly called her, came running up with the news. As well as just as importantly an idea Nargesh wished she had thought of earlier. Nargesh smiled at Rulfim and made a fist before bringing it firmly against her own mailed chest. A kind of salute among orckin, often reserved for recognition of a good idea. Nargesh quickly turned and headed toward the barracks that many of the blades had gathered as the siege played out, ready to move to any trouble spots when needed.

However, Nargesh thought better of their sudden skirmish force. Many in the company might think her slow, but if there was one thing Nargesh knew well, it was battle. Speed would likely serve them best for a quick attack on the enemy's siege weapons to allow an equally quick escape before the entire bunny army was on their green arses.

Thus Nargesh stopped short then made a heavy stepped beeline for the stables. Unneeded for the moment, the warg riders are currently either feeding their mounts or caring for them in one manner or another. The air heavy with the scent of blood, most of it from the recently butchered horses that had remained within the castle. The meat was raw of course--just how wargs liked it.

Nargesh snorted as she stopped in front of a circle of riders. A few jumped a bit when the Ogrillon suddenly appeared, with a growl Nargesh barked, “Alright maggots. Get off’er arses. We’re goin hunting.” Her voice like echoing hard stone and gravel.

One of the orcs made up his face in confusion. One had the audacity to ask, “Err, but we’re in a siege? What’ we ta hunt?”

Nargesh rolled her eyes in annoyance. “The bunnies you frog brain. We hit them fast and we hit'm hard. Mount up and get ready, unless any of’ya are too coward like of course.”

The orc in question huffed as if he had been personally insulted. Of course like any good orc they didn't need much prompting at the idea of some bloodshed. As the warband assembled Nargesh looked to Rulfim then tapped a finger to her chin as if just realizing something, “No dog for ya to ride,” She voiced sounding almost melancholy.

Rulfim had returned the gesture, a strong strike against the plating on her chest. The ogrillon was too often underestimated, in her opinion. Maybe not the sharpest sword of the lot, but no one entered the Chosen without reason.

The runt was growing anxious, hungry for the coming battle, as she watched Nargesh take off to fulfill the suggestion. Alone again, that energy turned into commands for the bastards running to and fro. She snapped off a few commands, directing them one place or another. She was met with grunts, but no challenges. Losing the castle the same day as taking it was an unforgiveable thought. With the taste of victory still on their lips, the mood was ripe for slaughter.

Rulfim's eyes narrowed when they caught sight of the returning Nargesh and the band she had collected. Wargs. Integral to the unit, but not what she had politely suggested. No matter that she wasn't all that fond of the beasts to begin with. Oh she'd get on a warg when she needed, but she was just passable at riding one. The mercenary group was the first time she had had cause to care to learn.

At Nargesh's comment, her eyes slackened in their disapproving stare. She could put together the orc's thought process. Wargs were faster. She would get to see the bunnies shit themselves in fear as they scampered under their attack. And she wouldn't have to ride a warg, though that left her own mode of transportation up in the air.

"Looks like you're my, whatta the bunnies call it...steed. Saddle up!" Rulfim had to look up, in order to meet Nargesh's face, very nearly half her comrade's height. "Hit 'em hard and fast, hm. Ugly thinkin'." The compliment was grunted. She no more liked giving compliments than getting them. "Let's go get 'em."

Nargesh snorted before offering a shrug in response and easily hoisted Rulfim onto her shoulders before making her way to the gate. She grunted, “Hold’en tight, eh? Don’t want ya flyin off.”

Nargesh boasted a smile at that then scowled at the orcs near the gate who were currently sheltering from any wayward enemy fire from over the battlements. A shout got their attention and after a few choice words they reluctantly agreed to open the gate. It was just at that moment that a huge explosion sounded. Accompanied moments later by screams of pain and panic. Music to Nargesh’s ears.

She raised her massive two handed sword and shouted to her fellows, “Hear dat boyz! Dat’s the waer cry o da bunnies! Let’s give ours!”

The warg riders raised their own lances or swords then began hollering and hooting to their hearts content. Working themselves into a blood frenzy all the while. Nargesh herself inhaled sharply and Just as the gates finally fell forward opening up the way with a loud bang. Nargesh joined in with her own seemingly earth shaking warcry. She might not have the true size of a giant, but by the gods did she have their shout. It echoed from the castle gates instantly silencing the bunny lines as he froze in terror and dismay. Thinking perhaps the orcs had secretly hidden some strange mythical beast come to claim their souls.

Then she shot forward not unlike the barrel Rassmata and Kavu had fired toward the enemy-- a warband of warg riders pulling up the rear as the orcs offered their own lesser yet still formidable cries of battle. Between the unexpected shower of burning pitch, the cry and appearance of Nargesh and the riders, the bunny army was in momentary disarray as shouts and warnings mounted up across the enemy lines. Thus causing a moment of confusion to follow. Now outside the castle Nargesh could fully appreciate the bunny army mounted against them, and as expected they were large, larger than expected perhaps.

If this in any way dismayed the Ogrillon, she did not show it in the least. The enemy had begun digging ditches between the castle and the siege line-- a wise choice. Small bridges already set up to aid in closing the gaps here and there. However, this was still early in the siege, and the ditches were not only not very deep but most of the lin lacked any wood stakes. The bunnies had truly underestimated their enemy. Now they would simply pay for it in blood. Nargesh closed the distance to the first line of ditches, strong legs pumping with almost mechanical efficiency, eating up the distance faster than the line of bunnies had a chance to respond. This many enemies speed and surprise were the warbands only weapons.

The bunny armies’ size and number could easily wipe them out in moments, but the confusion had delayed a rapid response, chances were the bunnies had never expected the enemy to react so quickly. Instead to hold up in the castle and await the assault as any sane bunny force would. Sadly for the bunnies they seemed to know little of orcs. With one great bounding leap Nargesh cleared a portion of a ditch and landed heavily on the other side, her sudden appearance surprising a group of diggers armed with tower shields. She did not stop to greet them with her sword however, but continued onward. Her real target was a circle of fortifications with an enemy siege engine at its center. A giant crossbow thing the bunnies had been using earlier of course.

Besides which the warg riders made quick work of those poor sods before they could regain a semblance order. A circle of wooden stakes and a few pavise shields circled the ballista-- seemed the bunnies wanted to keep these as protected as possible. Nargesh had a feeling this probably meant they had no reserve engines to use. She simply barreled through a pavise that had been acting as a pseudo door of sorts to the inner defences of the ballista-- free up room for the riders to enter.

This was where Rulfim’s ride had to end however, Even the half ogre could not fight effectively with someone on her back. Besides she knew Rulfim would much prefer to fight on her two feet.

The much smaller orc dropped from her position against Nargesh's shoulders. It had been a wild ride, not entirely enjoyable. Whoever lived would have a few snide remarks, she was certain, at least until she could quell the call outs with a brawl or two. That would be fun.

But for the moment, fun was right in front her. The falacata was drawn less than a moment after her feet touched the ground. This had been a good plan, the bunnies were unprepared for such a force of orcs to break their lines. Stupid bunnies, expecting the orcs to play by the nice rules and wait quietly at the castle to be attacked.

A ferocious growl erupted within her, to kill or be killed was all that existed. The first bunny to bullrush her found her a more sturdy target than expected. A heavy slash across left the fleshy puppet writhing in a pool of it's own blood.

Her shoulder panged with each time she raised her arm to attack. Good and deep and enraging her lust for blood. Nargesh had burst through the gates, so to speak, and they were soon joined by their companions. The bunnies squealed in anguish, orcish grunts of pain - or death - permeated the air.

Runt had one bunny in particular pinned against the ballista's supports, a savage grin across her face. "Think yer smart? Smart little bunnies?" With a cruel laugh, she stabbed the stilletto dagger through his eye into what she knew to be the mushy bits of his brains. He was still spasming as she turned to find where Nargesh had picked a battle.

[Flagg]

Half Face was back on the wall, the side of his face not torn into a crazy sneer was stern, unreadable.

"How'd it go with the Eye Drinker?" Ugore asked. The tusker captain was standing in a semi-circle along with the rest of Half-Face's inner circle: the hulking figure of Nailtooth, the reedy, sallow Tally-Man, Bazgu and his enormous tusks, One Ear, who was nearly as scarred as his boss.

Arrows and ballista bolts sailed over head from the bunnies below, and the air was filled with screams and warcries as Nargresh cut her way through the humans' front line. None of Half-Face's crew seemed much interested.

Half Face ignored Ugore's question. "You lads have your tuskers ready?"

"Aye," said the Tally-Man, nodding to the carnage below the wall, "Seems the diversions workin'."

"It's a diversion, only," snarled Half-Face, "Buys us time till the ogre-woman's dead or retreated. Those pinks are coming over these walls. Jagath's boys are ready for 'em up here, I seen to that, and the old witch has a trick or two up her sleeve, but it's up to us to hold the gate and plug up any breakthroughs."

An explosion filled the air as Rassmata and Kavu got another shot off.

"Glad they're on our side," said Ugore.

"They'll be glad to have us, soon," said Half Face, nodding towards the battle below. Nargresh had confused a part of the human front, but only a part. Behind the lines, the bunnies were forming up. Grim men, heavily armed and armored, with thick shields and siege ladders.

Behind them, the sun set behind rolling hills and forests, painting the sky red.

[MelonHead]

“Huh, guess a couple of lads have a brain in their head.” Grolan muttered, looking down from the battlements just off to the right of the low-section that was likely to be the primary target when the human infantry forces reached the walls, if they ever did. Half-Face was off to his right with his elites assembled around him, but Grolan was mostly alone, one bleeding Orc at his side holding the feathered crossbow bolt in his chest with bemusement on his face. The young warrior hadn’t even drawn his sabre as he ducked often to avoid incoming bolts and other nasty projectiles. Uncaring if he looked skittish to the nearby warriors, he ducked low and then remained crouched, watching the large half Ogre known as Nargesh leading her sortie out into the Human lines. He had to admire the audacity of such an assault, but he couldn’t help but laugh when he spotted the runt on her shoulders.

He was still chuckling as Half-Face made some remarks to his right, but he grew deadly serious as he realised what he was seeing. As the explosions of erupting powder, launched by the crazies that Grolan made an extended effort to avoid, dotted the field he noticed the same thing Half-Face had, that the human forces were quickly flanking the sortie, and approaching in force. The siege wasn’t done yet; the climax was to come in the next few hours.

“Here they come then.” Grolan said, a little louder, not really for anyone’s benefit but his own. He had no real capacity to command, though he was certainly capable few would listen to him, so he settled on the wall and watched the arrows fly in response to the crossbow-bolts skittering overhead. The siege-ladders came ever closer, fortified with wooden struts to prevent them being easily toppled, they lacked the protection of fully fledged towers, but they could be mounted quicker and Orcs weren’t known for their ranged prowess. However the Bow regiment was definitely doing its bit to dispel that myth, as many a peasant had found out to their chagrin on the blood strewn grass below an Orcish arrow was deadly to a fleshy target. However, Grolan knew that the peasants were nothing more than a tactical sacrifice to Human forces, used to highlight strengths and weaknesses of a target. As they soaked up arrow fire and burning oil and pitch the commanders behind them knew where the Orcish forces were strong, and where they were weak. When the armoured infantry moved in, that was when they would be tested for real.

Grolan watched the human forces begin to surround the sortie, wondering if they would retreat before they were cut off from the castle and inevitably cut down, their losses would be immense, such was always the case with such things. He admired their sacrifice, from a tactical standpoint.

Arrows protruded from the men pushing the ladders, but behind them were hundreds more spearmen in plain clothes, and behind them were the armoured core that would really put Nar Mat Khordh-Ishi to the test.

[HeySeuss]

Dakgu was notoriously absent during the preliminaries; he'd taken his shots and come down to tend to the wargs before the fight, sensing that the bunnies would throw away fodder first. He never was one to stand around and catch arrows as if he had nothing more to contribute and manning a rampart under a hail of crossbow bolts seemed like folly to him. He was too much a hunter to give the prey any advantage.

He never did fit in with the order of battle, and during a siege it was especially apparent-- what good a tracker and scout in a siege where you knew precisely what the enemy was up to?

The assault was taking place later in the day than the first contact because it seemed as if the bunnies were taken aback by the strength of the resistance from the castle. It wasn't a good day to be a bunny peasant, being told to carry latters for their lords, who sat back at range. But when the actual assault started in earnest, with men at arms rather than the arrow fodder they were sending in before.

So the fight was afoot for real, and the Tuskers reacted to that not with the typical fatalism of bunnies, but with a grunting war-chant and the banner of the company, the runes of the words Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi in blood red on black, with a trio of skulls atop the banner-pole, raised high in defiance. Yelling warleaders to their tuskers that sounded absolutely savage to the humans were admonishments of, "Stay in the bleedin' ranks or I'll slap the green off you" or "Ugly work ahead, tuskers!" with a degree of glee. Much as the company tried to remove those tribal orcish traits that they considered an impediment to getting along in a hostile world, there was nothing that could remove the ferocity of orc-kind from their very nature.

Dakgu even felt some of it; or at least, he enjoyed the concept of giving the bunnies and the knife-ears something to fear rather than to laugh at. It wasn't as if the bunnies were laughing now, not the way these same ones were laughing in Ren Arad's encampments at the orcish mercenaries brought on to be the scapegoats for the plot, and certainly not laughing when some tuskers threw a few dead rabbits down from the ramparts along with taunting in orcish -- it wasn't some knife ear's poetry or a bard's sardonic wit.

With the evening coming, Dakgu already had a plan in place; he had the wargs and he had gathered up the best sneak thieves, poachers and cattle raiders among the lot with an idea in mind. They wouldn't be involved in the main fight, where a few extra arrows wouldn't make a difference anyway. While others in the company might call it cowardice, Dakgu called it hunting. A stand-up battle was not his forte, but slipping out in the night to sow terror? Well, the bunnies didn't see well at night and tended to shut down. Wargs could smell and orcs could see by darkness, and both loved the taste of horses...