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I agree. I think we got a good thing going here, no need to complicate things.
IC up! Orks Stronk! Gibe Clay!
Vanguar
An Orc Named Jup
Stryke's eyes kept forward as he sat upon his Warg, the beast panting despite the shade offered under the wooded glade. On either side of the general, sitting upon wargs of their own, was Haskeer and Calypso, each keeping their eyes forward in silence. Stryke looked around as mammals rooted through the leaves around them, paying little interest to the Orcs, confident of their ability to escape to the treetops should they pose a threat. This was the outskirts of the Marigold Forest, a great wood whose fingers extended just past the Vanguar border. A curious place to meet the envoy from Mordun given the proximity to Hightower, but the humans had trouble of their own, dealing with vicious quakes that have rocked the country. It was as if the gods themselves were striking out at the soft-skins.
Calypso stirred upon his warg. "My eyes are not what they used to be. Tell me... Is someone coming?"
Haskeer squinted up the straight road, where a lone figure emerged. "There is someone coming."
"Can't be him," concluded Styke, motioning to the figure in the distance. "They ride alone. Another trader, most like." He looked over his shoulder, at the thirty Orc shale warriors he brought from Bloodwroth, standing at attention on either side of the road, the banner of Vanguar driven deep into the center of the road, a bloody claw before the desert sun. Stryke himself was dressed as if for battle, wearing black plate armour and a heavy axe slung across his back. It was important to establish his dominance over this envoy right away, and what better method then a show of intimidation. "Who does Chief Harrow send again?" Asked Stryke to Calypso.
"His second son, given the name Jup."
"What kind of name is Jup?" Cackled Haskeer.
"It is said the Orcs hatch queer in Mordun," laughed Stryke.
"No doubt the Mordun say the same of the Shale, or the Wycke, for that matter," said Calypso.
Stryke sneered at the elder Orc. "Make no mistake, this Jup is our enemy until we learn more of the thoughts of Harrow. Should the Mordun prove rebels, I will have this Jup's head without a second thought. Is that clear?"
"Clear as water."
"Any word from my father?" Stryke asked. Calypso frowned and shook his head. While the humans use birds to quickly send messages across distances, Orcs have no such command over beasts, having to rely on messengers to speed words and news. "Any news from the other clans?"
"It is as I said," began Calypso. "The Band of Goi'Orka is calling for revolt, claiming you and your father are playing favourites to the Mordun. Much the same is said in Dunland."
"I dare them to rebel!" Snapped Stryke.
"Such may just come to pass," warned Calypso, "depending on the progress of your father. I fear news of a defeat will only push the clans to rebellion."
"The High Chief will not fail," said Haskeer confidently.
"Do not be so sure," Calypso countered. "During the war against the humans and the Clans, Skar had the advantage of knowing the land, down to every last rock and root. Amplesh will be a mystery to him."
"You speak blasphemy!" Haskeer sneered.
"Silence!" Stryke snapped, his eyes keen upon the figure up the road. As the lone silhouette closed the distance between them, features had become discernible.
Haskeer's jaw dropped, he slowly went for the hilt of his blade. "Is that... a human?"
Calypso laughed. "You really ought to get out of the Shale more often, Master Haskeer." It was easy to see why Haskeer would mistake the figure for a human. The Orc was slight of frame and his skin a light brown, with long dark hair flowing down upon his shoulders. "The Orcs of Mordun are not bred for strength like us, but rather for speed."
"But he rides a horse!" Haskeer pointed out.
"Indeed," chimed Stryke. "I have heard tales that the Mordun folk prefer them over wargs."
"Aye," said Calypso. "They favour the speed of the horse, over the strength and temperament of the Warg. This must be Jup."
Stryke shook his head. "Can't be. He rides alone. The son of a chief would surely bring a posse at his heels."
"Yes, that is curious," Calypso said.
After a few moments, the Mordun Orc halted his horse before them giving a slight nod to his head. "Gods give you speed and strength, General Stryke. I am Jup of the Clan Mordun, son of Harrow." Even the Orc's thin voice sounded human. Stryke's warg grew restless and salivated at the sight of the horse, but the steed seemed unafraid, and held its head up proud. The lips of Jup curled up in a smile. "Quite the welcoming party you have arranged for me, General."
Stryke immediately felt embarrassed for the empty show of strength he presented. That he would bring so many to a simple meeting while Jup brought only himself made him feel weak. "We are at war, Master Jup. We must be ready for the unexpected," he excused.
Jup's smile persisted. "You needn't fret, General. My Mordun guards the north for you."
Stryke cast a steel gaze upon the newcomer. "I do not fret, Mordun Orc!"
"Oh no?" Jup tilted his head in either curiosity or mockery. "Perhaps you should. A little fear is no shameful thing." The Orc reached into a pouch upon his belt, pulling out a scroll and handing it to Stryke. "I fear I am the bearer of bad news. Our High Chief has suffered a defeat at the hands of the Amplesh Orcs."
Stryke growled as he snatched the parchment. He unfurled the paper and scanned the runes inked upon it.
"That is indeed Skar's seal," said Calypso, looking over Stryke's shoulder.
The general passed the paper to the elder Orc, setting dark eyes upon Jup. Skar was defeated in open battle, losing near half of his forces. He now demands reinforcements from the Clans. Strykes blood boiled. His father would get no such army, what he would get is rebellion.
Stryke's eyes kept forward as he sat upon his Warg, the beast panting despite the shade offered under the wooded glade. On either side of the general, sitting upon wargs of their own, was Haskeer and Calypso, each keeping their eyes forward in silence. Stryke looked around as mammals rooted through the leaves around them, paying little interest to the Orcs, confident of their ability to escape to the treetops should they pose a threat. This was the outskirts of the Marigold Forest, a great wood whose fingers extended just past the Vanguar border. A curious place to meet the envoy from Mordun given the proximity to Hightower, but the humans had trouble of their own, dealing with vicious quakes that have rocked the country. It was as if the gods themselves were striking out at the soft-skins.
Calypso stirred upon his warg. "My eyes are not what they used to be. Tell me... Is someone coming?"
Haskeer squinted up the straight road, where a lone figure emerged. "There is someone coming."
"Can't be him," concluded Styke, motioning to the figure in the distance. "They ride alone. Another trader, most like." He looked over his shoulder, at the thirty Orc shale warriors he brought from Bloodwroth, standing at attention on either side of the road, the banner of Vanguar driven deep into the center of the road, a bloody claw before the desert sun. Stryke himself was dressed as if for battle, wearing black plate armour and a heavy axe slung across his back. It was important to establish his dominance over this envoy right away, and what better method then a show of intimidation. "Who does Chief Harrow send again?" Asked Stryke to Calypso.
"His second son, given the name Jup."
"What kind of name is Jup?" Cackled Haskeer.
"It is said the Orcs hatch queer in Mordun," laughed Stryke.
"No doubt the Mordun say the same of the Shale, or the Wycke, for that matter," said Calypso.
Stryke sneered at the elder Orc. "Make no mistake, this Jup is our enemy until we learn more of the thoughts of Harrow. Should the Mordun prove rebels, I will have this Jup's head without a second thought. Is that clear?"
"Clear as water."
"Any word from my father?" Stryke asked. Calypso frowned and shook his head. While the humans use birds to quickly send messages across distances, Orcs have no such command over beasts, having to rely on messengers to speed words and news. "Any news from the other clans?"
"It is as I said," began Calypso. "The Band of Goi'Orka is calling for revolt, claiming you and your father are playing favourites to the Mordun. Much the same is said in Dunland."
"I dare them to rebel!" Snapped Stryke.
"Such may just come to pass," warned Calypso, "depending on the progress of your father. I fear news of a defeat will only push the clans to rebellion."
"The High Chief will not fail," said Haskeer confidently.
"Do not be so sure," Calypso countered. "During the war against the humans and the Clans, Skar had the advantage of knowing the land, down to every last rock and root. Amplesh will be a mystery to him."
"You speak blasphemy!" Haskeer sneered.
"Silence!" Stryke snapped, his eyes keen upon the figure up the road. As the lone silhouette closed the distance between them, features had become discernible.
Haskeer's jaw dropped, he slowly went for the hilt of his blade. "Is that... a human?"
Calypso laughed. "You really ought to get out of the Shale more often, Master Haskeer." It was easy to see why Haskeer would mistake the figure for a human. The Orc was slight of frame and his skin a light brown, with long dark hair flowing down upon his shoulders. "The Orcs of Mordun are not bred for strength like us, but rather for speed."
"But he rides a horse!" Haskeer pointed out.
"Indeed," chimed Stryke. "I have heard tales that the Mordun folk prefer them over wargs."
"Aye," said Calypso. "They favour the speed of the horse, over the strength and temperament of the Warg. This must be Jup."
Stryke shook his head. "Can't be. He rides alone. The son of a chief would surely bring a posse at his heels."
"Yes, that is curious," Calypso said.
After a few moments, the Mordun Orc halted his horse before them giving a slight nod to his head. "Gods give you speed and strength, General Stryke. I am Jup of the Clan Mordun, son of Harrow." Even the Orc's thin voice sounded human. Stryke's warg grew restless and salivated at the sight of the horse, but the steed seemed unafraid, and held its head up proud. The lips of Jup curled up in a smile. "Quite the welcoming party you have arranged for me, General."
Stryke immediately felt embarrassed for the empty show of strength he presented. That he would bring so many to a simple meeting while Jup brought only himself made him feel weak. "We are at war, Master Jup. We must be ready for the unexpected," he excused.
Jup's smile persisted. "You needn't fret, General. My Mordun guards the north for you."
Stryke cast a steel gaze upon the newcomer. "I do not fret, Mordun Orc!"
"Oh no?" Jup tilted his head in either curiosity or mockery. "Perhaps you should. A little fear is no shameful thing." The Orc reached into a pouch upon his belt, pulling out a scroll and handing it to Stryke. "I fear I am the bearer of bad news. Our High Chief has suffered a defeat at the hands of the Amplesh Orcs."
Stryke growled as he snatched the parchment. He unfurled the paper and scanned the runes inked upon it.
"That is indeed Skar's seal," said Calypso, looking over Stryke's shoulder.
The general passed the paper to the elder Orc, setting dark eyes upon Jup. Skar was defeated in open battle, losing near half of his forces. He now demands reinforcements from the Clans. Strykes blood boiled. His father would get no such army, what he would get is rebellion.
I am in favour keeping things as is, however it would be cool if you stated the current year and season with your world event updates so we all have a point of reference.
that is one pretty map!
*shakes fist at Amplesh*
The Armies of High Chief Skar Bloodwroth invade Amplesh
Word has spread from eastern Orysson of war in the Orc lands. In an attempt to thwart Skar Bloodwroth's ambitions of conquering all of Orc-kind, the Chiefs of Amplesh have killed the eldest son of the Vanguar High Chief. Seeking vengeance for his son and pursuing his of goal uniting all of Orcdom under a single banner, Skar marched a force of 4000 Orcs into Amplesh in order to crush the coastal clans, and force their submission.
Meanwhile, south in Grimmhold, the capital of Vanguar, General Stryke has assembled a band to assist him in administration of the realm. Jup, son of Chief Harrow of Mordun, arrived at the ancient man-made fortress and took up his seat among the band. The move has fostered ill content among the clans of Wyke and Dunland, who feel slighted at not having part in affairs of the realm. Rumours abound of the more radical elements within these clans calling for rebellion. High Chief Skar, having taken nearly all able bodied warriors to fight in the north, has left it a challenge to defend the fortress should rebellion break out.
As the season wanes, it becomes known of a great battle across the border in Amplesh, where the coastal clans have used Skar's anger against him, luring the High Chief into a trap. Blinded by rage, Skar sprung the trap and suffered a defeat at the hands of the Amplesh Orcs, decimating the Grimmhold levy. Though most of the Vanguard, the standing army of Vanguar and personal guard of the High Chief, survived, Skar's condition is unclear.
Vanguar
Meeky said
Oh, why, that sounds perfectly reasonable; we'll just trade with them and-- wait, fresh Uaru meat... You aren't talking about the PEOPLE, are you, big guy?*Halfling squint*
Aye... though we could use some appetizers for such fare. You couldn't help with that, could you, runt?
*orc squint*
orangebox said
Sorry, was introduced to sins of a solar empire and it took away my whole weekend... I'll stay away from that evil game... for now..Anyway expect a post from me sometime tomorrow. And if anyone is interested ina trade pact, just send your envoys over!
The Orcs of Vanguar may be interested in acquiring a source on fresh Uaru meat... hear it tastes like chicken.
Vanguar
The High Seat of Grimmhold
The large double doors to the throne room within the spire of Grimmhold stood ominous before Stryke. The doors were wrought with wood from some far away place, inlaid with beams of black iron. The runes of the old empire were scorched out of the wood, giving the appearance of scars that ran along the surface of the door. With a mighty groan from some unknown mechanism, they creaked open as he approached, Haskeer at his side.
The throne room was a magnificent sight, one that still held the awe from what he remembered when he was last here, years ago. Smooth black stone floored the great wide chamber. Pillars of ivory towered overhead to lift the arching ceiling, drawing the eye down to the far side of the room, to a high chair of wood and great ivory tusks jutting out of the chair back overhead. Nailed into the wall, overlooking the chair, was a row of human skulls, the ones that once thought themselves lords of the Orcs.
Stryke slowly walked into the chamber. Haskeer lingered by the door, struck dumb by the awesomeness of the room. Tattered blood dyed banners hung motionless in the still chamber, stitched leather maps of the world hung also, and human arms and armour, small and flimsy, a reminder of their ruined enemy. Stryke stopped just in front of the chair, placing a firm hand on the smooth wooden armrest.
The humans decreed that he who sits the Grimmhold chair, rules the land of Vanguar. A foolish notion, for it was a mere chair. It should be hacked to bits, thrown into fire and turned to ash. Stryke told his father as much. Though Skar would never admit it, he had a certain admiration for the humans, the way they fought, built and ruled. He actually believed the words they spoke, that if Skar could just maintain this seat, Vanguar would indeed remain his. Perhaps there was some truth to it, after all, he has managed to force the Clans into submission since taking the chair. One glaring truth however casts doubt on such prophetic words. A human sat here to the very end, when his father drove a cleaver through his body, splitting him in half, and the seat did nothing.
“Welcome back to Grimmhold, Bloodwroth,” said a spidery voice, tinged with malice.
Recognition came swiftly to Stryke’s ears, he growled toward the source. From a hidden alcove behind the throne came an old Orc of pale green skin, his lower tusks chipped and broken, a roughspun cloak of wool draped over his frail frame. Stryke seized the Orc rougly, pulling him mere inches from his face. “You have quite the stones to remain here, old one, knowing I was coming!”
The old Orc laughed, unfazed by the grip of Stryke. “And where would you have me go, Stryke? Follow your father to war? Bah! These old bones will not bear another war. Back to Wycke where they would have me quartered for treason? Hardly a welcome I would pursue!”
Stryke snarled. “And what do you think I will do to you, hmm? What say the whispers in your skull to that, old one?”
“Typical of you, Stryke, thinking with your fists, rather than your dim wits. How would it look to your father, should you murder the High Mouth?”
“Murder?!” Stryke scoffed, his hold on the Orc persisting. “Who said anything about murder? Perhaps I wish to cast you beneath the spire, to live out your short days in a cell.”
“I wonder how your father would take that news?”
“Father goes to war in Amplesh, too far away to help you, old one.”
“You think me fearful? You failed to carry out your threats before, Stryke. So do it, or leave me be!”
With a growl, Stryke released the Orc. “Know that you are bound to my father, should he die in the north, you will share his fate, Calypso.”
Calypso grunted. “I am not long for this world. Death does not scare me.”
Stryke snarled. Calypso was a Mouth, an order of Orcs that cozied up to the humans, learning their fallen tongues, how to read and write, and for hundreds of years they aided in the oppression of their brethren. It is true that some defected, promised sanctuary by Skar and given a place as advisors in Grimmhold, but that didn’t mean that Stryke had to like it, nor hesitate to imprison or kill should they look at him funny.
Calypso straightened his cloak, motion toward the throne. “Before your father left, he decreed you to be named General of Vanguar, to rule the realm in his stead, while he brings death to our enemies. That seat is yours, Stryke, until the return of your father, Gods willing.”
Stryke slumped his shoulders, looking harshly at the throne as if it wounded him. “General of Vanguar… my brother’s title.”
“Your brother is dead.”
“I know!” Stryke snapped. “Have you word from my father?”
“Last we heard, High Chief Skar was camped at Veneholm, assembling his army.”
“Veneholm? I take it the Mordun whelps bitch at his presence.”
Calypso nodded. “Indeed. They have little choice to play host, after all, should Skar fail in Amplesh, the coastal Orcs will fall on Mordun next.”
“Unless they side with Amplesh before such would befall them, and I would not put it past the Mordun swine!”
“That is a possibility,” agreed the Mouth. “In which case it will fall on us to act. Our charge is keeping the Clans united, revolt here will only weaken your father’s campaign.”
“I need to assemble a band.”
“I agree. Any thoughts on who shall sit among them?”
“Haskeer, my second, and one I trust. I will have need of his voice.”
Calypso looked doubtfully at Haskeer, who still lingered by the door. “You will need more than a mere slave-driver to advise you on matters of the clans, General.”
Stryke snarled. “Aye. I will suffer you among the band, old one, but do not dare cross me!”
“I wouldn’t dare. Who else?”
“Send word to Chief Harrow of Mordun, praise his strength and leadership, and inform him that we shall give him a seat among the band.”
Calypso eyed Stryke with keen eyes. “He will never leave Mordun to come here.”
“No he won’t, but nor will he pass up a chance to have eyes and ears in Grimmhold. He will send a son.”
“You invite a spy to this chamber?”
“I will have Mordun’s allegiance, taking no chance to have discontent at my father’s rear flank!”
Calypso nodded slowly in understanding. “You are seeking a hostage.”
“Aye! Now go, carry out my will!”
Calypso bowed and turned to leave. Stryke called out after him. “Tell me, old one, they call you Mouths because you spoke the fallen commands of the humans, speaking their words to keep us bound. Why then do you remain as Mouths, whose words do you speak now?”
The old Orc turned, smacking his lips before he spoke. “I speak the will of my High Chief, and his general, of course.” Stryke nodded, seemingly satisfied. Calypso bowed once again and left.
The large double doors to the throne room within the spire of Grimmhold stood ominous before Stryke. The doors were wrought with wood from some far away place, inlaid with beams of black iron. The runes of the old empire were scorched out of the wood, giving the appearance of scars that ran along the surface of the door. With a mighty groan from some unknown mechanism, they creaked open as he approached, Haskeer at his side.
The throne room was a magnificent sight, one that still held the awe from what he remembered when he was last here, years ago. Smooth black stone floored the great wide chamber. Pillars of ivory towered overhead to lift the arching ceiling, drawing the eye down to the far side of the room, to a high chair of wood and great ivory tusks jutting out of the chair back overhead. Nailed into the wall, overlooking the chair, was a row of human skulls, the ones that once thought themselves lords of the Orcs.
Stryke slowly walked into the chamber. Haskeer lingered by the door, struck dumb by the awesomeness of the room. Tattered blood dyed banners hung motionless in the still chamber, stitched leather maps of the world hung also, and human arms and armour, small and flimsy, a reminder of their ruined enemy. Stryke stopped just in front of the chair, placing a firm hand on the smooth wooden armrest.
The humans decreed that he who sits the Grimmhold chair, rules the land of Vanguar. A foolish notion, for it was a mere chair. It should be hacked to bits, thrown into fire and turned to ash. Stryke told his father as much. Though Skar would never admit it, he had a certain admiration for the humans, the way they fought, built and ruled. He actually believed the words they spoke, that if Skar could just maintain this seat, Vanguar would indeed remain his. Perhaps there was some truth to it, after all, he has managed to force the Clans into submission since taking the chair. One glaring truth however casts doubt on such prophetic words. A human sat here to the very end, when his father drove a cleaver through his body, splitting him in half, and the seat did nothing.
“Welcome back to Grimmhold, Bloodwroth,” said a spidery voice, tinged with malice.
Recognition came swiftly to Stryke’s ears, he growled toward the source. From a hidden alcove behind the throne came an old Orc of pale green skin, his lower tusks chipped and broken, a roughspun cloak of wool draped over his frail frame. Stryke seized the Orc rougly, pulling him mere inches from his face. “You have quite the stones to remain here, old one, knowing I was coming!”
The old Orc laughed, unfazed by the grip of Stryke. “And where would you have me go, Stryke? Follow your father to war? Bah! These old bones will not bear another war. Back to Wycke where they would have me quartered for treason? Hardly a welcome I would pursue!”
Stryke snarled. “And what do you think I will do to you, hmm? What say the whispers in your skull to that, old one?”
“Typical of you, Stryke, thinking with your fists, rather than your dim wits. How would it look to your father, should you murder the High Mouth?”
“Murder?!” Stryke scoffed, his hold on the Orc persisting. “Who said anything about murder? Perhaps I wish to cast you beneath the spire, to live out your short days in a cell.”
“I wonder how your father would take that news?”
“Father goes to war in Amplesh, too far away to help you, old one.”
“You think me fearful? You failed to carry out your threats before, Stryke. So do it, or leave me be!”
With a growl, Stryke released the Orc. “Know that you are bound to my father, should he die in the north, you will share his fate, Calypso.”
Calypso grunted. “I am not long for this world. Death does not scare me.”
Stryke snarled. Calypso was a Mouth, an order of Orcs that cozied up to the humans, learning their fallen tongues, how to read and write, and for hundreds of years they aided in the oppression of their brethren. It is true that some defected, promised sanctuary by Skar and given a place as advisors in Grimmhold, but that didn’t mean that Stryke had to like it, nor hesitate to imprison or kill should they look at him funny.
Calypso straightened his cloak, motion toward the throne. “Before your father left, he decreed you to be named General of Vanguar, to rule the realm in his stead, while he brings death to our enemies. That seat is yours, Stryke, until the return of your father, Gods willing.”
Stryke slumped his shoulders, looking harshly at the throne as if it wounded him. “General of Vanguar… my brother’s title.”
“Your brother is dead.”
“I know!” Stryke snapped. “Have you word from my father?”
“Last we heard, High Chief Skar was camped at Veneholm, assembling his army.”
“Veneholm? I take it the Mordun whelps bitch at his presence.”
Calypso nodded. “Indeed. They have little choice to play host, after all, should Skar fail in Amplesh, the coastal Orcs will fall on Mordun next.”
“Unless they side with Amplesh before such would befall them, and I would not put it past the Mordun swine!”
“That is a possibility,” agreed the Mouth. “In which case it will fall on us to act. Our charge is keeping the Clans united, revolt here will only weaken your father’s campaign.”
“I need to assemble a band.”
“I agree. Any thoughts on who shall sit among them?”
“Haskeer, my second, and one I trust. I will have need of his voice.”
Calypso looked doubtfully at Haskeer, who still lingered by the door. “You will need more than a mere slave-driver to advise you on matters of the clans, General.”
Stryke snarled. “Aye. I will suffer you among the band, old one, but do not dare cross me!”
“I wouldn’t dare. Who else?”
“Send word to Chief Harrow of Mordun, praise his strength and leadership, and inform him that we shall give him a seat among the band.”
Calypso eyed Stryke with keen eyes. “He will never leave Mordun to come here.”
“No he won’t, but nor will he pass up a chance to have eyes and ears in Grimmhold. He will send a son.”
“You invite a spy to this chamber?”
“I will have Mordun’s allegiance, taking no chance to have discontent at my father’s rear flank!”
Calypso nodded slowly in understanding. “You are seeking a hostage.”
“Aye! Now go, carry out my will!”
Calypso bowed and turned to leave. Stryke called out after him. “Tell me, old one, they call you Mouths because you spoke the fallen commands of the humans, speaking their words to keep us bound. Why then do you remain as Mouths, whose words do you speak now?”
The old Orc turned, smacking his lips before he spoke. “I speak the will of my High Chief, and his general, of course.” Stryke nodded, seemingly satisfied. Calypso bowed once again and left.
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