The Survival Game

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 6: The Beating of the Blood

Dusk descends upon the Sharpteeth. An overall quiet envelopes the ancient trees...what is left of them, as the Black Orcs utilize their inherent fuel at whim. Still, it is a quiet that often comes before the storm...

The scouting warband of Black Orcs bustles in haste throughout the encampment—a more or less large pit trampled out of the earth, filled with basic tree huts lined on the outer walls with tanned leathers, fire pits, stumps of fallen trees now occupied by many Orcs...many, many Orcs....

Upon the ridge surrounding the encampment, a high-line from which the warband's archers keep watch, there in the nightlight, stands the Chosen of Yurtrus, Grimnail, charged with guiding these warriors, hunters, killers and slayers all...and not just those of his warband of late, the Norlokkos and the Barakka'Dos...no, the once scouting warband has grown substantially, swelled one could say, ranks having been filled via warrior-killers sent directly from his great Chief Gajutar.

The soft machines of war, to match the machines of wood, steel and pullies.

And with war comes the drums, and with the drums come the relentless beat, the bass that pumps air into and through the body, the beat that matches, enhances the beating of blood, turning it fire hot, charging muscle and spirit into wild heights. Frenzy. Chaos. Destruction...and results that lead to victory.

Grimnail, upon this wall, stands silent, as is his nature, as much as the silence can be gained while the blood pumps loudly through his ears. His eyes rest half-closed; his gargantuan lips and tusks move to mime barely audible words—ancient Orcish words of power—are repeated over and over to the beating of the drum, the beating of the blood.

Grimnail's prayers begin to Gruumsh, the all seeing one-eye, and as Grimnail prays he envisions the great unblinking Eye of Gruumsh above in the silent dark sky, looking down upon his children, the Black Orcs, the powerful, the relentless, the strong...looking down upon them and blessing each and everyone with furious destruction...silently unblinking until the great One-Eye unleashes the tribe with a great sign...

Grimnail's prayers slide into the space of air across engorged tongue, broken lip, cracked tooth...

The chosen of Yurtrus then slowly kneels, touching the blackened and stomped flat earth with his left hand, a hand covered with a cracked white paste, an image not unlike the reversed lines of veins, the same veins that now pump the blood of Orc swiftly through his body.

In heavy breath, words of submission to the Lord of Maggots seethe from Grimnail's cracked lips, surging into the earth, raising worms, beetles, ooze out of the ground around his white-painted hand, to crawl and writhe beneath it. "Lord Putrescent," Grimnail begins, "controller of disease, ravager of famine...we fear you, death is inevitable...you have shown us the suffering of life...now, your Chosen rise to heal this affliction by spreading death and disease to those that oppose our wellness..."

Grimnail takes his white-painted hand and slowly grabs deeply into the invested earth, raising upwards a fist full of black swarming organic mass. "Your creatures will be fed, enriched and multiply with each elven and human body this great tribe will put in the ground, in your honor, o Rotting One." Grimnail slowly opens his hand to let the squishy writhing black mass fall to the earth in chunks. Bits of dried white paint mix with the black worms that squirm upon the ground, seeking new burrows in the fresh, cold earth.

Still at a knee, Grimnail raises his head up, to again look upon the enlarged warband, reading themselves amongst the dusk hours, distributing tools of war. With an insight of wisdom, Grimnail considers the prayers he will memorize in the ancient words that will enhance these fierce warriors. He again thinks upon his Lord of Death, and revels in the power of such a god.

And in this moment, as Grimnail considers the value and power that this Black Orc force before him brings, his thoughts jump to thinking of the other Orc, the one found amongst the Sharpteeth, the one searching...and how that Orc, that seems to freely walk outside the Sharpteeth, will supplant his warband with information and tools to bring an edge to the attack, an edge that is not of the sword, but power of knowing the strengths of thy enemy...to turn them in to weaknesses in the end...

At the moment of thought, Grimnail is interrupted by the directed approach of his trusted lieutenant Narlokko, dark wood bow shining as if stars themselves have embedded themselves in the wood. The tools of war that where given to the Black Orc by others will so greatly add to the inner might brought on by the unyielding Orc blood, the blood that continues to be heated beat by thundering beat.

Narlokko stops at a respectful distance from Grimnail, head half lowered, mouth open and hot breaths emanating between tusks of sharp white.

"I return, Chosen, with haste. Blood is upon the ground...human blood. Those that bear a clenched fist now clench the shaft of arrow, soaked deep with blood of their chest." Narlokko says this with such pride in his tribe, such belief in the path laid out by the great Chieftain, that Grimnail cannot hold back a wide grin and snorting chuckle of approval.

As Grimnail stands to his feat, raising himself eye to eye with Narlokko, the great sky above flashes...the sign of the One-Eye, Grimnail feels...and the drum of his warband is joined in the distance by other low rhythms, a beat that slowly synchronizes into one...

A call that war has begun....

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 7: The Drums of War are Silent

Daybreak. Blue rays of light peak over the tree tops in the east of the Woods of the Sharpteeth, heralding the eventual, inevitable rise of the sun. But the night holds deep and low upon the ground of the Woods—a mix of shadows cast from still burning fires scattered throughout the trees, dancing upon the chard black earth, the ground leftover from fiery spellwork, the trampling from feet of armies...and of death.

The Woods carry a heavy silence in this early morning hour. The growing light might shine in all it's majesty, but the light slows to a snail's pace as it attempts to pierce the growing fog that appears throughout the Woods. The fog—a mix of smoke, mist, breath, perspiration—forms in the aftermath of a day, then a night, that saw the momentum of an Black Orc horde siege within the Sharpteeth completely routed by the combined might of men, elf, dwarf and hin. Blanketed north to south, east to west, the Woods refused to wake, and so the fog hovered, patient to let reality show itself, show itself slowly, painfully, to those of the horde that still walked within the Wood.

With one arm held high, bearing a burning stick casting light of a single flame upon a path leading north, Grimnail, chosen of Yurtrus, stumbled through the fog, bearing weight beyond his damp skin, hair and clothes. It was the weight, the burden, of the chosen of Yurtrus, to comb the battlegrounds, and put an end to the suffering bodies of his tribe—his battleaxe, held fast in hand but limp at his side, shown a deep coating of blood, Orc blood, as many a fallen, half-dead kin were given a final blessing to appease Gruumsh, then dispatched to join him on the nether planes.

Only the Lord Putrescent controls suffering; the bodies of the dead will feed him, believes Grimnail, setting free the Gruuman souls to wait a return to inhabit the freshly born whelps...that is, shall there be enough Black Orc tribesman left, or a place, a land, available to the survivors, to recover.

Pushing forward north, Grimnail stumbles in the half-light, teetering with a weakness from battle...but he is righted upward again by a strong hand grasping his shoulder—the hand of Barakka'Do, his only hand, the other arm ending in a stump covered with makeshift dressing, from what looks like an elven ranger's under tunic. Grimnail snorts and chortles, a close representation of thankfulness for the unyielding strength that continues to thrive in the body of Barakka'Do, as the warrior follows Grimnail's lead. For all he knows, Grimnail thinks to himself, they are the last Black Orcs still standing, having only come upon the dead, near dying or barely recognizable corpses of Black Orcs, mixed within the bodies of elves and human soldiers fallen in this vast battlefield amongst the trees. But the high ratio of dead Blacks to other bodies, is not lost on the momentarily dulled senses of the Black Orc priest.

Grimail pushes on despite the density of the fog. He returns to his scout-warriors base camp, to gather any that remain...and for what? His weakened will does not have more in this moment to offer other than strength enough to survive one more day...and maybe another day after that...

After many hours, through either luck or some form of inner guidance, the two make out in the lifting fog and mist the edge of their encampment. As they rise over the embankment that provided a line of defense, they peer into the grounds while their olfactory senses search upon the air for any signs of life. Stillness is all that is left. The drums of war are silent. The earth no longer shakes from the Black Orc march.

Grimnail and Barakka'Do stand alone on the rise of the embankment, pausing, breathing. Waiting.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 8: The Vision

And so the words would be spoken, passed down by warrior to wise to warrior again: trust none but your blood...no warrior halts mid-strike...take all what is there to be taken...be wary of offered promise. Those with memory of the Great Wounding to the Black Orc tribe under Chief Gajutar—of who the telling say was weak under agreement with those that held symbol of dark skull against golden disc—would always speak of the moment the cruel, cold northern winds came south to the Sharpteeth at their weakest point...and against all odds, the surviving Black Orc would stand and march head-first into the chilling winds, guided by the one who in turn was guided by He Who Never Sleeps...

Two days Grimnail and Barraka'Do kept a near silent vigil at their scouting camp at the very northern edge of the Woods of the Sharpteeth. Wounded, isolated, again starving...destitute. Barraka'Do, now with only one hand to defend, paced the edge of the embankment without pause, breathing deeply of the winds that seemed to be shifting, getting colder by the day. Grimnail, chosen of Yurtrus, having dug himself a small ditch in the earth—resembling a shallow grave—at the center of the once populated camp, kneeled within it for the two whole days and nights, chanting the ancient prayer-words, recovering his spirit, reaching out to the Putrescent, reaching inward to the recesses of ancient blood and wisdom....

...until the blackness of waking-sleep slipped over his head, his senses, like a thick cloth hood, shutting out the immediate world around him, delivering him into the vision—

A large, bloodied yet persistent eye....the sound of the march, padded feet, followed along with the panting of breath, Orc breath, deep and unmistakable...a fleeting scene of forest landscape turning to plains, turning to low rising hills toward large mountains...attack chants reacting to surprise, a sense of fleeing...a darkness of night, cold and bitter, the weak not lasting until morning...the eye, unblinking...the sun, crossing a view of the sky, crossing from right to left, right to left...the plains again, gray grasses with black figures spread deep in their range, lumbering forward...the winter skies, cloudless, cold.....then there, in forefront of the figures amongst the grasses, the black skin and furred shoulders turn to show the eye, staring, then turning again, facing the sky...the sun crossing through the heavens from right to left, faster and faster, repeatedly...


Grimnail is shaken out of his vision by a large, forceful hand. He looks up into the face of his trusted guard, Barraka'Do, who expresses danger. "We go...elf stench come...," he grunts out in the Orc tongue. In a half-way conscious state, Grimnail pauses, smells—indeed, forces press upon their location, not hiding their scent, a bold move...

...but in this moment of haste, confusion, Grimnail senses the strength in this just-past vision—he must carry it with him now, and not sacrifice it, in a defense against the elves that undoubtedly bear down on them.

"Move...," Grimnail commands as the two Black Orcs leave the encampment, moving north in haste, away from elves pushing closer from the south.

There is no need to look back. The pressure of imminent confrontation heated the blood, and the Black Orcs found typical pace of their long gait, moving rapidly away, out of the Wood of the Sharpteeth, forever...

(...to be continued)

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 9: The One to Lead Them

Days pass in the travel north from the Wood of the Sharpteeth. With the change in season comes rain, heavy, burdensome. Alone, exhausted, with only the fuel that is their blood to keep them in a stable march, two Black Orcs tread north, following a thought, a message, a vision...

Even before the sun has risen over the horizon to the east, Barraka'Do and Grimnail place foot in front of foot tireless foot, crossing as much ground in the dawn hours—matched by further travel at dusk—while the half-light provides the greatest of camouflage. They know their kind is being hunted still.

Daily, Grimnail is visited by nerve-wracking visions, always the same thought-consuming images: a scene of great mountains, a vast pit set into them, the vision of orc feet en mass, marching...and always, the great eye, above the northern sky, unblinking. Grimnail, from years as chosen to Yurtrus, was no stranger to the symbol of the One Who Never Sleeps...but his calling to Yurtrus forbade him to reach for He Who Watches. Yet now, something grasped at his spirit, this eye burned deep into his will during the visions, filling his body with purpose, reducing the doubt of defeat of the bloodline, coaxing, dragging, pulling...

The Eye in the visions pulled Grimnail north.

And so Grimnail marched, with the one-handed Barraka'Do either slightly behind or at his side, steel falchion always at the ready, gripped with unyielding force in anticipation for the final battle should it come without warning, that his now only single hand, and the sword, had become one and the same. When the visions hit Grimnail like a wall of cascading, bludgeoning water, it was the bandaged stump of Barraka'Do that did stabilize him, until a small burrow, any hovel of security, could be found, to wait out the images, the sounds, the calling...

Without any foretelling in the traveled landscape, the two Black Orcs crested a hill, and looked down upon the the river Chionthar. The two stepped back into the shelter of the nearest brush line, knowing that where there was water, there would also be eyes...unfriendly eyes at best. Grimnail did then began a prayer, the one that in ancient orc tongue of the chosen begins as "No eyes see when skin is like air, hair is like wind...," then, saying the last words that would send he and Barraka'Do into the ethereal realm...but nothing. The words that he giveth to Yurtrus did not return with a divine grant. Grimnail sat still, breathing heavily through lip and nostril, eyes shut and looking in, delving into the inner wisdom, seeking an answer. Still, nothing...at first. Then, with time, the black inner vision opened like a waking moment, like the lid that peels back to see...

Grimnail began the ancient orc prayer again, the words said now with greater intent, "No eyes see when skin is like air, hair is like wind..." But this time, when the final words to Yurtrus' honor were to be said, Grimnail stepped into the forbidden...and claimed the favor of Gruumsh.

In an instant, electricity spark and flare did descended over them both, from head to toe, disappearing crystals of light showering them then before falling onto the ground, burning out as quickly as they appeared. It was then that Grimnail looked to Barraka'Do, and he to Grimnail...no, that they looked through each other...and it was then that Grimnail knew the prayer, and the power that he had known as one of the Chosen, those that are called, had arrived via another...

There was no denying it: The One-Eyed God had chosen a new vessel. Strength, the power of destruction, the power of the storm...it pooled like raw energy into Grimnail's body, and with the use, acceptance and deliverance of the gift, the vision of days past revealed itself to Grimnail.

He would be the one to lead them.

Barraka'Do did keep eyes upon Grimnail, the sufferer-of-visions, and observed now a physical transformation, a transformation from a Black Orc of broken spirit and withering body, to another form entirely, one charged with the blood and life only seen in those that had risen to Chieftain, to greatness. Barraka'Do could not help but stare, slack jawed and with awe. He watched, captivated, as Grimnail stood fully erect, as if the magical nothingness that concealed them also surged like raw spirit through him. In the ancient tongue of Orc, there is no word for regal. But the word strength, dominance, a back-that-can-carry-many...this is what Barraka'Do saw...and the channeled spirit moving through Grimnail washed over the one-handed Black Orc...

Then, Barraka'Do watched as Grimnail looked down upon the river, slightly east, paused, then quickly raised a arm and pointed finger towards...

...there, down in the marches, in the far distance east from their position, the river Chionthar flattened and became a great marshland of grass, cattails...

"There, my faithful," Grimnail did say. "There lies our path...north."

The two Black Orcs, within nothingness and less than air, practically slid down the embankment and towards the marshland. With little to fear in being observed, nor attacked, they wasted not a second of the power that One-Eye did grant. They entered the marsh, Grimnail pushing forward with renewed life...but as they made there way, Barakka'Do stops, and looks down at his own feet, then around him, slowly, staring into the semi-soft earth that edges there against water. Grimnail, noticing, stops and turns to observe.

Barakka'Do then raises his foot from the ground he did stand upon, a ground that while soft, did not take his weight as he remained within the divine veil of nothingness, and stepped over to his right, placing his semi-visible foot into an indentation nearest him. The two fit like as if made by the same creature....

Barakka'Do then looked at the nearly imperceptible form of Grimnail, so see if Grimnail himself saw the resemblance. The two, becoming aware of the reality of the footprint, did then look around them in all directions, looking through the nearby by grasses to the earth semi-hidden at the base of the stalks of the reeds. There, surrounding them, where tens if not hundreds of similar prints, fresh in the soft earth, recent...

Nothing need be said between the two—their tribe, the Black Orcs, once of the Wood of the Sharpteeth, and what was left in the aftermath of such a great defeat, had survived...

And so it would be told by Those That Keep the Knowledge Upon Their Lips that the New-Chosen and the Faithful Hand would be washed in the strength of He Who Watches in the same moment they washed their bodies in The Great Crossing, from one history of the Black Orc tribe to the next. Words gathered on the storytellers tongues, describing the blessing of old One-Eye, and how under his guidance, the New-Chosen would begin to gather his lost kin under the great symbol of the One-Eye...

(...to be continued)

[tooley1chris]

The march was a wakeless nightmare.

The autumn rains signaling the end of the drought had left the forest floor a muddy quagmire, which was now frigid cold beneath Taptaps barely covered feet.
Soon the snows would come making game even more scarce.
The kobold looked to the branch obscured sky above and sighed.
"All cold soars and soon empty belly as reward." He muttered and was roughly shoved by a hulking form from behind which was his master.
Slamg pushed past the much smaller Taptap. His large legs easily plowing the frosty sludge. He no longer carried his massive axe over his shoulders but gripped a smaller battleaxe in his one remaining hand.

The battle with the elves provided many losses to the, now rag-tag, orc host.

A splash of acid from a flask tossed at one if the colossal War Trolls had reduced Slamgs left hand to a melted stump.
Taptap shivered at the memory of his master, howling in anguish, as the green fluids dissolved his ability to wield his great axe. Yet the blackorc was in a blood frenzy and
quickly reentered the fray with a discarded spear.

War Trolls...he shivered again.

The only thing Taptap found more terrifying than those War Trolls was the gargantuan Water Elemental the elves summoned to fight fires from the orcs bombardments.

He and the orc war leaders watched the watery goliath in stunned silence as it lumbered through the forests outside of Doron Amar. Steam sizzling in it's watery wake.

That all seemed so long ago.
The siege ending when the elves destroyed the bridge to their refuge as War Trolls crossed to certain victory.

The orcs fell back, fleeing into the Sharpteeth with many a feathered arrow trailing their retreat.

Retreat.
When the rage had passed and regrouping was accomplished, the first orc to say that word quickly had his head freed from shoulders.

The humans in black armor came to their bloody camp and praised the leaders for fulfilling their agreements.

"Mission completed" were their words.
Taptap had to shake his head in confusion. So many dead and dying orcs rotting in the dirt throughout the gathering.

No elf gold. Doron Amar remains, tattered, but whole. Yet these dark men say orcs have done well? Politics like these were beyond the mind of the kobold.

By the looks of those marching in Taptaps troop, one would think the elves had slaughtered the bulk of the massed Blacks. But a large force remained still. Scattered to the woods and ordered north.
Beaten but not defeated, a thousand iron shod orc feet marched and there was a tension in the air.

Taptap knew this feeling among his captors. Not defeated but...anxious. Like a wolf stalking prey.

Blood would spill again before long.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 10: Reunion for the Lost

The air crackled with a cold fierceness. Two figures moved north, away from the great river and the marshland that stood near it. Their speed increased with each step, until it increased beyond the measure of a human's stride, a deep purpose energizing each mighty step as they traveled a worn path, recently made by trudging feet marching in heavy unison...

Grimnail led the way. Not so long ago, his arm would be around the shoulders of the one called Barakka'Do. But in these recent days, the old inner strength had returned to the Chosen, a strength of increased measure, beyond yielding to fatigue, or, what lies unknown in the future—Grimnail walked as possessed, and behind him, in league with his movements, came the stalwart companion with one fighting hand, falchion gripped tightly.

With each day, the two came upon more and more objects that convinced them that the Black Orc tribe lived! How many had survived was indeterminable, yet, it was easy enough for the two to rely on innate powers of smell to determine it was a mix of warrior, female and pups.

Continually, Grimnail thought to himself: "There are enough to grow again..."

The Chosen and his warrior-scout moved north until a large field lay in front of them, nearly barren...and in the air, the wafting of the new death and the long dead greeted them. Skirting this land, the tribe's movement turned east, and therefore, so did the two. From the barren fields did rolling hills turn, and there, amongst somewhat fields of green and trees of long life, a smell of the bugbear did lay marked upon tree, path and stone.

In a heavy, guttural voice of Orc, Barakka'Do did speak as they entered these hills: "Foul...but I eat meat this day...."

And so he did, as upon the next ridge they crossed moving east, a set of bugbear warriors and a warpaint healer did set upon the two, most likely taking the chance to overcome by numbers alone.

A foolish choice, for not even a horde of bugbear kind could overcome the power that surged through Grimnail, once chosen of Yurtrus, but now in direct service of the Spear, the overlording Great Eye...and from this granted power, Grimnail did drain the energy from the warpainted healer, and call upon a great storm of vengeance to shock and burn the warriors that made an attempt to attack. The bugbear bodies were massacred by electricity...with the flesh cooked, Barakka'Do sawed arm and leg off with his great falchion, then let his teeth sink into real flesh. A growl of comfort did escape the warrior-scout faithful, and Grimnail grinned with tooth and lip in pleasure to feed his companion.

But the great unleashing of power under Grimnail's will did not go unnoticed. There, even more east, near a rise of hill that overlooked a pooling river that led from the north, a host of figures did spy upon the two. There, far enough to remain unnoticed for the time being, the figures stood as black silhouettes against an early day's sun. While grouped, it would be impossible from a distance to make out their numbers, yet, within them did stand a figure larger than the others, a head taller at least...

...Grimnail turned to face the eastward path, and in that moment, a thunder that seemed to bellow from the sky hit him, the mark, the message that struck only him, the calling that did both deliver him and manipulate him. The thunder did focus him towards a rise of earth in the east, and there, he saw the silhouettes just far outside of clear vision. Focusing, he drew air from around his face, catching whatever mark lay upon the breeze that flowed in this landscape...

...and then he saw the protruding silhouette, and simultaneously, the scent reached him, and he new: Gajutar had found them.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 11: Let the Chosen One In


North of the Chionthar, east of the Fields of the Dead, and south-west from the township of Triel, within the untravelled wilderness, two opposing forces—one of faith and one of fist—collide. A pantheon had slumbered, and the voices that fed them lessoned...a divine sting. The gods turn to make a play, and their mortal wards now seek place, position...and power.


The sun was high and blaring it's white light upon the clearing as both estranged groups neared each other. Tribal forces swirled loosely at a distance, but as Grimnail and his supporting hand in Barrakka'Do neared the standing force of Black Orcs, led at a point by the great chieftain Gajutar, subtle and unspoken messages filtered between all present—olfactory powers at heightened sensitivity—to the point where thick, course and black hairs, bristled.

Standing a head taller than any other Orc present, Gajutar Spearback, renowned hunter and servant of the Beastlord, stood squarely at the forefront of group of trusted elite warrior scouts. They swarmed behind him, grinning with foul breath behind jagged tooth, focusing their deep red eyes upon the two figures approaching them through the clearing. Gajutar himself made little to no physical motion, yet breathed deep of the wind around him, anticipating the moment when the Grimnail and Barakka'Do would submit themselves before their tribe chieftain, and offer the proper words of fealty.

Stopping a few arms length from his chieftain, Grimnail paused, as did Barakka'Do, who kept close to the Chosen's side. Grimnail looked upon his great chieftain with different eyes, eyes that had seen something greater than what Gajutar represented in the embodiment of strength, intimidation and chaos. This pause in perceptive insight extended far beyond the expectations of the leader of the Black Orcs, prompting Gajutar to speak.

"I look upon one of my tribe, who looks upon me without proper respect...," Gajutar growls out towards Grimnail and Barakka'Do. Barakka'Do, knowing that great power demands submission, lowers his head toward his historical chieftain...but Grimnail does not adjust his gaze. Instead, he speaks:

"As I was once shaman to many of our kind, you are chieftain to a tribe that lives no more in this land..."

"What words dare you speak to me, Chosen of Yurtrus, blesser of food that I hunt and bring to our kin? I am chieftain of all our tribe that does live...and they do live...as it seems, you have survived. Speak now of your path to this place, but speak with respect shaman...," booms Gajutar, and his warrior scouts shift with a raw energy that yearns to be unleashed upon any that stand against their sworn tribal lord.

Again, Grimnail pauses. He pauses such as any that speaks from out a possessed wisdom. In the same moment, he can sense the fear of reprisal build in his companion Barakka'Do.

"We have walked the dead Orc's trail, great chieftain," Gajutar replies with a proper title offered towards Gajutar, "and live only by the guidance of the Great Eye that looks down upon all our kin...of which you speak that they do live?"

Gajutar snorts and chortles an approval to Grimnail's verbal recognition. "As did you leave the Sharpteeth woods, so did I lead the hunters north. As they have for many seasons, the tribe followed along my path, for again I will take what is needed to sustain them. The tribe will feed and regain itself, and the weak races that find shelter in this region will be slaughtered to fulfill it..."

"Speak to me of the tribe. Where are the..." Grimnail interjects.

"Enough!," shouts Gajutar, pressing his intimidation onto Grimnail. "You will administer to those that will need your blessing, shaman, as I see fit. Know your place, Grimnail, offspring of Ragehands, before I remind you of where it is..."

With that, Gajutar moves toward and off to the side of Grimanil, marching on beyond the clearing where they have spoken. The elite warriors of Gajutar's guard follow in step with their sworn chieftain, snorting and growling towards Grimnail and Barakka'Do as they are passed. One of the last passing warrior scouts speaks swiftly to Grimnail: "We return to camp. Many need healing, shaman. Do not fail our chieftain..."

Grimnail watches Gajutar lead the group in a eastern direction, where a few low rising hills await, with unseen landscape beyond. Putting hand on Barakka'Do's shoulder, he makes a motion that the two shall join in step as well behind the leading chieftain.

Barakka'Do makes a move forward, and as Grimnail takes a first swift stride east, something to his left catches his eye: far off to the distance, deep in the northern sky, a small light flashes like a star twinkles in the night.

.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 12: Schism

A tribe of warriors. A tribe of the weak. Sharpened steel and the building heat for battle. The starving of those that could bear fruit. The savage pride. The survival instinct. The Chieftain. The Chosen...

The sight of what remained of the Black Orc tribe made Grimnail's lip curl, and the taste of his own dry mouth induced a snarl that mimicked a swelling devotion to his kin, this tribe, once again nomadic, but together.

From atop the ridge of the grassy hill, he stood looking down into the ravine where the tribe had paused in it's trek north. Dotted along a stream near the bottom were groups of females, the old, starving cubs, and one or two of remaining shamans...all surrounded by barbarian-scouts entering and exiting the groups, and the ravine, impossible to be stilled in their constant march for battle, the hunt, and the bloodlust.

Grimnail took stock of the population that did not bear arms, attempting to pick out any known bloodlines, or those from his own scouting group—he even searched for the female he shared before the attack of the home of the elves in the Sharpteeth, but he searched in vain. The Chosen closed his eyes and snorted deeply from the wind, pausing to breath, to concentrate, slowly beginning to speak the old words that he often spoke for the White Hands, but now mixed with the new words, the words that formed within him each time the Great Eye shown itself in the darkness of the internal night.

The stench of Black Orc in the air was thin, yet pungent, fertile...to himself, Grimnail thought: "there are enough, He Who Watches...it is only the path that needs to be shown..."

Without warning, Grimnail felt the presence come up behind him quick, as if the air in front of Gajutar, chieftain of the Black Orcs, was in and of itself a weapon of intimidation. Turning swiftly, Grimnail spun to face his chief, expecting the blow to come, but it did not. Gajutar grinned, a wide gaping mouth punctuated by two wicked and fearsome teeth—Gajutar seemed pleased with whatever result startling Grimnail from his reverie, would accomplish.

"There," Gajutar points over Grimnail's shoulder towards the deep of the ravine, "there is what follows me. They feed and nourish my warriors, and soon, I take this region apart...." Gajutar pauses for a moment, breathing deep of the air around Grimnail, then continuing on. "You have grown strong, Chosen...more so than when last you took reign of a warband, and sought trails and set traps for the Sharpteeth elves. I will make good use of you, for what is to come..."

Grimnail absorbed the words that Gajutar spoke, knowing well enough that the chieftain was revered as a great warrior, with a chaotic attack that succeeded in breaking the best laid plans of his enemies...a chieftain of demands, cunning and fearlessness. Yet for Grimnail, the implication to battle again against another enemy did not call to his heart and instinct. In his granted wisdom, he knew it was not the time for conquest.

Grimnail responded to Gajutar, and spoke his words carefully: "One-eye has always spoken first that we must gather and breed, great chieftain. I have seen much, in my visions, a territory that the Orcs will..."

"Do not speak to me of visions, Chosen! The hunt has begun again, as new enemies have shown themselves from without old allegiances...and to them, I will bring a brutal, bloody death....," spoke Gajutar with a force and sharp tongue. Saliva and foam amassed at the corner of his mouth, and the bestial strength that resided within him could be seen pulsating under his skin.

Gajutar continued: "When the last warbands return in the next days, we march east with the burning light at our backs. It is time our kin feasted on pink flesh once more..."

What lay east?, Grimnail wondered in silence. But it did not matter for the Chosen, for what called to him was the north, where the unblinking eye, trailed by mist, hovered above spires and peaks, as if looking below...

.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 13: Time to Gather Them

A spear had been shaped by the bloodlust, the physical might and willingness to wreck havoc upon those that sought peace, and the village that smelled of grain, that lay at the doorstep of those that used the Black Orc, that had become a challenge against racial might, was pierced until it bled deep of any that were not Orc.

But that spear had only ever one direction...and not all that conceived a future, envisioned it, literally saw the signs of it, had marched to battle...

The war drums had finally faded into the distance, and Grimnail knelt in the center of the Black Orc camp, praying. He had been in the position of offering to his Gods nearly a day without stop, enchanting and passing on words of power to weapons, to armor, to literally arms of warriors as they were presented to him...

That was his way, as shaman, as Chosen, as guide to his kind.

But with each passing warrior that he touched and transmuted power, he only saw death, no future, and the end of his kind.

As the night sky rose and he considered the moment that soon would be a great battle that his chieftain led the strong to win, a battle that would come as the sun sent its last rays upon the Black Orc's backs as they rushed without fear against opposing sword and spiked shield, Grimnail considered the growing wisdom inside that said in a voice that had no voice: "Great power lies in the blood that flows without end...."

Grimnail closed his eyes and attempted to close his thoughts down to a nothingness that would allow him to truly see, to visit the dark space within his mind, to speak with the flow of greater knowledge—unconsciously, his mouth and vocal chords moved in a synchronicity to produce the channeling of mantra and age old Orc words that had been passed from Chosen to Chosen, words that brought their Gods attention to the needs of the Tribe.

There, alone in his thoughts of dark nothingness, Grimnail saw without seeing, saw the line of a horizon open up from sliver, to bulge, to a peeling away of the darkness. There, hovering as the darkness rolled away, was another darkness, this one of a night without stars. In this place that wasn't a place, Grimnail looked around him to see the landscape that the tribe's camp did now occupy, all the Orcs that did not wield sword or stayed to protect them—the mates and the offspring as much—stood frozen like gray shadows against a colorless land. Grimnail looked again to the sky and knew he was facing east, facing towards the distance where the last the of the war drums beat was heard. Beyond that edge of horizon, he could feel the battle waged by his chieftain to conquer the grain and drink of the enemies fear. He could feel the battle won, feel the Orcs rage in victory...and then, he could feel the calm before the next wave. He could feel the trap that his chieftain had fallen in. He could feel the lands around the village of grain burn and churn and then the surrounding pressure...

...it was then that the eastern horizon of this colorless vision exploded in light, directly releasing into the sky far in the distance. Grimnail's eyes followed that energy as it amassed his in the sky, until it formed another ball that began to streak towards the north, leaving a trail of particles behind it. The ball of energy began to pick up speed as it raced across the sky until it almost seemed itself a long spear with a flaming point that reached deep into the northern horizon, until....the ball of the energy dipped behind the line that was the earth's boundary, and for a second or two, all was dark again in this dark vision world...then, a flair arched upwards from the north like a volcano of sparks, flooding Grimnail's vision inside this vision to where he was compelled to close his eyes, his eyes that were not actually seeing....

Grimnail opened his eyes once more, and what he saw again was the camp, humming with the leftover activity of the Orcs left behind. The mates, the offspring, the few warriors that stood at the edge of the camp to protect, all breathed deeply in full life.

Grimnail blinked, snorted, and paused, then lifted his Orc frame to his feet.

The knowledge that he sought from a sign had shown him a puzzle, not unlike that of a trap—Grimnail's intuition was that what would end in the east would bring about the path to the north.

It was time to gather them.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 14: When the End is the Beginning

Grimnail walks slowly out into the fog-laden night, away from the gathering. He remains with his back to the hut, still hearing the snorts and chortles from the remainder of the tribe as they argue and jab amongst themselves—he has no doubt that their support will manifest.

He has shown them the path, given them the option to grow strong again...

Grimnail sees the path ahead with the clarity of a single eye...

---

Hours before, the daylight burns upon the Black Orcs still at camp, many days from whence their Chieftain embarked upon a battle for glory and retribution....or so thought Grimnail. The days were spent not idle, waiting...he told to each Orc—female, young, old, warrior, devoted...—as to what was the only path left to them, the only path left for the blood to remain strong, for the blood to simply remain.

He was the Chosen...knowing recently, what that path truly was. He would deliver them...He would seek the highest role in the tribe.

Words and thoughts are one thing, Grimnail knew. His resolve would be tested, and the moment finally came...not as he intuited that it would, but a ground was stood, easier than expected, even:

As Grimnail sat in a small dug out pit in the earth, tree limbs and leaves above him in a makeshift roof, his body was shadowed from the sun in order that his mind could travel without disturbance. A call upon the wind was made to him, a sending...and he would answer, as was his place.

It was the will of Gajutar, passing on magic word via a theurgist for Grimnail to activate the reserve Orcs to him. Gajutar would make his enemies suffer beneath him, cause death and strife and to feast upon them all....Gajutar was the Blood Hunter, and all was his prey. Gajutar ordered Grimnail to bring those held back...bring the will of He Who Never Sleeps upon those of the pink flesh...

Grimnail focused upon the distance, focused his thoughts into one message, heard clear, removed from misinterpretation: No, Gajutar...the Black Orc will live, beyond your time, beyond your faith in the bloodlust...It is I, the Chosen, that speaks for He Who Watches...and his gaze empowers me, and compels the tribe to...

It would be the last thing said to his former Chieftain. What will come next is either competition of blood, to hold his challenge of leadership under a rule of might, or...the fate of Gajutar has yet to be revealed.

Grimnail opened his eyes and gazed randomly towards the east, from within this hut of sorts. His mind's eye envisioned that village upon a hill that was under smoke and bordered by forces that would end his kind within the time it takes for the heart to beat....

Grimnail would best them all and march his kin into a future yet unknown, yet unmade...the One-Eyed God has presented the path...it is only the sign from the skies that will mark the moment...

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 15: Deliverance

The Chosen stood perched upon the ridge of the hidden valley. His gaze turned deep eastward.

He watched the black matted backs leave to conquer. He watched as the fires rose high upon the horizon, as the village burned for days....he watched as the fires eventually died out, and the only orange light that could be seen from the east was that of dawn, a new day rising.

Grimnail, the Chosen who did not choose himself, waited no longer for his Chieftain.

For the tribe was now his...

---

The hidden valley was left without hesitation—fires burned, flesh cooked till black, uneaten...hides of the beast flapped in the wind, protecting nothing from the chill air. The Chosen felt destiny hinged on the unseen moment, ready to reveal itself. It was only needed to be in the perfect position to witness the falling sky...

And so they marched, the weak, the wounded, the female, the old, the feeble...those inefficient in the eyes of the strong marched at pace with the few hunters loyal to the Chosen, those that had accepted the Vision. Those that would be forgotten...the Black Orc warrior hierarchy was now dead. Its Chieftain slain. There was only the seed, left. The seed that lived inside. And so the bearers of the Black Orc seed followed the Chosen, out from the hidden valley, away from the lands of Men, guided they were by the One-Eyed God that would not, and had not, abandoned his chosen. The Chosen. Grimnail.

Marched, they did, as slow as needed, fast when pushed, too few to matter to those looking for many, to innocuous for those looking for the mighty. The power of He Who Watches flowed through his Chosen, protecting the path ahead, erasing the trail left behind. He Who Never Sleeps summoned the favor of his pantheon—it must have been so—for The Night Lord kept darkness surrounding them as they moved, the Blood Moon Witch inspired the path for a new home, the Leg Breaker kept them strong in the long march...and the Lord of Maggots protected them by releasing a curse that would mask their departure, causing strife enough to distract, until the hidden valley was far enough behind them.

And so it was that faith overtook war, for the coming time. The mantra upon the trail, was spoken with every footstep: "gather and breed...rise up, rise up...the eye that will never blink...follow the eye...rise up, rise up...."

Each night, Grimnail, chosen of The One-Eyed God, scanned the heavens...waiting.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 16: The Eye of Gruumsh...A Prophecy Fulfilled

For many races, the sands of time turn at a rate of days, months, years....

For the Orc, time moves faster—days are hours, minutes are but seconds...and thus in the blink of an eye, the Orc breeds itself into a new beginning.

The Chosen, his faith never yielding, has led the Black Orc into a Third Era of existence. A Chosen by fate, now a Chieftain by faith. At least until another would overtake him...but that chapter would not be written yet...and, here.

And so, while the pink-of-skin and the light-of-bone races slept in comfort to the end of the Black Orc as it was known, a village was set under the burning Eye of Gruumsh...the sign, the manifestation, of the will of the One-Eyed God.

/// Thank you everyone that contributed, read, participated and enjoyed this player-collaborative storyline. It was by far one of my greatest experiences on BGTSCC. And...I had personally given up all hope for an actual, in-game manifestation of YEARS of investment and work...but, lo and behold, a new chapter...nay, a whole new book, has opened up to be written.

And that story must come from YOU!!! I'll be there as well. As long as the fun lasts.
-Steve

[Darkshard]

//Awesome.

[Maverick 40]

Congratulations. Such wonderful work deserves reward, no matter how late it arrives.))