Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Of Pride and Orciness

A resounding bellow ripped across the bog. Feet trampled through the murky water, sloshing through bile and muck from decades of rotting plants and old bones. Shrieking, a goblin flew through the sky, haphazardly steering his flying rig towards the slowly advancing horde of skeletal warriors. Merkdo the Great was an accomplished doomdiver, celebrated as a minor celebrity among his fellow goblins. He played as receiver for the Crag Burok Dur Greasy Gits and had a great post season with the team, but even the bloody mess that was known as the "Blood Bowl" wasn't enough thrill for the danger seeking git. He had made over 10 dives and survived each one, with significant injury of course. His leg had been ripped off when he had smashed into a block of charging Bretonnian knights; his left hand and left ear had been singed when his glider was struck by several flaming arrows, leaving nothing but charred, gnarled skin. Yet, thanks to prosthetics and plenty of mushroom grog, he continued to sail through the skies plowing into his boss' enemies.

He thought about how much he relished the first impact, bullet-helmed head smashing into the ranks of warriors. The satisfying crunch, the warm bath of blood, and the wondrous feeling of standing up after the onslaught. His rig was custom made by the best gobbo engineers the Crag could offer, his customized logo of crossed bat-wings carefully painted on with squig piss and boar blood. He had special steering mechanisms installed, allowing him better purchase when he tugged at his shambling wings.

He veered in for the kill, only 40 meters away. He braced himself, tightening his shoulders and neck, aiming his glider so as to strike a line through the blocks of Tomb Guard and Chariots.

He thought of his pit crew, he thought of his next trophy from the boss.

And then he slammed into a rotted tree.




Gurrr lumbered over the knoll,. His stinky, wart-covered feet sunk into the mud of the bog. With each step he took, a sickening, sucking noise would sound as he cleared the muck. He loved it. It reminded him of suckling at the teet of his pet Thundertusk, affectionately named "Tusky."

Rounding the outcropping of woods a mere 30 meters ahead were the shiny, weathered forms of Aaronotep's charioteers. They splashed through the mud towards the Teef Howlas. Rottooth stood at the front of his horde, point his sword at the oncoming force, sounding a mighty WAAAAAAGH. Bokrak began chanting jibberish and the warpaint on the scum-covered savage orcs began to glow a menacingly cold blue. Gurrr looked down at his own runes, painted carefully across his flesh after he had passed out the night before from too many pots of beans and too many barrels of Bugmens finest ales, procured by the Daemon Mohn-Key a week before.

Gurrr hated the paint, it made his arms tingle and tickled his liver-spot covered brow. He roared in disgust and charged in towards the flashing chariots. He heard a pop, as if the air around him decompressed for a brief second, but he ignored the sound, trampling over fallen bodies and branches to reach his quarry. He wanted the battle to be over with, he felt like he needed to scrub his skin with a rock to remove the accursed paint. The sound of arrows whipping through the air caught him off guard. Several found their mark, burying themselves in his pallid flesh. However, as his paint glowed, many of the arrows veered off course, striking the ground around him. With a smile and a grunt, Gurrr lifted his tree-trunk mace high, bringing it down with a resounding crash into the lead horses of the enemy generals chariot.




Rottooth felt the impact in his loins. The rending of steel and wood and bone nearly made his one good ear ring. He pushed past the sensation and kicked off the mound he was standing on. His aim was true and with a few steps he jumped through the air, landing on the cross-bar of the nearest chariot. He bellowed a challenge at the skeleton riding in the bucket of the vessel. Dead, empty eyes returned his shout. With a lift of its arm, it beckoned. Rottooths fury exploded through his arm. He swung his sword down and severed the chariots cross bar with a single blow. The power of his choppa buckled the vehicle, launching the skeletal champion at Rottooth. Without looking, he swung his sword straight up, bursting the undead warriors sternum and ripping out his backbone.

Then he heard the sickening noise of muscle being torn by flesh. Her turned and saw Gurrr, glaive buried in his knee. He was bleeding from several gashes across his stomach, and his left hand was missing. As Aaronoteps chariot rushed past Gurrrs stumbling corpse, the Tomb King stared into Rottooths soul. Rottooth froze for a brief second, and then saw what the Tomb King didn't. With a deep inhale of breath, and a side splitting lunge to his right, Rottooth made for the nearest pool of water.




A shadow grew over Aaronoteps mighty throne of a chariot. It was only too late that the mighty Tomb King looked up to see his oncoming doom. With a thud, a snap, and a crumbling sound that made the most distasteful symphony, Gurrrs body fell on the great king. The skeletal forms that comprised Aaronoteps army began to waiver and crumble to dust. Rottooth arose from the stinking mud and looked around him. His boys were ripping bone trophies from the bodies of the shambling, lost skeletons. Bokrak was speaking in tongues, wiping the blood of the fallen giant across his own chest. The red glowed a menacingly daemonic glow, and eventually faded, leaving nothing but the bleached green skin of the insane Shaman. Rottooth looked to his left and shuddered, realizing the club of the giant had fell not more than 1 foot from where Rottooth had found cover. The orc lieutenant wiped his brow, thanking Gork, or possibly Mork, for his good luck.

The sound of battle reminded him that the fight was not over. He rallied his boys, turning them about to run down the remaining skeletal legions that remained.

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