Vanguar
Current Leader/Government: High Chief Skar Bloodwroth
Settlements Owned: 4
Provinces Owned: 1
Population: 100 000
Standing Army:
- <The Vanguard>/<1, 000 Orcs>/<en route to Amplesh>/<Morale 100%>
- <Grimmhold Levy>/<3, 000 Orcs>/<en route to Amplesh>/<100%>
Population Happiness: 50%
Imports:
Exports: Iron, Spice
Wealth: Poor
Alliances: None
Trade Pacts: None
Cease Fires: None
Fruit of the ShaleThe swings of the pickaxes brought forth a shower of sparks, and a chaotic song of metal on rock that echoed throughout the winding tunnels of the mine. The pink fleshed creatures that wielded the axes groaned under the exertion, their backs criss-crossed with the kisses of the overseers’ whips. Stryke smiled as he walked the dimly lit corridors of the mine, thinking about how the humans once ruled this land, now were brought low to carry out the tasks beneath Orc-kind.
“Captain!” Called a rough voice. Breaking from his thoughts, Stryker turned to see the First Overseer, his second in command, Haskeer.
“What is it, Haskeer?” Sneered Stryke, “Have you finally come to give the report I asked for hours ago?”
“I’ve been busy keeping the soft-skins from slacking!” Snapped Haskeer. Stryker folded his massive arms in front of his chest, impatiently waiting for the Overseer’s report. His second looked around wearily, setting his untrusting eyes on the humans around them. “Perhaps it would be better to hear this topside?”
Stryker tossed his head back and laughed. “Even now you fear the humans!”
Haskeer bulked, growling low. “I fear nothing, these soft-skins least of all! But I am no fool. It was not long ago that it was a human that sat within Grimmhold.”
“Their empire is crushed, scattered as ashes in the wind. Even if this lot had the sense to understand our words, they could do nothing, bound as they are. So out with it!”
“As you say, Captain,” Haskeer ceded. “The fourth tunnel has slowed to a crawl, and tunnels one through three have begun to follow suit. I have ordered to set the whips upon the humans non-stop to coax more work out of them, have them flayed alive if need be.”
“I give the orders here, Overseer, not you!” Barked Stryke. “Cease the whippings, lay some dragon’s powder on the shale wall and blow a new tunnel. I won’t have humans needlessly dying under my watch.”
Haskeer’s maw spewed insolence. “I am sure your brother would have words to that effect if he were here.”
Stryke closed the distance between himself and the overseer in a flash, flexing his shoulders and chest, his eyes seething as he jut out his lower jaw. “I am captain here, cur! I rule in my brother’s stead, unless you dare challenge me?” Haskeer shrunk away from Stryke, nodding sullenly and turning on his heels to carry out his orders.
The eyes of the captain followed him as he disappeared deeper into the mine. Stryke detested being reminded of his inferiority with his brother. It had been a source of many brawls in his past, and sure to be the source of more in the future. A faint horn from above ground broke the Orc captain from his thoughts. With long sure strides, he made his way to the mine exit.
Stryke’s eyes were momentarily blinded as he stepped out in the grey light of day. Before him were dozens of yurts, fashioned from bone and leather. The hammers of smiths pounded to work the shale-fruit into swords and spears, and tanners laboured under the dismal light to cut skins and craft leathers. Beyond the chaotic placement of yurts was a high palisade wall of sharpened bone. This was the capital of the Shale, the seat of power for Clan Bloodknot and named after the Chief of Chiefs, Fort Bloodwroth.
The fortress was cut into the side of the Veradun Volcano, where plumes of ashen smoke blot out the sun near every day of the year. It was hard and unforgiving landscape but rich in the precious resource, shale-fruit, or iron ore as it was commonly referred to. The land itself was known as the Shale, a charred and burnt land that even the wild wargs avoided. It molded the Orcs of the clan into fearsome warriors however, bravely facing hardship on and off the field of battle.
The horn blew again, loud and clear. Someone was coming.
Stryke made his way to the main entrance of the fortress, where two guards maintained a vigilant watch. One had a horn in hand and saluted as the captain approached. “Captain! A caravan approaches.”
Squinting into the distance, Stryke could make out a banner held aloft by the figures that closed on the fort. He turned to the guard, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Prepare the Chief’s yurt. Set out fresh food, water and grog. The High Chief returns to Fort Bloodwroth.”
After some time passed, the entire garrison stood in formation outside the gate, Stryke at their head. Bone horns blew a clear note to welcome High Chief Skar Bloodwroth back home. As the Chief’s party neared, he could make out some hundred Orcs riding wargs. Some were tethered to carriages pulling stores and arms. Finally the van halted, the leading ranks parted, and upon a silver warg of pale blue eyes road Chief Skar. He wore the skull of a troll as a helm concealing his face, heavy iron spiked pauldrons covered his shoulders, and studded leathers draped over his wide chest. Clasped around his neck with a jewelled brooch was a cape of blood-red. Skar stepped off his warg and approached Stryke with purpose, stopping only a few feet in front of him.
Stryke fell to his knees. “Welcome home father, Chief of Chiefs.”
“Follow me to my yurt.” Skar said unceremoniously, walking in a brisk place past the garrison, through the gate, behind the bone palisade of the fortress.
Stryke’s mind raced as he pondered the purpose of his father’s visit. It had been nearly five years since they last spoke, and they had not exactly parted on the best of terms. His arrival could only mean one thing; the clans were in revolt once more.
Stryke hurried into his father’s yurt, finding Skar had already tossed aside his armour, now shirtless and wearing plan breeches over his legs. He had hold of a cistern of water that was laid out on smooth stone slab that served as the table. A flagon of grog and basket of meats were left untouched for the moment. His father’s skin had taken a greyer tone from the deep black it had once been, a sign of his age. His bottom tusks jut out in typical Orc fashion, his muscles still every bit as large and ripped as he remembered. Here, without a doubt, was the strongest Orc in Vanguar.
After a long drink, Skar set the cistern down, and turned to face Stryke. “Your brother is dead, Stryke,” he said with a frost tinged voice.
Stryke felt the wind go out of him, his knees buckled, and he felt his arse find the dirt floor. Aside from his father, Scythe had been the toughest, meanest Orc he knew, though a bastard to the core. “It can’t be!” He objected.
Skar tilted his head to the side, giving a growl as he stepped toward his son, roughly pulling him up on his feet. “I sent Scythe to Amplesh, to press my rights there, to make the coastal Orcs recognize my claim as Warden of Orc-Kind. Your brother failed. The Chiefs of Amplesh saw fit to send back his head.”
Stryke howled a long and mournful note as his father looked on, showing little emotion. “They will pay for this, I swear it!” A sudden blow from his father knocked him to the ground.
“You swear it?!” Skar growled. “He was my first born, destined to rule the Clans upon my death! Now, I am left only with
you!" He did not bother to hide the contempt he felt for his sole surviving son. “It is time for you to shake off the skins of adolescence and become an Orc worthy to bare my name!”
Stryke rubbed his stinging cheek, rising up to his feet. “I march to war then!”
“No. A Bloodwroth must always sit upon the high seat of Grimmhold. The Clans are ever restless, and may seize on any opportunity whilst I fight to avenge your brother. Rule Vanguar in my stead, be worthy of the name you hold, Stryke Bloodwroth, my only son.”
Stryke felt as if the entire world was about to explode. In the matter of mere minutes he learned his brother was dead and he would be thrust with a crushing responsibility in the time ahead. In a daze, Stryke stepped out from his father’s yurt, his feet finding his way to his own home. He stepped inside, looking down as egg shells crushed underfoot. A voice called to him.
“Stryke, my husband… We have a son.”
Stryke embraced Coilla, his wife, feeling her tusks rake across his neck, their babe cooing in her arms between them. The joyous kind of responsibility was now sapped in the wake of sombre news. He gave his wife a grim look. “We are leaving, Coilla.”
A scroll is sent to the Chiefs of Amplesh…
Tremble and quake in fear at my coming. Know that I am the harbinger of death and I carry with me the instrument of your demise. There will be no mercy given, no quarter to take. I seek vengeance for the death of my son. I will rain down such unfurled death upon you, that even the Gods will balk at my wrath, giving no peace to you even in the afterlife!
I am High Chief Skar Bloodwroth, Lord of the Vanguard, The Shale and all the Clans, Warden of all Orc-Kind, Wielder of the Wold’s Hammer, and you will curse me to your dying breaths, I swear it! Ready yourselves, for I ride an ashen wind to your deaths!
~ Skar Bloodwroth, Chief of Chiefs
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