The Survival Game

[Darkshard]

A flash of cervidaen brown cut through the leafy monochrome, whipping nimbly through rogue protruding branches and stirring the detritus of the forest floor. The young deer leapt, bounded and pranced, deftly manoeuvring even through dense brush on her myopic path south. Gradually, the brush began to clear and the spaces between the trees widened, until four ungulate legs came skidding to a halt at the edge of a clearing atop a modest hill, grass and woodlands beyond.

A grisly scene occupied the hill as a pack of rabid wolves—their eyes alight like burning embers in the dark—ripped and tore at the bloody carcass strewn between them. The doe’s ear twitched nervously, and it watched with beady black eyes as the wolves devoured their meal. The dripping corpse was a large, black orc, draped in intricate skull necklaces and other shamanistic adornments, and riddled with finely fletched arrows; the signatures of an elven kill.

One of the wolves looked up and snarled at the deer, blood dripping from its open jaws and orc gore dangling sickeningly between its teeth. The deer remained frozen in primal terror as she was affixedly beheld by her second greatest predator. Time stood still as these two great players in the survival game considered each other. Moments passed, before the wolf omitted a disinterested whine and resumed its gruesome nutrition.

At that moment, the treeline behind stirred. East and west, bush and leaves rustled with animal movement. A small hare emerged into the clearing with a hop, paused to sniff the air, and then continued on its path apace. In its wake emerged more hares and rabbits, and then larger animals too; pig and boar, doe and stag, fox and wolf. The clearing and the surrounding Sharpteeth Woods were suddenly alive with movement and primal cries.

With a small start, the doe set off once more at a run, and joined the migration south.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chapter 01...

Late morning light filtered through the tall pines, illuminating a smoke filled encampment of tree-branch huts and dug out burrows. Mountain Orcs shuffled about with grunts and snorts aplenty, for the day work was cumbersome due to the onset of humidity and heat within the dense forest. Felling trees and stoking the fires was still a welcome distraction for the food hunger that now gripped this scouting warband—a spiraling scarcity of sustenance shared by all the Black Orcs of the northern territories.

At the edge of terrain stood a slightly smaller than average Orc, draped in long fettered scraps of hide painted pale white, with beads and worn out husks of many types of seasonal vegetable husks hanging as necklaces, protective as armor. Braided and course Orc hair plated down across his crooked shoulders, which was from the casual observance shaped in atypical form. This was no warrior Orc, to be certain. Here at the edge of the encampment stood the mystic Orc known as Grimnail, fourth offspring of Ragehands and chosen of Yurtrus, waiting solemnly for a group of hunter Orcs, finally now returning from a morning hounding for game. Again, as with every previous venture out, the hunter-chosen of the Black Orc tribe returned with little to no elk; no amount of fire-flushing of the forest could drive a single worthwhile four-legged beast from the trees into waiting spears, it seemed. As the Orcs past Grimnail in single file march, they revealed red-eyed stares of frustration, anger and exhaustion all mixed together—and fear as well, from reprisal from failure in this hunt—which was easy knowledge for Grimnail to gain by the aroma of sweat that covered their matted and hairy skin.

Grimnail reluctantly added another kernel of corn to his counting pouch with his white, chalk-powdered hands. These monstrous hands where meant to sanctify fresh kills, to have the white chalk mix with blood red stain as recent beating hearts were burned to appease the great Rotting One…but without any fertile hunting grounds in the current Black Orc lands, there was no doubt in Grimnail’s spirit that every additional failure by these scouting warbands would bring the great tribe further south in search of vanishing game…

…and further south was the Elven lands, rich in meat…plenty for the taking...but also guarded, off-limits from treaty, surely not free for the taking. There would be death as well as nourishment to go south...

Grimnail snorted. Considered a young Orc by standard of the warrior, he was respected for his knowledge of the ways of the seer, and Grimnail dreamed shadow-knowledge that old agreements would fall to the side if the hunger that now gripped the Black Orcs was not fed.

Compulsively, Grimnail spoke aloud to himself in the rasping snarl known as the Orc tongue: “If Black Orcs meet with our blood Gods one way or other, let be by Elven sword than by empty belly.”

These thoughts brought a burning rage-strength to Grimnail’s body—a will to power that had many times saved Grimnail from the otherwise obvious frailties of his body. Turning to follow the scouts back into the confines of center camp, he prepared words for prayer to the his revered god Yurtrus: the Putrescent would answer him in spirit-knowledge, for the Orc gods watched closely over their chosen…

And, in the following days, Grimnail would return to his chief, the one known as Gajutar, certain that the great leader of the Black Orcs would let nothing stand in the way of his people’s survival.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chapter 02: Offerings and Visions


The sun drags itself down along a row of pines above the western hillside, but the heat and humidity do not subside. As lingering orange light filters through the trees, dust and smoke of the encampment, the one known as Grimnail closes the wicker and reed-made door of what amounts to a rectilinear mud covered hut, dug half into the ground. Fresh, rough-hacked branches and caked mud form the roof, and as it seems, it was hastily built. From a distance—and in the growing darkness as dusk takes over from the day—the hut takes on a resemblance, in proportional width and length, of an earthen tomb.

Inside, the heat is choking. Two small fires burn at the back of the one-room hut. Between the fires lies a large table built up from the floor with piles of flattened mud, much like a mesa—the table is so large, that it cramps the room, leaving just enough space for Grimnail to kneel down before this mimic-plateau. From one of the many pouches strapped to his belt, with a closed hand, he pulls a powder out and quickly flings the substance towards and over both small fires. A short blast of smoke flashes with sparkles of light within, and further illuminated becomes the room, as well as the object which lies upon the mud-built table: the de-fleshed skeleton-corpse of very young elk, it’s entire body caked with earth, with blood, with ooze of slime and festering muscle, with small sores opening all over, spilling out newly hatched maggots mixed with a yellow-red puss.

The offering to The Rotting One is nearly complete.

Grimnail kneels before the foul elk youngling, raising his white-chalked hands over the body of the creature recently unearthed from its forced, live burial. Snarling in words from the Orc tongue, Grimnail speaks in the direction of the offering:

“White Hands, let this flesh feed you, let your satisfied hunger force open the earth and deliver sustenance to your children…”

Grimnail’s eyelids lower in the sway of the movement of his hands over the rotting flesh, while he begins to chant and snort through a series of prayers, ancient Orcish word-song passed from mystic to mystic, a mix of provocative verbal threats of cruel actions, followed by praise of the godly might that is wielded by Yurtrus himself, the Destroyer of All Life.

As Grimnail’s sacrificial chant continues in the growing fire-light of magic within the hut, the darkness of the night on Faerûn descends upon all those that remain under the sky. His movements are timed to the correct hour of the day, and as so, he pulls four cornhusks from a sack near the foot of the mud table. Laying them at the exposed bone feet of the animal, arranged in a square shape representing the four winds, Grimnail then pokes a large Orc finger into the flesh of the rotting corpse, withdraws it dripping with ripe fluids, then paints a line of blood and rot along the tops of each husk, covering the kernels in the foul slime of decay. Grimnail’s actions enact an ancient lure of mystic power onto the spirits of the wandering forest elks, to bring them closer to the Black Orc hunting party to which he belongs.
Tradition has always been to let the corn rot for weeks before this ritual would be made, but now, in the time of hunger that the Black Orc tribe suffers, no food is left to waste—these few husks were part of Grimnail’s own meal, but to hold back anything from the offering to the Lord of Maggots could bring greater chaos, greater suffering, as this Lord is rarely...generous...a word rarely used in the Orc vocabulary. Grimnail remembers further how it is taught amongst the mystic Orcs devoted to Yurtrus that suffering—a near death existence—brings about a savagery and a fierceness to survive that cannot be defended against, when brought to battle.

Yes, thought Grimnail as he dipped his hands into a bag of chalk powder near his feet, coating them with a fresh white paste, a battle will come, and it will be fought with fierceness brought on by a hunger never before known...

Even in the dimly lit interior, Grimnail’s eyes dilate in excitement. Inhaling a deep breath, his nostrils flair wide with a satisfying irritation from the stench of death. As Grimnail prepares the final aspects of the sacrifice, his thoughts wander deep into reflection of the spirit-knowledge he has seen when asleep—the pure slaughter of life: a field of dead Human, Elf and Orc, together awash in fresh blood, slowly drying in cakes upon rendered flesh, swords and armor, both steel and hide…and the sun shining high overhead, raining heat and silence upon the aftermath of some great battle….

…and Grimnail snorts aloud, a snort caused by a further thought, a revelation perhaps: in this vision, he is witnessing the time after a great battle has been fought, and does that mean he, Grimnail, fourth offspring of Ragehands, will live through this starvation of the Black Orcs, to see the battle pass? Will he be the one that leaves two white hand prints upon the corpses of the fallen, guiding Orc souls to further populate the realm of Fleshslough?

It is at this moment that the two small fires in the corners of the mud hut burn out, and Grimnail stands, half-bent over in the low roofed room, alone with this wondering. He assembles his things, the sacks and pouches containing the ingredients of his magik, and turns silently to leave, pushing the wicker and reed-made door open into a humid darkness of night.

Ahead yonder, in the center of the camp, stand many Black Orc kin busy with tending the evening fires. Soon enough, the scouts will depart and begin the night chase for elks, and whatever else they might find…on this, the edge of the Sharpteeth Woods.

.

[tooley1chris]

Taptap, the Witness
Story 1

Taptap, the Witness
Story 1

The hare lifted its nose to the almost nonexistent breeze that wisped lazily through the dense pines. The humidity stifled even its acute smell, as no odor could carry long on such heavy, warm, damp air. It's ears perked and twitched hoping sound would serve as warning where nose failed. Nothing. A lazy hop and shuffle near the muddy banks of the small stream and it had found a small clump of fern and began nibbling nervously. Rotating its head to better observe the muggy wood surrounding it. Satisfied the rabbit was alone, it gathered more of the vegetation into it jowls. A few hops later and the rabbit made its way back to a small log that had dirt burrowed out from beneath. Fur from its own hide lined this hole with a mixture of grass and straw. Scanning its environment again she climbed in to nurse her young babes.

Taptap’s patients had paid off. The scaly humanoid jump easily from one tree to another with all the grace of a squirrel and little more noise. He swung to a nearby branch to another, and he dropped from the height unto the fallen log. Dirty, long nailed fingers groped in the burrow hole, easily finding the scrawny hare. The rabbit screeched before boney hands broke its neck and shoved its carcass into the tattered burlap bag. Then reaching back into the hole, the kobold, Taptap pulled the pups out and stuffed them in after their mother. Scrounging through the burrow he was confident he'd claimed the whole litter and scaled back up the tree quickly. A large V in the branches held his small frame comfortably and he fished in his sack for a prize. The black orcs would be content with his labor and wouldn't miss this one morsel. Taptap pulled a small iron blade from his belt and cut the belly of one of the babes, pulling back fur and skin. He smiled at his work and greedily devoured what little meat the small package provided.

The kobold carefully cut bone away and sucked it clean of flesh. Wasting nothing. He had been starving. His master’s tribe had been starving. The woods no longer provided bountiful game to feed the masses. Every morsel must be savored.
He wiped the sliver of a blade free of blood and tucked it back in his belt, hidden. If his masters knew he had even that shard of a shattered sword, it could mean death.

Taptap wanted to live.

Taptap climbed back down the tree smiling again. The black orcs called him Gbatoh. Among other more foul things. But this name he liked for in their guttural speech it meant spider. And while he could climb like he had eight legs, he was actually so named for his ability to set traps. More than a dozen times in his six years of captivity he had caught wild game in his web. A couple small deer, a wild pig, a few rabbits, even other orcs. The trapped prey seemed to become more tangled the more they struggled but remained alive until the tribe claimed them. Taptap had little doubt this was the only reason they let him live so long among them. He finished his climb and scampered to the near by stream to wash up and fill the skins with the water he was sent to fetch in the first place.

"Yes" he thought aloud. "Yer spider brings yer water and a tasty treat as well."

It wasn't a far walk through the wood to where the blacks called home. The orcs had actually stayed at this camp longer than any other since he'd been with them. Dirt mounds were erected and hollowed out to serve as lairs for the masters. Mud cached straw, reeds, and branches made roofs for many of these, as well as badly sewn animal skins. He could smell the smoke from the many burning fires within the village long before he was close enough to see the destruction that was his home. Orcs, it seemed to Taptap, were not builders but destroyers. They delighted in burning even in the heat of the forest. Approaching the village he could see many trees hacked and slashed in a wide circle around it. Little wonder the hunters had to travel far for ever more scarce game. But what caught his eye, or more so his ears were a rustle in the trees to his left. Instinct found him scampering up the nearest tree. Taptap the spider was a good twelve feet above the forest floor before looking down at what made the ruckus.

A small group of the aforementioned hunters were returning to the village as well. They appeared worn and beaten. They also carried no large stag upon their spears. It appeared the hunt provided little reward. He looked down at his own sack of rabbits and caught another hunter looking up at him in the tree as he passed.

Taptap knew the orc wouldn't try to hurt him. He was property of Slamg, second son to Gajutar, the tribal chief. And while over the last couple of years Taptap had become more of a pet than slave to the tribe’s leaders offspring, he was property not to be damaged, nonetheless.

Taptap waited their passing and climbed back down the trunk. Orcs came out to meet the hunters and were turned away with snarls. Taptap decided to go around the gathering and made his way to the tents where Jarl and Muus would be tending their own orc babes.

Slamg had two breeders, what orcs called their woman. And each had bore him one son nearly at the same time. The wolf like mentality of the orcs meant they, and Taptap, were safe as long as Slamg lived and willed them safe.

Taptap announced his return, waited a moment, and then entered the tent. The heat within was nearly stifling, even to the cold blooded kobold and the breeders added to it with a small fire that sent streams of smoke up through a hole in the hides above.

"What taken Gbatoh so long ta be gettin da waters?" Barked Muus as she suckled one of Slamgs spawn.

Jarl hissed aloud "Not bringin stinkin fish again, me a hopes."

"Ku agrog uh nro raggg, ku. hogr rohan." Answered Taptap in rough orc dialect.

"Meat?" Asked Jarl

"Bah!" Snarled Muus. "Your use of our tongue is crude and ignorant. Speak the talk of our enemies or none at all!"

"No fishes. Missus." Taptap lowered his eyes speaking in common. "Flesh and blood, yes."

He placed the burlap sack onto the wooden log that served as a table and un-shouldering the water filled skins he backed out of the tent...and into Slamg. The large orc barely noticed but gave him a brutal shove nonetheless. A heated debate was taking place between the hunters Taptap avoided earlier and the chief’s second son.

One of the hunters bellowed in broken common "Da huntin is no good. Da meat goes south ta da pointy ears. Da elves gettin all da sport and da orcs be all empty bellies. "
Another orc, Grimnail, spoke aloud to himself in the rasping snarl: “If Black Orcs meet with our blood Gods one way or other, let be by Elven sword than by empty belly."

Taptap knew this orc. Knew that he sacrificed to the Rotting Orc Deity, Yurtus.
Other orcs bellowed and stamped in agreement. This was a dangerous game and Taptap wanted to be far away.

Slamg shoved the orc nearest him angrily and growled. "Watch yer waggin tongues, maggots! Der be no fightin wit dem flower sniffin elf folk and der won't be lest Gajutor be sayin! Mind yer place lads, or it'll be pointed out ta ya wit a spear!"
"Der bein no sport in huntin here." Hissed another orc. "Weez chasin nuttin but our shadows."

Slamg snarled and reaching behind him snatched Taptap and held him and held him high as the little kobold slave shrieked.

"This 'ere rukgo be catchin more meat den yous black hunters!" He barked baring his teeth.

Slamg tossed Taptap back to the ground behind him and the kobold scampered back into the tent.[/quote]

[narcaleptic]

Watching eyes, footsteps of a lead hunter


*A stiff breeze passes through small pines near the forest edge, a welcomed feel to the Quill haired orc Beorugk as he points out a small doe roaming the open field to the other hunters. Diz gooz wez wait and foodz come says Beorugk. Suddenly the doe stops stuned by fear as its eyes are fixed on somthing just below the tall grass. The grass tosses and turns with movement, and then a howl of mercy cries from within the thickness.* Dey be wulvez der Beorugk thunkz *nods*. One of the three orc hunting party becomes over egar and begins to move for the doe. A tall moonlite shadow quietly decends over the orc as he is griped by the neck and gently lifted off the ground three feet coming eye to eye with the age riddled face of Beorugk, the orc snarls, and says... Dem wulvez eatz doe yous tupid! let mebz go befur wez no git yum yumz! *Beorugk tightens his grip choking the orc slightly and says softly... Youz raise voice one mor timez... *beorugk glares into the orcs eyes as he remains silent and submissive. Beorugk oldest hunter... youz juz tupid young orc. *Beorugk turns his head and gently lowers the orc to the ground hiding himself from view, he points at the now active doe runing directly in front of them. He says.. Youz wutch Beorugk and learns. As the deer draw closer to the forest edge Beorugk shields his eye's and casts a blinding light spell on the point of his spear holding it high and directly in front of the deer from the forest edge. The deer stops and glares at the blinding light absently. Beorugk plants his feet firmly and lets loose his spear, it travels on path while the doe blankly stares at the light. *Thud, the doe falls over. Beorugk looks back to the other two orcs.... Youz see? mebz teach youz mor bettur huntz, run after deer wit spear iz tupidz and leave you an da tribe hungriez. The small hunting group heads for the slain doe and secures the kill for transport home. Beorugk says... Smull deerz no much meatz meb tink, wez no leave woobz emptiez handed dho diz gooz? yez. *snarls and growls, eyes of burning ember light up just over the hillside* Wulbz! Wulbz! one of the hunters shout as they are quickly surrounded by six rabid wolves. The hunting group is forced back to back with spears in hand while surrounded on all sides, there fresh kill lies in the middle. Using reach to there advantage three of the six wolves are pierced and fall lifeless but the over egar hunter found himself with a broken spear after the first kill, quickly the three remaining wolves jumped him and began there feast starting with the neck *gurgling sounds* Two thrown spears land taking out one wolf and severly injuring the other Beorugk quickly finishes off the injured wolf steping on its neck and crushing it under his massive waight he then turns and growls at the remaining wolf a sound so deep it would scare the undead. The wolf licks its lips, charges and leaps......

To be continued.

[Lampir]

What is a female orc?
She is proud and strong, vicious and cunning. Her hips sway to entice the males and her womb lies like fertile soil to give fruit to tribal warriors. Her eyes see all, forget nothing. Her ears are two to her single mouth; for it is always wiser to listen long and speak the brief cutting word that is as surgical as a knife to the throat. Her mouth is full of jagged teeth but her tongue can cast a far more dangerous poison against her enemies.

Her hands are perhaps the most telling of all for in them you will find a tool for raising children, crafting tools, mending wounds, preparing sustenance and also, of course, claws sharp enough to gut any enemy who gets in her way.

Every orc tribe prospers thanks to male war bands and hunting parties.

Every orc tribe survives because its females are the solid foundation that supports it.

Now, as the food runs low, as the males begin to rustle and fight in frustration, let us focus in on the little seen face of the orc tribe. For surely, if there is ever a time for the tribe’s women to shine it is when the tribe’s very survival is at stake.


Shagar: The Terrible Calculus

I am not afraid of what I must do, only waiting for the right time. My husband does not know about our hidden cache of supplies – only that our children have not yet died. Of those not yet made warrior or mated to warriors there are ten.

I have done the thinking, I have done the planning. Two weeks as things are before the stores are completely gone. That is watered down soups with just enough flavor to keep the stomach from rumbling plus with whatever I and the children can scrounge – from onions to mushrooms to berries. I have even learned how to boil bark into soup during one dangerous winter.

But I also know. Know I can no longer spend the extra time I had been in protecting three of my children. They are slower than the others, but I have seen such children become very useful in the tribe if given time to grow. Useful, maybe, but a luxury.

Without those three, with more energy and time and less mouths to feed they and my husband and I might be able to stretch the stores for twice as long. A month is far longer for Gruumsh to bless us, for our hunters to find new prey. Two weeks before we begin to die… or a full month? There is no question to what I must do. I can always bear more children when times become more fruitful.

And, of course, there is the meat to be had.


Gara’Ku: Strange Machinations

No one had bothered to feed her in years. Presumably she came out to forage or steal from other tents but normally she hid in her own. It was strange in every way possible. There was never a fire in her tent, not even a crude candle or torch. Her tent always seemed a little cold and a few of the kids who had dared sneak into it had sworn their breath had frozen in the air like a winter morning. But even the way the kids would forget almost everything about their adventure or how they would never be able to agree on how they had ended up outside her tent, passed out – no, even that was not the strangest thing about it.

It was, by all reports, filled with books.

She was old and her womb had long since run dry. Her various mates over the years had all died; not mysteriously, but honorably in wars, hunts or simple fights among tribe-mates. Her head was almost completely bald save a few thin wisps of greasy white hair that clung on stubbornly. It was remnant of her mourning when the tribe had stopped seeing her as worth their energy. She had ripped out most of her hair in her wailing and it had never grown back.

Books, which had been a strange hobby of hers to collect from raided camps, caravans and the occasional wanderer, had become an utter obsession. She had been left to die – not to be fed, shunned by the other females – but she had not died. Somehow, as time wore on, she had been accepted as a strange fixture on the edge of the village. She held no position of authority and, though she had a mystique to her, not many were interested enough to bother with her.

However, it was certainly agreed that her touch was still felt on the tribe from time to time. She seemed to see and hear everything that went on, even though she was (as said before) rarely seen outside her tent.

Sometimes a truly unexpected blessing would appear. One such time was the morning the tribe found several large geese lying dead near the cooking fires. The males presumed it a blessing from Gruumsh, some meat to be had. However the females noted the strange pierced holes that had killed the birds and how the holes were wet and a little cold as if pierced by spears of now-melted ice.

Maybe then it was no surprise that whenever a book happened its awkward way into that camp it would always somehow appear before the opening to Gara’ku’s tent. How it vanished from the burn pile and how it arrived at the tent was a matter kept subtle and quiet by those females wise enough to know one doesn’t always look a gift-worg in the mouth.


Bashuk: United We Stand

I am so very happy for you! How was he? A real man in the furs? HAH! That is good! I can see his marks all over you and that glow in your face that says you are a woman now! Come sit with the rest of us, yes?

Now, let me introduce you. There is Ghob, Badbog, Ragash, Ushat, Lambug and Morn here today. Ghob here we call Water Eyes because I have just never seen anyone with so much passion! Badbog’s … well Badbog, we haven’t come up with a good nickname yet. Ragash is NightClaw from the time she killed two attackers who came on her while she was sleeping.

Ushat won’t much answer unless you call her Priestess Ushat. Sure she can be a little uptight about it, but she really is very wise and helpful, you’d do well to stay on her good side eh? Lambug’ll be your midwife since you’ll be having your very first child in just nine months I bet! Are you excited?! I sure am! Anyhow Lambug has helped birth over a hundred babes and she’s seen it all. A real miracle worker you’ll be in good hands. Just don’t forget to ask questions! And Morn is the best healer you’ll find. She knows all the local herbs and poisons, the right poultices for the right wound and can stitch up orcs so well she can make a whole warrior out of two halves! HAH!

Oh me? Well now, you can call me Bashuk, The Gatherer. We all have to stick together after all right? Now, I know that we’re all worried about the food shortage, but that is why we need to support each other even more now! Hiding food, getting into fights is the way we will die, scattered to the winds. You know me, you know I have already opened what I have to give out freely to those in need and I challenge you to do the same. We have resources that alone might not be much but together can become something great!

I’ve made these painted stones and I want each of you who wants to be a part of this tribe, to really be a PART of this tribe, not a petty self-centered back-stabbing survivalist but a real STRONG, FIERCE and UNAFRAID woman to take one. If you do, then you will be answering to me for assignments to coordinate all the relief we can muster to keep this tribe stable.

Ghob? Good, I was hoping you’d be first. I want you to take some of the younger females you’ve been teaching and put all your tricks to use to keep the warriors from ripping each other apart. Use some of Morn’s sleeping powders if need be. Morn? Ah perfect, you kind of know where I’m going then. You’re also an excellent forager. I want you to set out others to forage and you to personally make sure what they bring back can be safely eaten.

Lambug? You’ve birthed sons in this kind of environment. You know what the risks are when we are low on food. Keep the mothers calm, keep me informed over which ones we can help and which ones we can’t. I want to know where our resources are best put to use. Badbog, you’ve got an excellent nose. Let’s start digging up burrowing animals, bugs, worms, roots – whatever you can find. If you hit gold or artifacts bring them to me and I’ll see about finding some way of turning that into food. I believe Morn has a worg - Morn lend Badbog your worg so we can double her effectiveness.

Ragash? .. No? .. Alright I’ll leave it for now, but you know I’ll be talking with you soon. Priestess Ushat, is it as Malar wills it? Very well, if you feel that’s the only way to be sure I can lead, then I accept and will fight you tomorrow. However, if I win you will put all those who listen to you into the group’s resources – agreed?

Whew… am I forgetting something?

Oh… OH! You!

Well now… will you be taking a stone?

[tooley1chris]

A Deadly Hunt

Orange waves of the fading sun pierced the pines around the squatting orcs. He scanned the four others around him. Able fighters with spear and bow gripped tightly. Nervous? No. Anxious.
Sweat rolled down his greasy skin as the humidity of the deep wood enveloped his flesh. His own spear, a short shaft with a sharp flint head. This was not a spear for throwing but for the thrust. Driving into the heart of his quarry. It had not tasted the blood of an elk in some time.
The hunt had been fruitless. The black orcs were born hunters. Bred to it from when they could throw a rock as pups.
But this hunt was of the old ways. Not the silent stalking of prey that had been failing in these empty wood. The drums started in the distance. Vrirbag clutched his own spear tightly now, scanning the small clearing they had picked for ambush. The drums echoing through the woods, the beating of spear to shield, clapping of large gangly hands, the howls of hungry orc. Those would serve to drive whatever wildlife remained between the silent watchers and those ahead into this clearing. Onto waiting spears.
The others shifted in anticipation but Vrirbag was patient. He stifled a chuckle deep in his gut. He was more doubtful that anything of size would come to them, frightened by the noise. More doubtful than patient. His belly was empty. His mates belly was empty. What he wouldn't give for the sight of a large wild boar to run crashing through the woods toward them. He was weak with hunger. It had taken most of the day to set up this trap. To coordinate the others into this disorganized ambush. He'd doubted any of them had eaten more than a strip of dry meat all day.
The sounds got louder as the clammering orcs stampeded through the woods making as much noise as they could. They would form a half circle around those waiting and bottleneck the prey here, if there was any meat left in this cursed woods.
Birds took to the sky as the branches beneath them snapped. A small fox darted into the clearing and was immediately shot with many arrows but the orcs remained still, in their hiding hoping for more sport. A squirrel, then another, fell from the trees above. A shaft buried deep in each. Rathgars bow had found sport in the trees above where none of them had bothered look. He was a sly hunter. Motivated by his own rumbling belly, no doubt. Then it happened. A large crashing through the trees. Too clumsy to be a large stag, but big enough to be perhaps a mighty boar. Vrirbag licked his lips and looked to a companion to his right who was smiling a toothy grin, obviously of the same mind. Roast pork. Or raw pork. None of them cared now.
Torches could be seen through the dense wood as those that drove the wildlife toward them loudly approached. The last wisps of sunlight dotted the valley as a large black wolf jumped into the clearing. Not a boar after all but a dire hound! It sniffed the air and growled, becoming aware of the hunters present. The beast was fully eight feet long, and while somewhat scrawny from its own hunger, had to out weigh the four shocked orcs combined. Arrows dotted its hide as bow strings twanged. But it seemed to ignore these darts as its hair raised in fury towards the boney protrusions on it back. Two orcs charged it with spear and Vrirbag lept from his own hiding place. Wolf meat would fill his gut as well as any deer or pig, and while in the past he would have let such a predator alone, hunger drove him forward. One orc had its head engulfed in the massive wolves jawls before Vrirbag reached the beast, and it shook the now lifeless body of the orc viciously by the neck tossing the corpse into the woods effortlessly. Another arrow stuck the monster but it might as well have been a bee sting. Vrirbag thrust at the dire, stabbing nothing but air as the agile dog dodged under the blow, snatching the orcs leg and tossing him into the woods as well.
Vrirbag looked up in time to see a bold hunter jump the beasts back and hack at it with stoney knife as the wolf tore another orcs rags from its torso and splinter ribs under strong jaws. The bow of Rathgar sang again as wolf tried to throw its rider and the arrow pierced the thrashing orcs neck before his dagger could bite the wolf again.
The other hunters had arrived in the clearing just then, still banging drum and shield, unaware of the melee taking place. The wolf noticed this as well and, with a howl, bounded off into the woods with many of the black hunters foolishly in pursuit.

[Aeb Ankor]

Beloved and Darkness Together

#1 The Hunter Awakes:


He awakes to the sounds and smells of daily life in the tribal village. Voices of others talking or argueing, pups playing and fighting, the growls of the few worgs remaining, the clang of cooking pots... He sniffs the air, to discover a stench of something horrible cooking nearby.

The day has started long ago for most of the tribe, but he is a night hunter. A killer in the darkness, he was just falling alseep when the others were avoiding to wake for the dawn.

He sits up from the pallet of hides he rests on. The hides are old and worn, not enough of them lately to spare for new bedding. In the darkness of the low hut, his eyes see much and his hands make the ritual of touching and to inventory every piece of his nessasry kit. Sturdy boots with soft soles, not all of his kind wear foot protection, the light chest armor, along with flexible thigh and tougher shoulder protections all of cured hides, and a mottled cloak with hood for cover in foul weather and blending with the shadows of the forest. Rough strong hands carress the blades that are not heavy like many of the clan's great axes or mighty clubs these are a a pair of obsidian daggers sharp enough to scale a fish or slip easily into an unwary prey's ribs, a light axe with a hooked spike for breaking bones or piercing armor, and a short oak spear with a blade from a broken mithral sword once taken during the wars with the point ears; it is a treasure he took in tribal combat.

The terrible scent in the air, it would make most stomaches roll and wretch... he gives a snarled smile, because he loves that smell.

After doning all his kit to be ready for the day and aware that any moment even within his tribe could lead to blood and murder, he moves silently to the shadows to peer outside into the glaringly bright afternoon. The light is so bright, nearly painful. It takes some time for him to see into the glow beyond the doorway.

Another toothy grin comes over him as he finally sees his mate, her beauty has always been worth fighting over, he had killed many rivals that tried to take her from him, her strong legs and backside catch his eyes and there is a rumbling and heat in his hungry belly, as she squats over a small fire and cooking pot... the source of the revolting odor. Her hands move at stiring and mixing into the pot various items from nearby bowls and baskets. The pups are watching and learning, they have been busy for days gathering and foraging in the forest as their empty stomache's whine, a task everyone relies upon in this starving village.

In the blinding sunlight as his eyes still adjust his vision faded into memories.

It is said that the mate's mother, a powerful shamaness had a vision of the one who would take the ugly runty baby female pup for his own and hold her and trust her and provide for her... with pride and caring. Most males laughed and scoffed at such a story to think that a mate would be trusted and cared for, for more than the source of male pups and a warm bed! But, then the shamaness' daughter grew into a woman that made the males hungry even just after eating a full meal, the sort of female that is worth fighting and dieing to have and take. Many of them then had fought and died at each other's hands for several years, she was passed among them, the living and the soon to be dead, each one falling to the next willing to kill to have a warmer bed.

He had been a young hunter, not powerful in the tribe or proud enough to believe he deserved such a prize, but he was watchful and wary. He learned from the older hunters of the clan and studied how they fought and what made them win or lose. He also watched HER, he saw how she was respected by the other females, how the old shamaness still tought her a craft long after most female pups became just a hut mate and breeders, how she hated to be nothing more than a prize for those that would use her as only for warmth and bragging. When the old shamaness went to the spirit world for the last time, the tribe paid little heed to it and little greving is known especially for the very old and feeble... one less mouth to feed.

That night when most of the tribe slept, he went on his first solo hunt into the darkness, he had no elders to lead and give orders, it was just himself and the wilderness. The gods made such a darkened world shine for him, every step he took was quieter than he'd ever been, every shadow he hid was darker and deeper, the scent and sounds of prey came to him like a gift on the wind. His first kill was a huge stag, it's head moved and the forest moved with it, antlers like tree trunks. His next kill was a yearling doe, her blood so sweet and pelt as soft like a cloud. Washing his hands in the river after finishing his hunt, he found four glowing gemstones sparkling in the water at his feet. A blessed night, it deserved more and so he tracked a doe and her pair of fawns. He used every bit of his skills and the powers that still lingered on this spiritual night to creep within a pace of the deer and silently he took a fawn with his short blade. It was a perfect kill, even the mother doe would not even notice the fawn was dead and gone until long after he had slipped away. At the hiding place where he tree'd his clean game for carrying home, he knelt at the base of the knarled oak, using his axe he dug under a rock the roots had bound tighly to the trunk, into the shallow pit he buried the small fawn and in it's mouth he left one of the gems. In the darkness he praised his gods for such an awakening they had given him.

On the dawn he entered the village with a makesift sled holding the two deer, the buck he gave to the females already preparing the communal fire for morning meal. The beautiful yearling doe he took to the shamaness' hut resting the sled outside. He called out to the shamaness daughter in the nearby hut of her current mate, and waited... Several tribe's members gathered in the early dawn, either hungry bellies or the clammor had woke them. He heard a slap and rough voice shout "Stay there! You are mine and no other will call you to him!" with a growl. The hut's hanging hide door flew open and the hulking brute that currently held the shamaness' daughter as mate lumbered into the dim glow of dawn, he shouted "Who! Would dare challenge me at such an hour!" upon seeing the young hunter he couldn't help but laugh, "Hahaha You?? Not'in more than a runtling barely older than my own pups! I'll kill you and not even be tired before first meal!" As he stepped forward raising his great axe "Come her little one, I smell your blood soon..." the last words trailed off as he was falling dead and lifeless to the ground. The hunter had moved so swiftly and without taunting or goading his foe, that those standing nearby almost doubted their memories of the kill. Just that the morning sun creeped up above the trees at just the time to see the hunter standing over the larger older male, a handaxe burried in the skull, the dead man's forward leg nearly severed below the knee and the greataxe laying to the side with part of an arm gripping it much to far away from the corpse to still be attached.

That morning was the first time he'd killed something other than animal prey and he liked it.

He'd studied the fights of his tribesmen for years to know the habits of his kind in battle and weaknesses they favored. From that moment on he was no longer just a hunter, he was a killer, he knew that the same observations would lead to killing of other foes those of not animal kinds...

When his new mate had reluctantly stepped from her hut over the dead corpse of the last mate expecting only another in the same line of controlling mates, her eyes down dejected, he led her to the shamaness' hut and to the prize doe he had prepared. The Killer handed her the remaing three gems and a cloth bag inside were some herbs he had gathered on his way home, upon looking into the bag the surprised look on her face told him, she did see him for the first time.

For, he had also studied and watched her, he knew her real value and the craft her mother had taught her.

The glare of the afternoon sun faded in his eyes.

The Killer stepped from their hut toward his only mate of the last twelve years. He knew her craft and savored the smell of it. He knelt behind her as she worked, holding her in his arms and sniffing deeply of the horrid stench coming from the pot. He loved them.

[Lampir]

Hakina: The Cruel Charity

Torla and Bwela have beaten me again. They always win, they are stronger and faster. I am only eight and am bloody and curled into a ball until they leave me be. They took the mushrooms I'd found and my stomach hurts almost as much as the rest of me. I am so, so hungry. I see them, my sisters, bring the mushrooms to mother and I see her frown at me. She knows what has happened, but she does not stop them like before. She won't let me eat if I don't bring food. I find food, but if I lose it then I didn't bring it.

I'm too tired to think about it, I just want… to…

………


It is night, when did that happen? I fell asleep. The camp is quiet, all the hunters have gone out for the midnight prowl. The women without mates to please are sleeping. So little energy is wasted right now. Sleep, eat. Many things are falling apart now, no one wants to spare the energy to fix them.

Eat… the rest of me is a dull throb but my stomach is a sharp gnaw. But.. I can hear the sounds of someone eating something…

I make myself get up, even though I really want to lie down and wait for death. I stumble towards the sound.

There, in a distance from the camp, is an old, old orc. She has almost no hair and what she does have is greasy and hangs white against her scabbed black scalp. She is eating something and I know this must be the frost witch Gara'ku.

She knows what it is like to be hated and left alone. She knows what it is like to be left to die, as I have been. She will help me. I will learn dark magic from her I will bring her food and she will make me strong.

I open my mouth to say this, but it is too dry and only a croak comes out. It is enough. She turns and I see what it is she is eating. It is what is left of my brother. He had not found food either.

I stand there frozen and she, not wasting a drop of blood, wipes her mouth and licks her hand clean.

"You woke up." She says. I do not know if she is surprised or angry or impressed. I just nod.

"Males think they own us." She laments with a voice of poison.

I say nothing. Her smile makes my blood run cold. "They think we are disposable."

Her claws dig into my brother's skull and anger, clear and pure, wrinkles her aged face. "THEY are the ones who are disposable!" She hisses.

I just stare and finally she calms down and studies me closely. She comes to a decision and snaps off my brother's leg. She sets it down on the ground and rises, taking the rest of his corpse back towards her tent.

I stare down in hungry horror... at the gift she has left me.

[Lampir]

The Ascension of Hakina

"If you cannot survive, you did not deserve to live." - Old Orc Saying

Hakina ate every shred of meat and with each bite she tried to rationalize what she was doing. With each bite she thought of how her brother had not woken up, had not stood up and had let himself be killed. She thought of how he was weak and how weakness was a sin. She swore she would be strong and so, when she was done, she spent the rest of the night fashioning her brother's thigh bone and sharp flint stones into a spiked club.

She wrapped it in a dirty cloth and fastened it to her back with new determination to live. It was inevitable, when she found and killed many juicy beetles, that her sisters would find her as she returned and steal her food. This time, however, she was ready.

As she returned, just a little ways off in the clearing, Torla and Bwela flanked her with dark serious stares. They sniffed her, smelled the smell of blood and immediately became lusty at the idea of meat. They had no idea they smelled the remnants of their own brother on Hakina's breath - they probably would not have cared.

As they closed in to subdue Hakina again and take her bag, Hakina untied her club. When Torla went to tackle her, Hakina swung the deadly weapon into her sister's face. It pierced through the dirty cloth that had wrapped it and into Torla's flesh.

She let out a scream of pain and fell backwards, causing Bwela to hesitate. Hakina pulled her club out of Torla's face, the flint visible now, and brandished it at Bwela, inviting her to try her. But that had been all Hakina had needed to do. Bwela turned and fled back to the camp, leaving Torla clasping her face.

Mother had seen that, too. Again, however, she did not interfere despite her disapproval at Hakina using a weapon. The bag of beetles earned Hakina the night's soup which she ate with triumph in her family's tent.

Bwela found food from another smaller orc, easier pickings than Hakina had become - however Torla was left out in the night.


The Descent of Torla

Torla was only ten, a few years from being able to take a mate. It took her some time to come to grips with the fact her right eye was probably ruined and more time to pick herself off the ground where she'd been abandoned to seek a healer.

There was a shamaness in the camp, prized and fought over by many males. Torla knew of her, for none could forget the stink of her cooking pot. Whatever mystical brews she made, if Torla was going to find a way to keep from dying this female would be the one to make it so.

Inwardly Torla cursed for underestimating her sister, hadn't that been what had made this shamaness' last mate fall? He had been big and amazingly strong. He had bred strong sons and daughters, but he had fallen to a runt of a hunter and his small blades. Maybe she could learn something from this Malarite.

Or perhaps, if her eye-sight made fighting too difficult she could petition to learn the shaman craft. Yes, that was more likely. She could become known for her talent, desired despite her missing eye. It could even make her more revered, this wound.

But for now, she had to make it to the tent and survive the heavy bleeding that was making her mind fog with delirious ecstasy. A defensive mechanism of orc-kind let them keep going, even find pleasure in pushing themselves beyond death's door. Torla was definitely sort of barely aware that was what was going on.

Losing focus, as she thought of potential mates and even the names of her children to come, she kept walking, stumbling towards the shamaness' tent. The world went black and Torla collapsed just short of her goal.

[tooley1chris]

Bump in the Night

Taptaps Story 2


His strong nails bit into the bark as Taptap climbed the thick trunk. Not too long ago he would have never climbed so high but experience bred confidence and every time he went a little higher.

"Rukgo indeed!" He thought to himself. His master, Slamg, had called Taptap such earlier that day.
He'd asked Muus and Jarl, Slamgs breeders, what the strange word meant and they laughed at him.
"Monkey!" They roared. "Taptap the spider monkey man!"

It seemed his list of nicknames was growing. He'd be called dinner if his master knew he had snuck away for the night. But the orc camp slept, save for a few night hunters and guards.

Guards...Taptap, the spider monkey kobold had evaded their lazy patrols easy enough.

"What did they guard against anyway?" He thought to himself.
"Not like there's anything worth stealin. No predators gonna attack cuz there's nothing ta hunt here anyways."
He reached a point in the tree that spread many thick branches and settled down onto one.

"Of course." He continued his thoughts, "There was da big bad wolfie dat ate up some of da hunters. Hope dat doggie is far,far away."

Something tickled his small thigh and he looked down to see a rather large centipede crawl across his leg. He scooped up the foot long insect and began nibbling on it.

"If dat wolf dog come into camp it could eat Taptap in one bite! And pick its teeth with me back bone!" He shuddered and bit off another mouthful.

Then something caught his eye. A big ball of shadow in the branches a few trees over.

He walked across the thick branch, jumped to another, and then swung to another. It was as he thought. A ball of twigs and leaves wrapped around another branch. A squirrel nest. He pressed his ears close, listening for any movement within.
Nothing.

He ripped into it, not caring about silence, only to find it empty.

He sighed and shook a small fist to the stars for his bad luck. But then spied another only a little higher up.
He climbed, trying to remain more quiet this time.

As he reached the airy perch he saw it was a large birds nest and a turkey vulture was nestled within.

He grabbed for it but the startled bird pecked and clawed at his hand. It screached and flapped its great wings, buffeting him and sending a flurry of feathers swirling around him.

The strength of the bird was astounding as it threatened to fly off with Taptap still holding on.

After making lots of little ouchies on his poor arms and hands, he finally let it go to fly off.

"More bad luck." He said aloud this time. "Now everthing in da whole woods knowin Taptap is on da hunt!"
He went to slap the nest from the branch in frustration and noticed the pale white orbs within.

"Not all lost efforts and bad luck" He whispered stuffing the birds eggs into his ragged bag.

Then, as an after thought, he gathered handfulls of the feathers and shoved them in as well.

Content with his work he began the long climb back down.

As he reached the bottom most branches he caught its sent and froze.
Sniffing the air again he pointed is snout toward a clump of bushes nearly right below him.
It was an orc. Probably a night hunter, but it didn't matter. No one knew where he was, his master, his missus.
This orc could kill Taptap here and now. No one would know.
"Are you satisfied, Ghhago?" Came a low growl from the bushes. "You've made enough noise to scare everything within a thousand strides, or more."

"Ghhago." Taptap knew this word. It was orc talk for "slave."

Atleast the brute below knew Taptap was property of Slamg. But he only felt a little safer.

"Taptap not makin noises. Dat be da birdie." He said angling his position on the trunk for a better view of the hiding orc.

What he saw was a smallish orc face giving Taptap a look that said "Do not play with me."

"Master be sendin me out fer burnin wood. Master knowin where me is." The kobold whined nervously.

"That I doubt, Ghhago." Said the black, night hunter. "Climb down. I could have shot you down long ago had I wanted."

Taptap gulped but climbed down and into the bush.

"Taptap not meanin ta ruin yer huntin." He hissed silently.

"I've sat here and see little. You ruin nothing... 'cept a birds nest." The orc almost smiled nodding to the branches above.

Taptap remembered the eggs and opened his bag.

"Sneaky master hungry?" He hissed producing one of the eggs.
"Tap already eat tanight."

The orc eyed the large and grunted approval.

"I'll be havin some a dem feathers fer me arrows to." He said nodding at the stash.

"Yes, yes. Of course." Agreed the kobold spider monkey. "Taptap just gonna make missus a necklace wit dem. Arrows are better use, me thinks."
He pulled a handful of the better feathers out and relaxed a little.

"So," Asked Taptap. "You be seein any big wolfies?"

[tooley1chris]

Bitter Breaking of Fast



Taptaps Story 4


Taptap had sat with the black orc hunter for longer than he had thought.

The night was fleeing from the rising sun and his hunt had only produced a large insect, which he had eaten already, and a few nice sized bird eggs.

Closer to the village of mud and straw huts he caught an odor on the wind.

Roasting meat it was! Also something sickly sweet and rancid, but Taptap was vastly more interested in the meat aroma.

He doubled his pace.

If the night hunters had fell a great stag or a large boar, there would be much to celebrate. The famine had claimed so many already and those that remained were angry, depressed, desperate. Fed orcs would be happy orcs.

A happy orc was Taptaps favorite kind.

He could see the first huts on the outskirts of the village.
He usually gave one of these an especially a wide berth.

The one with the god talkers daughter. Anyone who spoke to the high powers was to be respected and feared.
But she was not the reason he avoided the hut, decorated with its many trophies of death and slaughter.

The male who claimed the breeder, and those trophies, was one who killed many.

Even from a distance, Taptap could see the huts frame adorned with the skulls of great elk, deer, boars. Orc skulls were also there, stacked with humans, and a variety of others Taptap didn't recognize.

Banners were also displayed. No doubt elven and human symbols, all dirty rags, smeared with blood, displayed proudly.

But these prizes were not untypical of orc homes.
No. What scared the little kobold the most is the way the hunter that lived there stared at Taptap.

Not with hungry eyes. Not so much with disdain or hate, as others of the tribe looked at him.

The hunter looked at him with calculating curiosity. He watched Taptap. As if the small slave of Slamg had some secret that the hunter wanted to learn.

Taptap did not like the way the hunter watched him. Would almost rather have the hungry eyes on him. Almost.

The hunters breeder was in front of the hut stirring a pitted black cauldron over a small fire.
This emanated a queer green smoke and was the source of the pungent, sickly smell that threatened to overtake the sweetness of roast meat.

"Better to not know what she be a cookin" he thought to himself and followed his snout toward the center of the village, and scents more pleasant to his nose.

The sun had only begun peaking through the pines and was still mostly blotted by billowing smoke from an oversized burning pier.
Only a few male orcs were gathered around what Taptap realized was a funeral burning.
His heart sank.

No happy orcs with a successful hunt.

There would be meat, but not for kobolds. Such a thing as Taptap consuming one who died for the tribe would be considered a great insult.

He saw Slamg was among those gathered, and, to his dismay, Slamg noticed Taptap. He would be angry later. Angry that the slave was out and about.

He was suddenly very glad of the few eggs he had scrounged earlier as it might save him from a beating his little frame couldn't endure.

Muus and Jarl, Slamgs breeders, and his two spawn, slept still as Taptap entered the hut quietly.

He placed the eggs where they would be seen and cut some leather strips from a hide that made his bedding.
These he twisted tightly around the large feathers, fashioning two necklaces for the orc children.

His stomach reminded him that he'd had little to eat, but he dare not look at the eggs nearby.

Finally sleep took him.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 3 – Words in Blood

The hand axe was raised high aloft into air with a swiftness, gaining a revised position for delivering the killing blow, and then it paused, frozen, glinting in the noonday sun.

A spontaneous duel between two Orcs had raged fierce and hot, but the end was near.

Time stood still in that instant. Dust hung in the air, rustled off the ground by padded boots, floating in the light and the heat and the chaos. These specks of hard dirt and minerals neither rose, sank nor spun, as if the dust itself consciously waited for the hand axe to make up its mind, as if to wait to see from what angle to part from a compression of sliced air. A single drop of blood escaped the fresh and waxy looking line of red that coated the blade edge, hanging suspended as a perfect teardrop of liquid life, no longer contained within the body, but free. Two feathers once plucked from a felled beast known infamously as the Owlbear, tied with string to the axes handle top, hung completely horizontal in the thick air, broadcasting the direction of timelessness.

Other Orcs from the tribe had gathered in a closed circle around the makeshift bloodpit, closing off any escape—this duel began in a battle of words only a few moments earlier, but the ill will these Orcs had of one another had simmered low for some time...until the humidity, heat and hunger fueled tempers beyond recourse:


Late morning in the Black Orc’s scout encampment along the Sharpteeth Wood, and the hunters had not yet returned. The night hunts had slowly become longer and longer affairs, as the hunters crossed farther beyond the limits of disputed lands. The search for game—whether four-legged or two—was becoming pointless, as failure was the only result brought in on the backs of the hunters three straight nights in a row.

Grimnail—positioned as he was each day upon the edge of the camp, in anticipation to intercept the hunters as they returned—waited. He held in his left white-chalk coated hand a piece of corn, recently painted with a blood-black line across its remaining kernels. In the right, a mummified hoof of a stag, painted white and decorated with a pattern of lines and marks, beautiful in its mystic references.

The chosen of the White Hands stood alone with eyes closed. Grimnail murmured and chanted, his guttural language turned into a mystic song of prayer and magic. He inhaled deeply, and the smell of the forest quickly rushed into his sense, giving him an almost supernatural understanding of what creatures occupied his surroundings.

In a flash of communication from thousands of nerves weaved together now issuing a warning from pheromones on the wind: Grimnail knew that the hunting party had returned.

Leading the party was the warrior scout named Kram, known for growing skills as a tracker, but unfavored by any Orc god. Grimnail knew this, and despised Kram for his lack of faith. For Grimnail, Kram stood out symbolically as what sickened the Black Orc tribe—a lessoning faith in the guidance of the mystics. It was true that the domain of Malar guided the majority of the Black Orcs, and the tribe did not recognize any leadership other than that of Gajutar, especially any leadership that came from within the ranks of the mystics. Grimnail was in service to this Chief as well—there would be no mistake in that—however, Grimnail knew things delivered to him via shadow-knowledge that Gajutar would simply laugh at. It was always a challenge of words and will, when it came to addressing the Orc Chief, even in his role as guide and oracle to the current situation of hunger that gripped the Black Orc tribe.

And it was Kram that also took to laughing at Grimnail, openly, and often.

Grimnails eyes dilated behind his closed eyelids at this thought. There existed in Grimnail a fragile balance of will and rage. The will he channeled into prayer and power granted by Yurtrus’ dominion over life and death within the tribe…the rage came when it wanted.

His sense of smell bade him open his eyes, and walking toward him was Kram, followed by two additional hunters. All three had bare backs. Again, the sign of failure.

Grimnail laid his eyes upon Kram, and snarled. Kram’s mouth opened wide to show teeth and blackened gums, something far from a kind smile of any sort. Originally on the path to pass directly into camp, Kram abruptly turned towards the direction of Grimnail, moving with purpose.

Grimnail held his ground as Kram came with a meter. They spoke in Orc:

“Your eyes are a burden on my neck, chosen,” said Kram. “I hear your chants many strides away, even hear them on the wind following my hunt, but no trap I have set they spring, no tracks they make appear when I hunt following the moon’s path. Kram think maybe your magic scare off the stag and the smaller beasts…I should use your tongue as bait in my traps…*Kram chuckles in a foul cackle of bubbly snorts*…would be more use to tribe than in your mouth…”

Hot blood begins to pump inside Grimnail, having this open challenge thrown upon him. The sound of the blood is like war drums becoming louder with each beat.

Grimnail reponds: “Your weakness is in your spirit…is what brings you failure, in each hunt, Kram. When I chant and pull the power of Yurtrus to this land, it makes you stronger, stronger than you will ever be alone.”

The air around the two Orcs becomes heated, heated greater than just by the sun alone. Their words become louder and more pronounced in their sharp tones, drawing more Black Orcs to them, surrounding them—the smell of growing confrontation luring them in with a hopeful promise of savagery to come.

“I will not be called weak by you, shaman. You bless our food just as the females bless the whelps…you are no fighter, and you will keep that tongue in your mouth, or I will cut it out!,” spits Kram in the face of Grimnail. Kram places his hand on the hilt of a scimitar-like blade nestled in his belt, and waits for Grimnail to acquiesce.

But the blood has begun to boil within Grimnail. Enough challenge, enough laughter, enough of the hunger, the slow death, and the pressure. He knows that the rage will come now, that for whatever reason, Yurtrus will have him teach Kram, no, teach this group of scouts and warriors that the chosen mystics are to be heeded, or suffer.

The moment has come, and the greater group of Black Orcs know this. Their nostrils flare in a unison of anticipation as they quickly form a circle, shoulder to shoulder, around Grimnail and Kram. From their collective harmony of snorts, it is obvious they sense the tension that has grown over time between the warrior-scout and the shaman, combined with the heat of day and the temper which is Orc, which can only lead to…


Time no longer held still. The hand axe came down hard from its skyward loft accompanied by a guttural roar of fury and hate, reaction from the rush of intensity that only battle to the death between two single, opposing forces can bring.

Skull split and a fissure of red and gray opened wide between the matted black hair, as the hand axe cleaved deep and true into the head of the defeated. A scratching-crack pierced every ear present. For a moment the struck Orc hung attached to the blade like a limp skin-sack of dead flesh—precisely as it had become—then, the body slumped heavy and dull upon the ground, momentarily disappearing from view in a thick, dirt cloud upset by the fall.

As the rage and shaman wards dissipated like a retreating wave, Grimnail reached down to grasp the hand axe, prying the metal blade from the skull of Kram. Again, the sound of metal against bone reversed its sonic screech. Grimnail’s chants had brought a protective shield over his body, the strength of bulls into his muscles, and the rage from which he gathered further strength tipped the scales overwhelmingly in his favor…much to the regret of the now soulless body of Kram that laid in the dirt mixed with an ever increasing pool of blood.

The victorious Grimnail turned and walked through a parting circle of warrior Orcs, many porcine mouths agape in surprise at the outcome. This would have repercussions, this outcome, but that would slowly take form in the future.

For now, this small scouting war party would take heed to Grimnail’s words…for the white handed chosen of Yurtrus had spoken…in blood.

[Aeb Ankor]

Beloved and Darkness Together

#2 Together and Apart Preparations

The dream was of gorging, eating until sated. A common nightmare for many in this starving tribe.

The longing to taste the sweet blood on your lips... blood so fresh it flies on the wind in sprays.

Such a smell, almost if it were real... blood

The smell of fresh blood...

"Blood" the spirits call to her.

The smell of fresh blood when awakening will make any mother happy while her pups are starving and without prospects of food.

There it was again, the scent in the air. Also, the rustle of brush outside the circle of their hut.

Silently she moves to the door the night is young, still shining and bright with a waxing crescent. She does not need the moonlight to move in the direction of the blood, it is still fresh and flowing. Quickly she moves passed the fire pit and to the edge of the clearing, hurrying before others of the tribe catch the scent and investigate. Pulling aside the tall grass and brush, laying in a pool of blood a young female pup. The pup's head is a matted ball of sticky blood and hair, from a long wound to the left eye the blood still seeps into the earth.

A pleased whisper escapes her lips, "MmmMmm a blessing from the darkness". The spirits had awakened her for such a bounty.

Throwing off her sleeping tunic and baring herself to the night, she bundles the wounded pup into her arms. Without hesitation launches herself into motion away from the village and away from the family's hut. Moving as silently and carefully as possible to leave no tracks, from time to time she shakes the bundle in her arms, making sure the blood splatters to the grass and dirt below or rubs waist high against a tree. Her winding path takes her toward a small stream, reaching it was her first goal on this blessed night.

Into the river she pushes herself and holds her now more tightly wrapped prize above the waterline to keep the blood scent from spreading. Forging upstream, the pair move through the now darkening night, when she feels the time and distance is right she squats beside the shallows and slowly uncovers the wrapped bundle of wounded female pup. As she gently unwraps the bloody pup, she cleans each bit, not with water but with her tongue and fingers into her mouth. Licking away the clotted blood from the hair and the scalp, working toward the wound, trying hard not to let a single drop of the scent touch the nearby stream. It takes a long time, her legs grow tired and her tongue rough and sore, and the taste is so hard to resist. The wounded female pup gives little indication of being still alive in it's motionless sleep of near death.

Once satisfied of the second task of the night, she moves the clean pup into a more tightly and fresher wrapping made of her loincloth. Moving to the earthen bank of the stream, using her tough fingers and claws to dig a small hollow into the rocky soil wall. Along with the bloody scraps of cloth and hide in the tiny barrow, she puts the young pup's torn eye as an offering to the carrion eater insects of the undersoil. Her prayers and a strong force of will for the insects "to eat", are followed by a large rock and the loose soil and gravel, then the outside of the stream bank swept clean as possible to hide all trace of the night's events.

The naked orc female and her precious package silently and with little trace finally reenter the clearing about her hut from a different direction than she left, confident in the precautions that went into bringing this night's blessing into her hut unseen and unknown to the rest of the village.
----------------------------------------------

He watched silent and unobserved. Always

The Night Hunter followed and moved in the shadows of the darkness at sunset.

With two prey to seek, The Killer had a full night's work ahead, one was for diligence and a future plan that was only just a beginning of the endless battle in an orc tribe. The second he had cunningly crafted for weeks, he'd planned and meticulously gone over the details, every strength and weakness of the foe he would face visualized in his mind, his prayers and sacrifices all appropriate. By the will of the gods he would return to his family on the morning two days from now.

His first quarry was a warm up, to prepare his mind for the coming of the second trial.

The small lizard like slave he was watching, seemed to be hunting wood rats with a crafty plan to lure them in. First the kobold had dug about some rotting logs, digging in with fingers and a small metal sliver. He'd pull out a grub here and there, finding few but likely enough to keep from being beaten or killed for a meal himself. The Killer watched and waited, silently observing. Six grubs did the industrious lizard find in the dark woods and he only ate two himself, a mental note was made of the will power shown to eat so little when clearly starving himself.

As he watched from the shadows to the second part of the kobold slave's hunt The Killer paid close attention to the method used to prepare the traps and the grubs for the glorious success of a wood rat capture. So engrossed with his hunt the little lizard would mumble or even have a short conversation to himself. It seems this slave has more going on in it's head than just fetching water then scraping and grabbing up insects, rodents and small birds for his master's breeders to keep himself alive. A proper wood rat trail was located in a rocky clearing, creeping silently the kobold had carried with him two flat rocks and a few sticks. Strategically placing the flat rocks in two locations on either side of the clearing, he propped them up leaning with two long sticks as a brace and a smaller stick as the trigger with the grub bait wedged into the end deeply under the overhanging rock. The Killer approved of the primitive method, making note of the patience and skill the trapper took in setting the deadfalls. When the cunning lizard turned to climb a nearby tree, the rat hunt waiting game had begun.

This event, signaled a different path for The Night Hunter as he slowly moved from shadow to shadow retreating from the area of the rat hunt. It would be too long of a wait to see the results and the outcome of the kobold's traps....

He had his own trap to spring on much more dangerous targets.

Once alone in the darkened forest he moved as swiftly as he felt comfortable to stay alert to any scents or visual differences of this route he'd planned in the many days past. The Night Hunter knew the need to pace himself, to keep his running in check, the better to save the needed strength if required for the coming battle at the end on his run. He moved far passed where the other hunters of the tribe would patrol for game and quarry.

Far beyond that familiar range, nearly a full night's run there was a hated foe, one that no quarter was ever given. This small foe had flat faces, broad noses, pointed ears, and small, sharp fangs. Their foreheads slope back and this tribe of goblins were of a yellowish orange color. They tasted good too.

But, this outing was not for hunting food, The Killer needed something special. Something special these goblins held tightly at their breast, and the gods needed such a sacrifice; as the new moon was coming soon.

Just before dawn, he had reached the goal. It was a place of their choosing, but of his choice of trap. For weeks he'd made this run regularly, planning and watching. Insuring he had the timing right.

As he slipped into the shadows he went over the plan again. Seeing it unfold in his mind...

Four goblins on patrol, moving together watching the forest and alert. They'd be tired and weary from walking for hours, reaching a favorite resting location. It has a small spring of water flowing from a rock cliff, several boulders lay about to sit on. One goblin will guard the trail and three sit and drink from the pooled water. On each of the last two visits to this idyllic spot, The Killer had set his trap in stages, he'd carefully loosened the soil around a sapling above the trail on the low cliff. Each time he bent the sapling in a way to seem it was soon to fall, they would expect it to fall soon. He'd also hidden a dozen small boulders and concealed them above and beyond the cliff out of sight. After arriving at dawn he'd lowered the weakened sapling’s top to the ground, wedged it loosely to the lead goblin's favorite sitting stone, above on the cliff he'd braced a shell of a mossy log against the roots of the sapling, wedged so as to easily fall. Out of sight of the cliff base he'd carefully balanced the hidden boulders on the precarious edge only held by the sapling and the hollowed log shell, ready to fall on the resting goblins. He could see the trap easily from his position across the trail.

Killing goblins is easy.

He could have killed all four and been home safely.

The gods asked more than that, and it becomes more complicated immensely.

And so when it happened, it was as he meticulously planned. The goblin leader moved the sapling from his favorite sitting stone, the crack of timber and watched the rocks fall. Three goblins would lay still, killed unreported and unsuspicious in a minor landside...

The Killer stepped from the shadows.

His target had turned to face the crashing death of the fellow goblins, the last remaining goblin knew The Killer was there by the warm breath he felt on the back of his neck. The target knew what a deer knows the moment a mountain lion puts his weight and teeth into it's neck when pounced on from above.

Before the goblin could take even his sharp intake of breath to act, the special gloved hand of The Killer had touched him, the hand slipped around the front of the throat only needing a moment, for the skin brushed with the tiny quilled palm glove covered in a coating of poison to do it's work. The goblin's flesh was like fire where he was touched, his intake of breath became ragged and the large veins going from chest to neck, turned dark with the blood's reaction to the paralyzing agent. The goblin was bound, gagged and trussed into a game carry bag, made just for this one mission, while the rocks across the trail were still coming to rest.

From the shadows he watched and waited, not wanting to leave tracks or scent of himself crossing the busy goblin path. The Killer knew that waiting was the hard part, to be sure the other three had died naturally... just like waiting for a rat to enter the deadfall. He'd not heard even a gurgle from the dead goblins in some time, and the sun was setting.

To cover the trail of the missing fourth goblin, The Night Hunter had made drag marks and by hand the tracks of a small wolf; he even laid spore of the canine with several tufts of hair on a nearby bush.

Before moving at a run with his precious burden on his back, The Killer paused and listened and waited still until the sun had dropped beyond the horizon, not a sound from the now ripe smelling goblins he left behind.

Diligence and patience are a foundation for victory.

[tooley1chris]

Just wanted to express my gratitude to you who have taken the time to write these short stories describing the hardships of the poor poor orcs of Sharpteeth wood. I've really enjoyed the different perspectives incorporated and look forward to more.