The Survival Game

[TheVoid]

sent as a pm.

[Nomster]

//wow.. really good stories there from a different perspective. I love how it shows the orcs as more than savage beast.

[tooley1chris]

Desperation




His master ,Slamg, was arguing with some of the younger hunters again. This seemed to be a weekly ritual lately.

The hunters would go out, sometimes for days, and come back with little meat.

Another tribal orc would have died of hunger, or sickness from hunger, while the hunters were away.

Someone reminds the others that the hunting would be better in elven territory.

Someone will argue that war with the elves will not fill bellies.

Someone will claim that dying in combat against elves is better than laying down to die slowly from lack of food.

On and on it goes.

Slamg will become violent and spit out a reminder that HE is not the leader of this wasting tribe.

Someone else will point out that the leader, Slamgs father, is more willing to leave elves content than to feed his own tribe.

"Here we goes again." Thought Taptap, the little kobold slave.

He got up and drug Slamgs axe to the animal hide flap that served as the masters hut door.

He rested the axe silently against the threshold and reached out to his masters hand from behind, still out of sight.
He pushed the heavy clawed hand against the pommel to assure that his master knew sharp, sturdy iron was close by if needed.

He turned his attention back to the masters breeders, Muus and Jarl. They slept with their babes on their chest. Also so accustomed to the arguing they barely stirred.

He eyed the burlap sacks that were tucked into the corner of the hut. Taptap knew they were full of dried strips of meat. He also knew there was half as much as a few weeks ago.

The provisional stores would fail.
The tribe would fail.

Taptap grabbed his own raggedy bag and a deer stomach that Jarl fasioned into a water sack, then climbed out through a flap in the back of the hut.

He skirted the other huts, trying to keep out of sight without looking too sneaky and made for the woods.

The sun rose to it's highest point before Taptap found himself atop a large tree high above the leaf and pine covered floor below.

He was frustrated, confused, scared.
If the stupid orc hunters of the tribe finally realised they could have their way by attacking it's leaders in numbers instead of one at a time then those leaders, including his master, would fall to cruel spear bites and axe chops.

Taptap didn't love his master but he did love his own head and wanted very much to keep it where it was.

"If master falls..." he thought and shuddered, rubbing his neck as if he already felt the severing cut.

A time was coming.
A time of decision.

Taptap could always find something to eat. Taptap wouldn't starve, but even his own clever little traps had produced little game and he brought less and less back to the missus.

Least ways, less of what they would actually eat and not throw in his face.

If the tribe went mad with hunger, Taptap would be food.

If the tribe rose up against its leaders, Taptap would be food.

If the tribe went to war...He sighed.

" All losin and no winnin for da spider kobold." He whispered to the branches around him.

He longed to dig a hole deep enough to reach his brother kobolds. They lived for burrowing deep tunnels into the dark places. Kobolds were good diggers.

But the world was a big place. He knew he would search long before he had any hope of finding his own kind again.

There were many dangers besides the orcs. Elves, humans, dwarves. They would all treat Taptap with cruelty.

He sighed again and eyeing a smallish snake in the grass below, he descended the large tree to catch the squirmy meal before heading back to captivity.

[Lampir]

Torla and the Shamaness

She woke.

She did not moan or wince, cry or sob. Not even a whimper did the little ten-year-old child make. Human and elven offspring would have been screaming in panic, flailing and making a scene to frighten every living thing within five hundred yards.

But not an orc child.

If an orc child sobbed, it learned quickly it was making every other orc around it alert to a weakness. And that meant innately lowering itself on the pecking order.

When you hurt, you got angry or you kept your mouth shut.

So Torla woke and grit her teeth as the pain of her freshly severed eye and licked wounds throbbed. Her breathing was fast and pupil dilated. Every natural instinct on autopilot to scan for danger, take in the situation and be ready to bolt or attack.

First she smelled where she was. The stomach turning scent would have made her wretch if she'd had anything to wretch. Instead it just gurgled in complaint.

Then she felt the tight wrappings around her that both cradled and held her captive. Her instincts insisted she do whatever she could to free herself, so she began to wriggle, claw and bite her way out as quietly as possible.

She wasn't yet sure if she was being watched or not, but about half-way through her efforts to free herself, to hatch as it were, she stopped to catch her breath. She had lost much blood and the work was making her dizzy. Her vision was swimming.

Torla closed her eye and pushed one hand down into her grimy satchel she kept hidden under her - it was gone. She was wearing nothing more than what smelled to be a loincloth. Torla had lost the little poison berries she'd stolen from Hakina a few weeks ago.

Her mind tried to come up with some other way to barter for the help she needed.

"I will serve you." She promised to the air, to the pregnant silence. "I will be strong again and I will serve you." Torla paused, her ears flattened at her helplessness.

"Please."

The word cost her more than she cared to admit.



…………………

Badbog the Beast

Smell the color of stink. See the heat of life. Taste the sickness of death. Senses tingle, coalesce and slowly a plan forms. You seek the bait.

It isn't far. You see the kobold. Tiptip or Riprap or something. You go to take it, but a wave of angry breath is suddenly clouding your vision. One of it's owners. She smells your murder, she lets you know with grunt and body: This one is hers.

You snarl back and make to challenge. You slam a fist into her face and she falls back. Dust masks her from your nose. Where is the bait? It has fled.

Roar in defiance and be surprised as pain and white light send you reeling back three feet. She charged you and the fight would - no, it must! - keep going. You roll, trying to get up, to fight more - but you feel sharp teeth on your throat.

Not the female you were fighting, no, it is Ghob, the Water Eyes. She sends a shiver of a growl down your throat and your eyes roll back in the visceral pleasure of remembering your place. You close your eyes and submit.

The fight ends with the kobold's mistress preening, shouting a few obscenities to renew her claim on the slave.

You will have to find new bait.

You -do- find new bait. You can find anything. No smell is too small. You find a young pup with a flint-studded bone club. She looks up at you with immediate concern and you grin your sharpened fang grin.

She smells of death, the bone is fresh. She will work.

"Little one, how would you like some fresh meat tonight?"

The words are harsh, half body language as is the way. The pup touches her stomach and looks a little sick. Then she looks towards the frost witch's tent and back with a nod.

So you take her out, out to a clearing near the stream and there you tell her to lie down. There you pull out the half rotted, fragrant corpse that is too sick to eat. The pup tries to get up, to protest. You punch her head and she stops struggling. Maybe she's alive, maybe not. Either way, the bait will work.

You cover her in the filthy maggot infested thing. You work the area to make it look right and then you order the pup, alive or dead, to stay very still.. very very still.

The pup makes the corpse look like a big big prize for the vultures that keep a watch on the camp. You have been smelling them - their fetid trails making lazy spirals that drift down to remind you. You see, but sight is much much stronger with the nose - just like the vultures that circle ahead.

Just like the vultures with their razor talons full of infection, their gullets like iron cauldrons that eat anything once alive. They swoop down and begin to debate the best way to retrieve the meat. It bobs mostly in the water, making it hard to get at. Many of the birds line the shores or nearby driftwood.

Easy pickings.

You set a smooth stone in your sling and pick off one. The others fly off… then come again. You pick off another.. and another like this.

Finally one of the vultures gets an idea. You are impressed. It takes a chance that it's six foot wingspan can take the bait whole and swoops in, latching onto the pup and struggling to go airborne again.

That is when the pup comes alive - guess you didn't hit it hard enough - and swings the club at the bird's wing. It squawks and falls and you watch, letting her kill it in a sloppy but deliciously bloody way.

She is hurt badly but that is no trouble. You praise her and help her to gut and clean the bird. You let her bathe, though you do not know why she insists. You send her to the healer for those talon marks to be cleaned proper and see her off to her family's tent. Many bigger ones might try to take it, but this pup, this Hakina has impressed you, so you help her get the meat she earned.

Then you take the other birds to be put in the communal cooking pots Bashuk has commanded.

[Lyrewyn]

The Hunter Moves

He had heard of this monster. Vrirbag did not need to speak of its prowess; his missing leg had been a testament to the wolf's cunning. Gajutar was aware of the thoughts of his followers.

"Do not let the stores be wasted on the cripple! Let him pay for his failure!"

They thought it, but they dared not question his decision. He who could see where true strength laid. If the tribe had spoken their words, they would have soon have been feeding on it. Under Gajutar's guidance, the crippled bowman whose patience the others considered meekness had been used to great effect; the pair matching nearly every other hunter in the tribe combined kill for kill.

Here, the Chief would have need of the lamed bowman's patience once again. His movements were hobbled, clumsy, but once in place, he did not need to move, for hours. He was in the perfect position.

He himself had arrived later. He knew the beast would have smelled the prey they killed just hours beforehand. He knew how the mind of the predator worked. It would come, curious but unable to turn away a free meal. The stag was a large one, but nowhere near the size of this prize.

Chieftain Gajutar Spearback stood up calmly, spear clutched in one hand as he immediately drew the attention of the massive beast. The pause the great wolf took was all the time it took for Vrirbag's arrow to strike its eye. Before it had time to comprehend the danger, Gajutar's spear had pierced deep through its skull.

This was his favorite tactic. He had learned in common they had a name for it. The Luskan City Shuffle. He was a clever human, and almost escaped the High Hunt because of it. Almost.

Chief Spearback learned fast. And the clever man never saw the subtle signals on his hand, nor his allies at his back.

~~

Rumours from the southern tribes spoke of the great hunt there, and he knew that was where they would all be looking.

[Aeb Ankor]

Torla and Gok

In the darkness of the hut, he heard her awaken and struggle. His own sleep was of chasing and hunting in wild pursuit of quarry that he could never catch, it haunted him and woke him. He'd seen her around the village a bully to the weaker pups she was called Torla. She was once strong but now the weakness of injury would weigh on her and might not survive if the gods willed.

He'd be of age soon. His name was Gok, a shortened pup's version of the name he'd have as a adult.

"Gokur Gbohah"; a Venom Spear, he'd have to earn the name. The ritual was soon and during that darkest of nights he would become a hunter or dead for food.

For days mother had charged him with the care of the captive wounded female pup that had been in a fevered sleep of near death, it was clear now she would live passed her badly damaged eye. He'd been getting a larger share of the meager rations they had for meals, to prepare him to be strong for the ritual. It was his choice of how much to give to the female pup, and if she would be strong or weak when it came time...

Reluctantly he got up and fetched some food water, he used a bowl to scoop it out from a small pot mother had prepared, it contained water, some fresh sow hog blood that father brought into camp and crushed grains of some sort made soggy in the liquid. Torla was still bound up tight, they could not let her run away hurting herself further or alerting the tribe and disrupting the ritual. Kneeling near her, he lifted her head to allow the bowl and it's contents to reach her eager mouth. The one remaining bright eye was clearing of pain and fever, he didn't know if the glare from it was hate, fear, hunger or pain, she hadn't spoken to him yet. After eating he rolled the female onto her side facing the wall of the hut, he did not want that eye to be staring at him while he slept.

"Will she be strong enough, will she live or be food, What would the gods choose for her?" were his thoughts as he curled up next to his siblings on the nearby sleeping pallet they shared. "Would I catch my dream quarry this time?" he wondered as his eyes closed again for the night.

[Aeb Ankor]

To build a better rat trap

The whimper of the captive goblin woke him with a snarl, that led to silence from the frightened prisoner. The Killer had been sleeping in the hidden cave he had found long ago as a young hunter, he had used it for safety and a base camp when on long journeys, it was much more now.

Even though the trussed up goblin was there, he felt alone and did not much like sleeping away from his mate. It was not fear, he knew she could care for their pups and most threats from within the tribe... he just missed HER being there when he woke.

It put him in a sour mood, a mood the goblin learned not to test with more whimpers in the preceding days. A snarl now quieted the captive when in the past kicks and stomping had been used to force the quiet.

This cave was much deeper than it seemed, the entrance was not much more than a burrow tunnel with an overhanging mat of tree roots and brush. Once inside even then it seemed small, hardly room for more than two Orcs to sleep and huddle about a tiny fire.

He had taken her here many times to hold her close and safe, especially when the tribal village was ripe with strife and the chance of random violence and attack was common as kin strike out in anger at one another spilling blood throughout the camp including females and pups. He told her it was for protection, but he liked the tight enclosed space that bound her against his chest. Even after their first pups he would give a snarled smile remembering the sounds of breathing and smell of his mate and family inside such a confined space.

Later and still years ago, he had been digging out the back wall for some extra space, he'd been blocked by a boulder. This large rock was badly weathered by ground water from above and seemed loosely held by the earth, he thought if it could be freed from the back of the cave, it would make a solid door to block off threats at the entrance when rolled into the tunnel opening. For days he had dug around the outside of the boulder, trying to get leverage, finally able to force several logs behind it to pry and move the stone forward. With a THUNK the boulder came free of the wall rolling to the center of the small cave.

The deeper part of the darkened cavern was revealed in the space behind the missing stone. It was damp and he could hear the dripping of water, smell the foul odor of bat guano. Over the years he'd explored the space behind his hidden cave, the cavern had several tunnels leading away, none too far and only one was full of bats with a tiny opening for them to escape into the night sky, in time it became a shrine to the Stalker Below.

Now the opening from the cave to the rear cavern was ringed in skulls of many humanoids and animal, there was a fire pit on the floor beyond with more skulls. On the far wall was a representation of a curved sickle or crescent moon stained with ochre, it was about four feet long and gripped in a boney makeshift hand, each finger bone was the leg bones of some killed foe.

A grumble from his belly and another whine from the captive goblin, broke him from his thoughts of the past and his mate. She would be hungry as well...

He lashes out with a boot heel, catching the goblin's bound hands hard against the wall with a gratifying CRUNCH.

Opening his pack, the Killer found a small pouch containing the prepared mixture of powdered sand, ground up rose petals and crickets. Taking a pinch of this and a few words to activate, rubs them in the face of the goblin. Leaving the slumbering goblin behind trusting in the magic, the stout bindings and knowledge of knots The Killer withdraws from the cave exiting left from the entrance into the forest.

Not more than a small part of the afternoon had passed before he came across the fresh scent and tracks of a sow hog and litter, a rare find in this time of hunger. Following the game silently and alert, The Hunter finally parted the tall grass and brush that hid a birthing nest of the mother pig. Without hesitation, his short spear was pushed deeply into the sow, behind the front leg and into the vital organs. With just a few short twitches she was only food, while the piglets still suckled, in turn they each went quiet and motionless into his game bag.

Using the hide and some leather wrapping he bundled the now gutted and quartered sow into his game pack, the piglets skinned and tied to the side, he also had filled a sealed otter skin carry bag with much of the blood from the kill. The Gods would not fail him, by following the proper rituals and prayers; his family would live and be strong where others would grow weak and fall as prey to feed the hungry. "Those that are not strong are culled from the tribe" echoed the prayer chant in his mind.

Moving toward the village, quickly even with his now full pack the Hunter stayed watchful for threats and other opportunities. Noticing a familiar clearing he paused and sniffed the air.

He was not alone...

The smell of the slave lizard rat killer lingered fresh in this area. Slipping quickly into the shadows of a nearby tree, The Killer moves between the shadows always hidden as he approaches the clearing of the kobold's rat hunt. His flared nostrils take in the scents and twitching ears every sound. There is the spider monkey thing now, crouched in the fork of a tree watching his deadfalls. Scanning the area The Killer senses no others about and nothing of threat.

The Hunter has little time to tarry and watch the rat hunt, with the valuable fresh meat on his back...

But maybe this is the time to move forward his long range plan, he had planned to find this chance later; but today was a day touched by The Horde Leader. Knowingly moving from the shadowed ring of the clearing, The Hunter boldly stepped without trace to the nearest small deadfall to make adjustment, then moving to the second trap and doing the same.

As he rises to move from the clearing and towards the village once more, he gives a cold stare directly at the poorly hidden kobold in the tree, and with the lick of his large fangs he bounds off into the forest. Moving away while thinking,

"Unite your tribe into a raging storm, for there is great strength in numbers if all can work in concert."

[tooley1chris]

Help Unexpected



Such an easy thing really.

A large, flattish rock. Prop it up with a stick strong enough to hold its weight.
Balance that against yet another stick that sticks from the ground, and attach a small piece of stinky fish meat to the first stick under the leaning rock as bait.
The rat, or whatever, Taptap didn't care at this point, would jar one stick to get the bait forcing the stick holding the rock to release its weight onto the kobolds next meal.



Taptap could actually design far more intricate webs to catch his prey if given the right materials, but he made do.

"Just a bit of copper wire..." he sighed to himself.
"So much better if'n mees havin some wire. "

He set another dead-fall in the clearing and smiled at his crude work .
This little patch of grass had been fruitful in the past and he hoped for bounty.
More to the point, he NEEDED bounty.

Another orc from his village had tried to attack poor Taptap. He'd have been stewin in a pot if not for his masters mistress exerting her claim of him as her property.

He HAD to bring home meat, if not just to keep her from rethinking her actions.

Taking a second look at the dead-fall traps, Taptap the spider monkey kobold left the clearing and climbed a large forked tree at its edge to watch and wait.

Nothing.

He pulled the rest of the fish from his pack and munched it quietly as the afternoon wore on.

Nothing.

Then the winds shifted. And on that breeze came a most welcome smell.

Wild Boar.

It was only a wisp of an odor but unmistakable to the little hunter.
He cursed to himself.

If a boar wandered into his clearing he had no weapon, save a small shard of broken dagger. He couldn’t hope to take it down, even if it was a youngling.

He was just too small. He scanned the clearing below for a rock he might smash the pig with. A sharp stick to drive into its belly.

Then he saw it. Not a boar at all but a hunter.

The kobold cursed again. If a pig was near then this hunter would take it as prize leaving nothing for Taptap but pools of blood. Taptap knew this hunter. Couldn’t place a name but he was of the masters tribe.

“What’s this?” the kobold puzzled to himself as he watched the orc approach one of his dead-fall traps. The hunter seemed to shake his head, almost sadly, and drop into a squatting position above the simple device.

Taptap climbed a little higher in the tree to see over the grass. The hunter knelt at the less than clever little kobold trap and pulled a wicked knife from his belt. He seemed to be witling a stick, though it made no noise he could hear.

“Don’t be a makin noises!” thought the kobold frantically. If the boar heard he would be far away in moments.
The orc seemed to be altering the rock Taptap used for the dead-fall weight and then proceeded to the second trap to do the same.

“Gods! Why won’t you stop yer messin?” screamed the kobold inside his tiny head.

The hunter pulled a something from one of his bags and seemed to place it under the rock. Taptap couldn’t see it but he did see a rope of four stuck and skinned piglets strapped to the orcs back from this angle.

That was undoubtedly what the poor kobold smelled earlier. This large orc had already taken his prey and now ruined Taptaps own attempts.

Seemingly content with his work, the orc stood and looked directly at Taptap.
The kobold gulped as the orc gave him a wicked, toothy smile and continued, almost too silently, out of the clearing and into the wood.

The spider kobold climbed from his perch to see what disturbed his web after a long pause.

The rocks he picked for dead-falls were back in place but the sticks were set up differently, and notched in places.
Also in place of the fish Taptap had used for bait was now a metallic button that glimmered in the descending sun. A painting of a human female, perhaps a goddess, holding sacks of coins was upon the button.

He examined the second trap and found a similar shiny button, this time with a fiery fist emblem emblazoned on the metal.

Taptap scratched his head and looked to the trees where the orc had vanished through. He shrugged his shoulders and climbed back up his tree.

“Maybe orcy be a tryin ta helps Tap?” He pondered to himself. The trap did look like it might be more effective, from his knowledge of such things. “But why?”

The kobold scanned the woods for the hunter again but he was gone. Then his alert ears picked up the loud THUNK of one of his dead-fall rocks, followed by the short lived squeal of it’s prey.

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 4: When Hunters Become the Hunted

Darkness surrounded the Orc as he sat upright upon his sleeping mat. The interior of the dug-out ground hut was thick with air, heated by bodies and breath--below the sitting form of Grimnail was the body of another Orc, a female, a reward given to him by a lower ranking scout named Narlokko, a daughter who would be a worthy mate...if Grimnail would live long enough to see offspring.

As it was, Grimnail witnessed each night visions, places that appeared out of shadow, then turned vivid in color and realism, until he was transported to each scene in the flesh yet not full, hovering beyond the reality, only to be a witness of both the past...and future of things to come.

In these visions, Grimnail was brought to witness death, war, battle..as was fitting of his kind, those that carry out the domain of their god, Yurtrus. Grimnail, chosen of Yurtrus, would see the visions of much blood from the Black Orc tribe...but, just as often, the blood of elf and human, dripped from the dark steel blades of the Orc warrior.

Here, now, in the darkness of Grimnail's hut, he sat with eyes half open, seeing nothing before or below him, instead he hovered disembodied over a scene of traveling Orcs from his own scouting group, his Orcs, now under his guidance, moving through the forest, moving with great speed and skill in the night hunt. He saw their heated breath push away from their faces as grey puffs of smoke, then pierced by fang and snout, over and over, as they marched forward.

But then, a sudden light of magic bursts out, and the Orcs fall, gasping for air, for the breath of life. A flash in his vision, and Grimnail is standing in place of one from the party, and then he sees bearing down on him a figure coming out from the shadows, wielding blades of bright steel, taking advantage of the surprise from the ambush.

As the blades turn towards him, his vision flashes again in the moment before being cut down...but not before he glimpses the almond shaped eyes and sharp ears behind the twirling blades.

Inside the hut, Grimnail's body begins to heave in short breathes, and a sweat breaks out upon his face, down his back and in the palms of his hands...but he is unaware, as his consciousness stays locked in this bloody vision.

The flash of vision now puts him close to the bodies, low to the ground, and there, near the fallen of his tribe, he is surrounded by crows, pecking and digging meat from the lifeless corpses. One crow, bigger than the rest, pauses as if watching Grimnail watching it--a stare that speaks to Grimnail loud and clear as a warning.

"I see you for more than you are, crow," thinks Grimnail.

There is another flash, and Grimnail is standing just behind a low hill, somewhere different altogether, and it is the hour of the morning when both the sun and the moon attempt to claim the power of the sky...the time of day the Orcs call the Hunter's Strike--for in this moment, in this light, both the vision of night and the vision of day is weak...and prey is easiest to conquer.

To his left, right, and for many paces behind him, stand both known and unknown Orc faces, Orc smells...it seems his scouting warband has grown to a size and mix of specialization fit for engagement...fit for a devastating ambush of their own...

It is then, in the vision, that Grimnail looks around to the location of this hillside, realizing he knows this place, from months of strategic avoidance...for this hill makes the boundary set by his tribe and the elven nation...and further south, within easy striking distance for the speed of Orc, lies one pathway for those that travel to and from the elven city...

The fervor building amongst the Orcs in this moment, in this vision, turns blood to fire, and intuitively, Grimnail begins the chants and prayer to his god Yurtrus, the words that bring spirit, strength and protective magiks to his kin...

But then the vision breaks, and Grimnail opens his eyes to a dim morning light flowing through the darkness of the hut. Covered in sweat and his body in a state of battle-rush, the chosen of Yurtrus pushed his way around the still sleeping female and makes his way hastily outside into the open air, into the encampment of his scouting band..

There, in the early morn, he stands upright towards the sky and howls, releasing the anger against what had transpired and what he witnessed in his vision...but also, this deep, bellowing roar calls out the sleeping Orcs amongst the camp, summoning them to their feet, to rise and be given command: call to our kin that roam far and wide...call to our Chieftain...call to all warriors that are prepared to bleed the elves that would challenge the Black Orc tribe...

...for it was the Black Orcs that truly knew hunger in this year of drought...and be it through stomach or spirit, they would feed themselves upon these ambushing elves

[Lampir]

We Watch – The Scout's Prelude

You fight among yourselves and go your separate ways. Doron Amar. En Dharasha.

We watch.

You stalk our people who hunt and gather. You attack our hunters and think them destroyed.

But you do not see that we watch.

You send missives to the humans, to the dwarves, to any vile pink skinned creature you can find. You ally yourselves.

We watch.

You purchase iron by the wagonload, forge arrows in the thousands. You gather healing supplies for an army.

We watch.

You gather in great numbers, practice fighting, practice war and all the time you sharpen your teeth in hopes that this will be the year, the year in which you destroy us.

We watch.

We watch our people suffer and die. We watch your promises wither like your foul breath. Arrogant lies are all the air from your lungs is good for. We see our hunters’ corpses filled with arrows, scorched with nature’s magic and we know who to blame.

Did you think we were just animals? Idiots that wouldn’t know, wouldn’t think of your treachery? Did you think we wouldn’t notice your preparations for war, your lust for our destruction?

Well, it is not our place to roar the order to reply in kind. It is not our place at all. Even as we boil with rage for your betrayal. Even as we bristle every time we find a hunter dead and see your people gather even more supplies. The word must come from the Chief and not from us. We know our place, we do as we must, we keep our honor and attend our duties.

It is our place to watch.

Image by GWolfG http://gwolfg.deviantart.com/art/the-be ... ight&qo=29

[tooley1chris]

'This is crazy!' Concluded the kobold. 'Taptap, the big war message deliverin boy. Taptap the big talker of warnings and threats.'
The little diplomat led a large dire wolf through the forest by a muzzled leash.
The wolf itself drug behind it a bundle of branches that carried a well wrapped humanoid form. This was strapped to the beast by shoulder restraints and straps.
'Taptap the elf pin cushion is more like!' He shook his head.
'Should be losing wolf and dead elf and running through da woods far, far from here. Far from orcs and elves and war.'
He looked up into the trees and then the path behind him and shouted 'Yous hearin me? I knows yous sneakin orcs are a followin! Taptap should be leavin all dis behind!'
The shadows of the woods remained silent.
'Follow the suns path.' Taptap mocked aloud. That was the plan?
Tap was to walk and walk with the smelly wolf and the dead elf until either he came to a river or the elves found him. In anycase, if he wasn't immediately filled with arrows he was to deliver a message to the pointy ears.
He unfolded the bleached scrap of hide that contained that crudely written message.

" This man not killed by the mighty Blacks of Sharpteeth.
There be other forces in woods then Black. Perhaps strong allies. See the body has the brand of MEN burned in flesh. Orcs keep their words to hunt meat, not elves. Except when elves break treaty, no orc kill elves.
Elves breakin their word again and again. New treaty need agreed or orcs stop keepin their word to.
Elves know where mighty Blacks have set up hunting camp. We sees you spyin. Your leadership comes to talk treaty.
-Gajutar Spearback"

[Aeb Ankor]

Scouting the Border

The scout was young, but patience and stealth were his strengths. He’d been chosen above several others for this duty, it was important the clan leaders said.

His task was to watch the vile elven lands, see them coming and going, their scouting and preparations. The lone scout was to avoid detection and not to engage the foe in the foreign land. Others were selected for the forest scouting parties or hunts, he suspected that a more senior scout wanted him sent away to take the glory of action and maybe the young scout would be killed by the elves and removed as a threat to the leadership of the Black Orc Scouts.

But, if the leaders had chosen him for that reason… they’d also made a good choice. He knew others didn’t have his same patience to sit and watch, to only observe, to not act rashly and with rage rush into battle, giving up the stealth and information gained for the chance to spill some elven blood.

He’d left the clan village after breaking his camp and tent, stashing anything of value into a unassuming rotted tree on the far side of the area. With him he took only a small shoulder bag across his chest, it contained the last of his scarce jerked meat and two fruit he’d snatched from a weaker orc, nearly a child and not even caring where that runt had gotten such a treasure.

Through the leather bag strap he had two light axes tied down, one was crude heavy iron but solid, it was unpitted and could hold a decent edge. The second axe was his pride and most valuable tool, he’d fashioned it from a single piece of gnarled wood with a natural curve, fire blackened and made hardened, then sunken into a groove cut along the thicker head of the axe there was inserted a blade of stone secured with a resin and bound tight with shrunken leather cords. The stone blade was a masterful piece crafted and blessed by an old flint napper and shaman he’d bartered with; using a female slave to get just the right blade for his axe. It was worth the slave… the stone edge was sharp enough to keep his shaved head bald with ease, it cut deeply into a foe or game. Along with these he carried in hand two wooden spears one for thrusting and one for throwing, both were straight and true.

Traveling light he had moved toward the border of the elven foes, at the last familiar camp spot on his trail he cooked a small ground bird and a gopher he was able to kill with a sling. He ate every bit possible, any portion with nourishment, for he knew he’d likely only have bits of jerked meat and live insects to eat while in the territory of the foes, there would be no fire and the risk to hunt would be too great.

The scout circled the border far to the south, where he’d not heard of orc patrols being very active. He hoped that meant the elves weren’t active there either and would not spot him with their legendary keen eyes and ears.

Luckily, he proceeded unobserved deeper into the foes territory. his nostrils flared and always alert he moved with as little trace and sound possible. He was looking for the elven patrols or activities, he also wanted to find a good scouting post.

After two days the scout found what he’d hoped and there he has waited and watched patiently quiet for the last seven more days. His position was on a rocky outcrop on a hillside overlooking an elven path that followed a small stream along the valley floor. His hiding spot had good cover with a few boulders and natural lush brush to block the eye, he was on the far side of the splashing stream to help mask any sounds, and the passing elves had so far not shown they had observed his perch.

The scout had noted in each of the last seven days movement of a small two elf patrol passing by in the morning and coming back in the evening, he’d once seen a old elven fisherman try his luck with a net in one of the stream’s pools. Two days back there was a human or half elven archer passing by, he carried a longbow with two swords at his hips. This man traveled light and quick, but somewhat loudly did his feet rustle the twigs and leaves, he was looking for trouble, likely to kill orcs. He stopped to refill his water container, then minutes after he moved onward a large cat stopped and drank from the same spot, it continued to follow the man as well.

His belly rumbled, the scout had finished the last of his meager jerked meat two days before, and had only eaten a few large insects since, he needed to leave his post and return to the clan with his information.

The black orc reluctantly moved away from his scouting post, taking a different route back to the border to avoid any ambushes and hopefully gain something more of valuable scouting information. When nearly to the edge of the elven border and with the blessings of the gods he was able to observe without notice another elf. This elf was small even for that race, it was carrying a bow over his shoulder and a fishing net in hand standing near a different pool in another wooded stream. It seemed alone and much to far from the elven communities for safety, possibly a reckless youth testing his skills in the wilderness.

The scout was quick to come up with such a… test.

Silently moving far around the lone elf, he was looking for a trap or hidden companions of the solitary figure, while moving to a position a few hundred strides closer to the disputed boundary of his home forest.

After not seeing such a risk of ambush and murmuring short prayers to Gruumsh and Illneval , the scout used his skill of making animal calls, he sounded a warble of a male turkey and then followed it with a female’s answering call which he tried to bounce of a large rock boulder a short distance to the side. His hope was the lone elf would investigate the sounds to test his bow skills with a turkey hunt.

The orc stealthily moved to a covered position, crouched in waiting for his own quarry. Sure enough, within moments the now clearly inadequately trained elf approached with bow in hand looking for the nonexistent turkeys. The elf was too loud and didn’t even have his bow drawn, he’d not get even a real turkey that way, but was ripe for a sneak attack.

As the elf passed within ten strides of the hidden orc’s position, the timing was right and the orc prepared to launch his attack. The scout waited his own heartbeats loud in his breast, his grip on the throwing spear not yet slick with sweaty anticipation.

The scout waited

He waited for the moment.

This moment, as the elf turned his head away to look; for the turkeys; passed a thick brush pile, the orc sprang.

The thrown javelin unerringly found it’s mark, gouging deeply into the lower torso of the surprised elf. Bounding from his hidden position the orc followed the arced spear with his own attack, watching in what seemed to be slow motion the orc noted the arrow fall from the unprepared elf’s hand and bounce harmlessly on the forest floor, as he trust the second spear towards the wide-eyed and wounded elf.

He smelled the sweet blood.

The orc scout’s hands slid quickly from the spear shaft a heartbeat after he felt the pop of the pierced skin of the elf, plunging into the elf’s shoulder. Without needing a thought into his hand was his prized axe.

The orc was so close to the elf now he could feel the spray of blood and sound of wind as the axe moved through the now lifeless elven throat.

Panting and sweating from the exertions the black orc kneels next to the dead elf, he swiftly cuts out the heart with his axe and with a tremendous roar takes large bloody bites from it.

Next the head is removed for a trophy, placed into the elven hunter’s satchel, all the personal belonging squickly striped and tucked into the bag as well.

The black orc finds a tree with a solid broken and pointed limb facing the elven lands, onto which he hangs the corpse pierced through the chest. Then he takes about five paces toward the elvish land and using his boots and some broken branches makes clear sign of a border line or marker, indicating the killing took place in orc lands…

With his weapons, scouting information and a glorious trophy, the orc moves toward his home. He is sure to be rewarded for such a successful trek.

[Lampir]

We Watch – The Destruction

It was easy to see the path of the wood-gathering party. Even on a good day, a wise day where the larger healthier trees were left behind, it was easy. However today, with the shriek of an ancient oak crashing to the ground, the group was screaming their presence.

Barkskin grimaced to hear it. It went against every one of his stealth lessons to stay anywhere near this group and yet his post kept him painfully close. Tree after tree was felled, not a single plant was left in the slow progress of the party. Down would come a tree, and then it would be chopped, lashed and carried away to fuel the great fires of their village.

Finally, he could handle it no more and broke the scout’s code with a hissed whisper. “This is insane. They will be surely be attacked at this rate.”

“They will be attacked no matter what,” replied a voice Barkskin knew as Nightfang.

“But we’ve seen what happened to the last gathering-party.”

“When to stop is the Chief’s decision not ours, Barkskin.” A pause and then, given that the noise was so deafening their whispers were utterly hidden the voice continued. “The elves are using these for their war preparations. It is better to clip their wings where we can. Fewer arrows for them to launch. Fewer forges for their weapons. Fewer trees to use to hide.”

They both fell silent as another mighty spruce succumbed to the orc harvesters. Silence was a familiar friend leaving them alone in their thoughts, safe and unseen. However, they would not have been the great scouts they were if they had not become so in-sync with each other’s moods that they could nearly have whole conversations in that apparent silence.

It was clear Barkskin was fretful, that the increased activity closer to the elven stronghold was putting all of his training to the test. He didn’t need to say a thing to communicate his anxiety, Nightfang simply knew.

“It also helps the hunting parties.” Nightfang added out loud in hopes of easing Barkskin’s worry. “They are set up around the perimeter to catch the fleeing animals. We will be eating well tonight. Our people will not die the straw-death.”

Barkskin nodded, an amateur mistake that revealed his previously hidden form against the bark of a tree. “Even for me, death by sleep would be the worse fate. Better to die demanding life from this world, whatever the cost. Death in battle is a good death.”

Something clasped over his shoulder, it was the dappled muddy green of Nightfang’s camouflaged hand. He didn’t need to say ‘shh’ because the tense pressure of his touch alerted Barkskin that something was wrong and it was time for quiet alertness.

The two scouts fell silent, straining to hear, to catch what Nightfang had instinctively noticed.

It wasn’t a sound, per ce, so much as the lack of sound. The way an area of the woods was becoming very, very quiet. The birds and squirrels that had simply moved from tree to tree during the harvesting suddenly weren’t making any noise just west of the workers.

A predator was approaching.

Suddenly screams of pain and war exploded into being: both orc and not. There was a hiss of arrows and the scattering of the smarter orcs, retreating back once they realized they were outnumbered. It took every ounce of the scouts’ will power to remain still as statues as the chaos unfolded. They didn’t speak, they didn’t move, they barely breathed until the whole thing was done and the attackers were gone.

It wasn’t until the bird song had returned and the wildlife began to tentatively move among the corpses that Barkskin felt another squeeze on his shoulder signaling it was time for them to return to the camp.

There was much to report.

[Lampir]

We Watch – You’re Not Going To Like It, Sir.

The elf Calel waited patiently, his arms folded as his student crouched before a tree. This one was still whole and healthy; in fact the area was quite close to Doron Amar, which is why both he and his companion were so concerned.

They had been living in the elven sanctuary for a year now and Calel made a decent living training new recruits in the art of tracking. Meren was probably a few months from graduating, if Doron Amar stood in a few months. If not… well, he didn’t really want to think about it.

Gagging coughing noises from Meren snapped the scout from his reverie. “Did you find anything?” he asked with the trace of anxiousness that marked him as an elf that’d spent too much time among humans.

“Yes” she replied after swishing her mouth clean with water and spitting to the side. “Orc piss, no question.”

A wry smirk played over Calel’s face. “Nasty stuff huh?”

“That’s an understatement. They should bottle it up as a biological weapon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Her teacher shook his head in amusement, then looked up. “But can you tell what they were doing here? There were no reports of hunting parties in the area. Definitely not this close to Doron Amar.”

“No damage to the plant life either. They did a hell of a good job hiding their trail, sir.”

They walked a time together, slowly, searching for other signs besides the strange odor that’d sent them on this path. It was eerie. Orcs didn’t hide, did they? They left huge swathes of destruction no matter where they went. But this? This was more like trying to track down another ranger. A disturbing thought.

“Hm.” Meren touched a low hanging branch that had been broken. Her brow creased at the strange break location. She looked around, then peered skyward with narrowing eyes. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Wh-“ Calel barely got the question started before Meren was up the tree like a shot. It was a sturdy tree with plenty of good climbing branches all the way up. Her teacher gave a soft sigh and began to sweep the perimeter of the tree, frowning over what he began to find.

“Teacher?” Meren called down with concern. “Are there some fallen branches from this tree somewhere nearby?”

“Severed by a short saw blade?” Calel asked, eyeing the dead and dried up branch he’d just lifted himself. “Meren… what’s the view they opened up there?”

“You’re not going to like it, sir.”

Calel swore softly under his breath about the impetuousness of youth. “It’s a simple question,” he muttered as he shimmied up the tree.

When he finally joined her, they were perched on two parallel branches that made for an excellent long-term perch. There were obvious signs of wear: someone had been here for a long time or was visiting here regularly. Then Meren shifted around to give Calel an unhampered view of what their spy had been monitoring.

It was a breathtaking panorama. The tree was tall enough and close enough to the river that it had an unobstructed view for several miles. On a normal day Calel might have proposed building a home into this very tree just to enjoy its majestic sights. However, under the circumstances, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

There, just beyond the leaves that hid sight of their perch, was the familiar rise of Counselor Rhys’ tower, the cluster of tree homes spiraling around the artfully woven roads, the inn, the crates and barrels of supplies they were gathering. Calel could even make out the movement of elves far below.

Doron Amar had been compromised.

“We have to go.” Calel hissed, heading down without waiting for his student’s protest. She came quickly after him anyhow.

“But the trail, sir!”

“Swive the trail, we know where they’ve gone and they’ve probably been coming and going for weeks now judging by the dead branches I found. Right now we get this news to our people and FAST.”

Image by Morgorth http://browse.deviantart.com/?order=9&q ... 24#/d4z9t4

[Grimnail]

White Hands Turn Red
Chp. 5: All Paths Lead to Death

The war machine churns.

The Black Orcs—empowered by technology granted to them by others—have secured their might to confront the elves of the Sharpteeth Wood. Gajutar, chieftain, fearless, has sent word to all the scouting bands to traverse the Wood and mark areas of tactical advantage with scent.

The Black Orcs prepare for the command, the one command given with earnestness from their chieftain, that will free their limbs and let the surging might of Orc blood empower their battle honed gifts, release the rage and unfold a crashing tide of carnage...but it has yet to come.

The Black Orcs wait, plan and prepare. They're coursing the Sharpteeth Woods for any advantage, familiarizing themselves with the Wood, tracking...And so this mission falls upon the one called Grimnail, chosen of Yurtrus, captain to the warrior scout band that he now leads—


Multiple pairs of footsteps blend into one track as three Black Orcs work their way through sections of the northern Sharpteeth Woods. At the front is the one called Narlokko, hunter, black longbow across his back, scruff and sharp hairs filled with leaf and twig cover his body—his technique of camouflage worn proudly. Hi head is carried low, close to the ground, picking up scents as well as seeing through the scrub brush, to what near invisible path lay ahead of them. His hand, thick and leathery, black skinned and holding a might all their own, push through the brush as he makes way for this troupe. His tracking skills—combined with Orc power of scent, gives him a near clear picture of all that has past through this route in recent past, as well as foresight to what creatures of flesh scatter before them. His growing knowledge of this part of the forest grows daily...the poor, simple creatures of the forest that find their way into his path, become prey, then sustenance.

In the middle of the group walks sternly the one called Grimnail, now captain of the warrior scout band, chosen of Yurtrus, shadow-seer and willfull slave to the blood fueled drum beat that courses within him, within all the Black Orcs, as their spirit—tied to their strength—increases in intensity as the Black Orc tribe moves closure to conflict with the elves this region. Grimnail has seen the visions, felt the heat of battle fever upon his arms, upon his neck. He walks now with his scouts to gain advantage, knowledge, power...for he waits for the command from his chief, the great and powerful Gajutar, so that he may unleash the horrors of his spirit putrescent lord, the Destroyer of All Life himself. These thoughts grow strong in Grimnails mind, and he snarls openly, publicly, to led a bit of the rage seep off his body.

And in the rear is the one called Barakka'Do, heavy set, barrel chested, matted hair sticking every which way from under plates of metal adorned as armor on his shoulders. Gripped fiercely in his hands is a long, toothed falchion that glitters black sparkles as it is used machete-like when their path is bared by tree or bush. Drool escapes his mouth near two protruding tusks, as a scar funs over his lips, from previous battle, and has led to an incomplete closure of the mouth. He grunts and pants as he moves to keep up with the nimble ranger Narlokko and the shorter, divinely endowed shaman Grimnail, his captain...insects falling from the air as his breath alone saps them of their meager lives.

These three stalk through the woods, a fighting force strong enough to counter any surprise meetings with the enemy, yet mobile enough to gather information and disappear back to the greater warrior scout group. And when, possible, they trap and ward the forest, barring any that would attempt to stay on their trail, which will eventually circle back to the scout band's most recent base.

The three make a new turn upwards a low embankment, leading their unfolding path towards a small clearing, where few trees stand, more open than the normal, denser Wood. Narlokko halts the group with a silent raising of his fist into the air, as something has reached his nostrils to cause pause. As Narlokko lowers himself closer to the ground to investigate possible trails, Grimnail looks over Narlokko's form, and himself, pauses. Spying at the edge of the clearing one tree, bearing a mark...something more meaningful to Grimnail that any word or foul Orcin guttural cry—two hands, palm up, have been marked in white upon the bark of this tree. It is the mark of the Putrescent, the overlord of suffering and death....his lord.

"Orc...here," speaks Narlokko, pointing to marks in the earth, fresh, and not hidden in the least. "Not tribe...but Orc," further states Narlokko, who moves around the clearing gathering more information. "This...Orc...it comes and goes, through here, exit here...for days..."

Grimnail walks slowly over the the two hands marked upon the tree, and places his own hands over the mark. For a moment, Grimnail listens, listens for the internal voice that grants him his power, that shows him many things beyond what appears only to the eye.

"We kill it," growls out Barakka'Do, in earnest. "Where does it go Narlokko...you find it, Barraka'Do kill it." The foul black haired warrior fidgets in his skin with the possible future hunt.

"Be silent!" commands Grimnail, who has turned his back to the painted hands on the tree and moves closer to where Narlokko and Barakka'Do are waiting. He stops near them, watching their faces bristle and squirm in anticipation to the next move. Grimnail begins to speak, ancient words of tribal magic coursing through his lips, powering an insight that grows within and around his body, a mystical wave that temporarily bends the air prismatically as it passes from him to the two Black Orcs and slightly beyond the clearing—the sound of an owl pierces the air around them.

"Look around you, my kin, and see what there is to see here. There—he points to the marked tree—lies a sign that escapes your knowledge but reaches me, and would any of our tribes shaman. Look to the ground...Narlokko, you must see that tracks are left to be found, not hidden. We are seeing a message."

The two more warrior Orcs grunt, growl and scowl at Grimnail's words...but they don't oppose them. Many times, they had seen Grimnail peer through veils of illusion to find a foe or speak of things not yet true but only to appear in short time—they would heed him.

"No, we will not kill it. But...we will make it ours..." And with that, Grimnail kneels down into the clearing, and marks a rune symbol upon the ground, the symbol then lights into a burst of spark and hiss, burning black into the earth. He then carefully pushes a few leaves and twigs over the symbol, to cover it from sight.

"We will persuade this Orc to reveal itself, under charm, under my control."

Satisfied, Grimnail moves towards the edge of the clearing, motioning for Narlokko to take point and return in the direction that led them here. They return to the greater warrior scout group, with much more than they originally intended to find.

Leaving the clearing last, Barakka'Do pauses and turns his gruesome featured face back towards the clearing, snorting loudly and barring teeth...a final parting challenge to anything and everything.