Blight: Lore & Fiction

[Gorvar]

Cyclops Priestess

“In the beginning, there was nothing.” the young priestess shouted to her flock as she read from her book. She was stood on a platform, guards below her. Her guards were larger than average and just as hairy as a dwarf but otherwise were dressed and looked like normal human warriors. But the Cyclops Priestess had special guards which fit her station. The priestess’ beige robe waved in the breeze which was soothing upon her skin." And then God was born and with him came the After, a dimension of paradise. God was lonely and created the first beings, known to us as Giants. They were crude and cunning. God loved them to much and they abused that trust and tried to usurp him. But God saw this coming and banished the Giants from their Cloud kingdoms to this realm we call Alundria. There they fell upon bad times. God expected them they wage war upon themselves which they did. And so the Giants we know today are few and quite often inbred."

The crowd was a mix of men, women and children. Farmers most, covered in dirt and soot. Their eyes were not on her however but the large funeral pyre, where dozens of dead were laid to rest. Some silently weeped, others wailed. But the Priestess continued.
“But God is mercifull! For he saw most Giants tried to help each other and when God send the other races to Alundria, they protected us from dangers such as wolves, famine and bandits. He said to our large bretheren 'You have shown me mortality brings its flaws but also it’s values. I make you the offer I will make to all who follow me. Commit yourself to helping each other be it Giant or Man. And in return when you leave this realm, your soul will join me back in the After, in paradise. Spread my word to the other races and multiply, for my word is that of peace and love.”

A shade of blue cloth drew her eye. She turned her head slightly and saw a human wizard had joined the crowd. When his eyes met hers she gave a small smile and nod, she would talk to him later. She turned to the funeral pyre.
“So we have lived for thousands of years. We help each other so life is good in this world and that will rewarded in the next. These people who left our world this early will to be rewarded. God will embrace them in his loving arms as they enter the After.” she gave a nod to one of the militiamen.
The woman nodded and lit the pyre. It began with a small flame which soon engulfed all of the pyre.
“We will bid farewell to our loved ones as they return to the soil that birthed and nutured them.” the Priestess continued and raised her hands and began to sing.

It was a ancient tongue that only few knew and those were the Giants and those who spoke with them.
But even to those who did not speak it could not help but be moved. It was a lament, evoking a feeling of ancient sorrow that spread across the eons but also joy. Like saying goodbye to a friend you would one day see again.
As the fires rose high, so did the priestess raise her voice.

After the ceremony, the wizard was brought to the local church. It wasn’t as grand as the cathedral in Gryphon’s Crown which was built on ancient Giant ruins and then updated by human and dwarven masons like much of the city. It was a small like church, enough to house half the village and a small house adjacent to it for the local priest. The wizard’s escort were the large guards he saw guarding her from before.
“So, half-giants…I wrote a essay on your people.” the wizard smiled.
The larger guard ignored the wizard while the smaller one merely raised his brow and shoved the wizard forward.
“Well, silence is indeed a virtue I’ve been told…” the wizard sighed.

They entered the church which had the normal layout. Several long benches, a platform with a stand where the priest preaches with stained glass behind him showing the exodus of the Giants and how they protected mankind from several monsters…including orcs, trolls and goblins.
“Not very politically correct these days…” the wizard muttered.
This gave a affirmative grunt from the smaller half-giant.

He was guided into the small room where his host awaited. As the door opened, he saw the priestess from before reading from her holy book. She looked up from her scripture with a smile and closed the book and placed it on the table in front of her.
She stood up with grace and extended her arms as a smile warmed her face." Tim!"
“Sister Mercy.” Tim the Wizard laughed and held his old friend with a loving embrace.
“Oh, not you to.” she slapped his cheek playfully." It’s Abigail to friends…and MOTHER Mercy to anyone else."

“Mother…?” Tim gently let his friend go." Promoted already? It’s only been twenty years.“
Abigail nodded.” The Holy Church rewards good work. Please sit, some wine? Dawnford made, riped just fine." The wizard nodded gratefully.
The priestess motioned towards the other empty chair which Tim gladly occupied. He placed his hat on the table as the half-giants went about pouring both the priestess and the wizard in some wine.
“My appologies for Gog and Magog, they’re a acquired taste.” the priestess thanked the tallest regardless when he gently offered her a glass.

“It’s alright, i’m a fan of the strong, silent type.” Tim smiled and raised his glass. " To old friends."
“To old friend, god bless.” Abigail agreed and drank with the wizard. They savoured the sweet wine for a moment before she asked.“How is my father?”
“King Halmadir is still fine, still king of the woodland realm.” Tim replied." I admit I did not see him. I’ve been busy."
“Aren’t we all…?” she sighed and had another sip.
“I’ll answer the question before you have to ask…Thorgal is fine. And he misses you, in his own…special way. But also…very busy.“
Abigail smiled sadly at that.” Good to hear…I should go home sometime to see him. And father. He has not been the same after mother died. Didn’t think I would ever leave…” She smirked." Didn’t think I would follow in her footsteps either."

Tim placed the half-empty glass on the table next to his hat as the half-giants added wood to the fire." Don’t you keep in touch?"
“We send letters sure but those have lessened as of late…” Abigail lowered her own glass." I know you didn’t come here to talk about my past love or my father, Tim. Wizards rarely visit friends for small talk. Is this about the Blight outbreak that I just narrowly nipped in the bud?"
It was indeed that. Tim overheard a Blight outbreak was starting in the village but thankfully Mother Mercy was there and used her powers granted by God to send the souls of the departed to the After and none of the dead would emerge as Immortals.

Tim picked up his hat and rubbed his thumb against the blue edge." My master is dead.“
Abigail made a X shaped gesture across her chest.” May god guide his soul into the After…" she muttered." How?"
“Goblin assassins.” he took a breather and explained everything. About the council, about the evidence found that there was a organisation that was spreading the Blight across Alundria and how they were ambushed.
“I’m headed north to the Citadel, to my master’s quarters. Maybe he has…had some information there we could use to find a cure. I came here to warn you.”

The Priestess took this all in and listened and asked a few questions when needed. Afterward she held her hands together in a thoughtfull pose before she spoke.
"I knew about the organisation, Tim.“
This made the wizard’s heart skip a beat.” What? How?"
The Cyclops Priestess stood up and motioned her old friend to follow.

There was a basement area beneath the church. Abigail lit a torch and offered one to Tim. Tim merely smiled and held up his staff which gave a bright, blue glow.
“Wizards…” she shook her head with a smile and lead him down the stairs.
Tim smiled in return but it faded when he heard screaming.
As they went deeper underground, the shouting increased. At the bottom there was another half-giant who stood guard in front of a thick, wooden door. When he saw the priestess he immediately stood aside and opened the door. Into the sight of horror.

A group of naked men and women were hanging from chains as hot iron was branded on their skin by another half-giant. Some were on a wheel. Others were being pulled on a stretcher, the sounds of broken bones giving Tim a cold feeling in his gut. He had to turn away when he saw some hanging corpses with their internal organs pulled out and left on the floor in a sickening mess of gore and viscera.
“Oh my god…” Tim gasped." Abigail-“
She cut him off.” Down here, I am Mother Mercy."
“Mother Mer-MERCY?!” he motioned to the people being tortured." You call this mercy?!“
She frowned.” These people were responsible for the plague, Wizard. They poisoned the well and the farmlands when I found them. That is how I know about the vials and the organisation. I even got their name.“
Tim blinked.” Their name?"
“The Undying, planning to create a new world free of the mortal scourge. Sound familiar?”

It did, sounded exactly the same as the witch said a month earlier.
“But still…not all these people can be involved…” his eyes fell upon a young woman whose head was held under water before her torturer allowed her to breathe again.
“They were all involved, one way or another. Either they knew, were told or aided somehow. All are enemies of mankind and will be purged from this world so their souls can enter the After cleansed. By my mercy.“
But her words did not reach Tim who ran up the stairs, passed the guards.
Gg and Magog were to pursue but Mother Mercy raised her hand.” Leave him.” she commanded." We have God’s holy work to do."

Tim burst through the basement’s hatches unto the open field…and saw the formation of a army.
Where before he saw a group of grieving farmers he now saw those same farmers grabbing their pitchforks, wooden shields and given cloaks showing the symbol of God by the half-giants and soldiers that accompanied the priestesses,
Around a Cyclops standard he saw them gather, along with one of the large one eyed creatures.
“A army of the faithfull, ready to purge the unclean.” He heard Mother Mercy say. He turned around and saw her gliding forward, her elven heritage granting her speed and grace that any human could. She was followed as always by her two half-giant guards.
“Where…are you headed?” Tim asked.
“Queensville.” she replied." The Undying have a large following there, including a place where they craft the Blight. It will be purged."

Tim looked at disbelief at his friend." But…innocent people life there!"
“Innocents who will be spared We are defenders of the weak, not butchers.” she replied." I am not a madwoman."
“You torture people, arm others for war, going to occupy a city!” he exclaimed." Did you even consult the king?!"
“The king will be notified after I’ve purged the unclean.” she turned to her army of the faith." You go to the Citadel, Tim. You do your duty, I will do mine." she began to move.
The wizard could not help but snap at her. "Thorgal was right! You are to emotional!“
She stopped midway and turned, her eyes ablaze with fury.” For our friendship, I will forgive you that remark. But I suggest you get on your horse, and leave."
The spellcaster looked to his old friend, looking for any sign of compassion…and found none. He put on his hat and left the village.

It was on the border of sanctuary over a ale he heard the news. He was sitting in the corner, for not many liked the company of wizards, as he overheard two people speak at their table.
“Queensville is burning.” One of the dwarven merchants said to one of the human sellswords.
“I heard.” the sellsword. " Slaughterd the guards down to a man, razed the entire city. Heard King Leopold III is asking your Queen for help."
“To take down a giant, you better.” the merchant rubbed his beard." Shame about that place, had a cousin living there."
Tim stopped listening and nursed his ale.
Thorgal was right, war amongst the living had begun.

[Anderty]

While I can’t record gameplay, I still can type. So for last few days in free time, I smashed buttons to demand computing machine, called a personal computer, to type letters, corresponding to buttons I smashed. Here is the result of that:

Spider Rider

In forgotten tales lies a story of great value even for current days. Many decades ago, people of Alundria waged wars on each other. It never changed, just like an ancient ritual - Midsummer. Each race being, each living creature, each still stone or tree was united in one unison on such day. Magical weave surrounded nature and took care of everything for it, rendering day dangerous for anyone, daring to use mana. Everyone, except musicians. Notes from any instrument, songs by any vocal, rhymes by any movement echoed through the whole world as it was close to each one. It was a magnificent event and always respected. Many wars ended by Midsummer, because of songs of sadness, which moved hearts of enemies or music of joy, which made wars seem like a stupid idea.

In one of Midsummer events, some goblin craftsman wanted to experiment. They prepared their own made instruments and gathered in one place. Idea was to use magic on them, even if everyone knew, that it’s dangerous on Midsummer event. But goblin craftsmen were convinced, that it’s just a tale to scare people. It wasn’t a big surprise, that goblin craftsman vanished after they started their experiment. What was a big surprise - Midsummer songs couldn’t be heard anymore. A great loss it was for Alundria, as no one knows for sure, why great event seized to exist.

Instruments of foolish craftsmen were ordered to be destroyed, but goblin thieves got them faster. It is unknown, what happened exactly with instruments. But just as the story is forgotten, legends of instruments also are only rumors. Yet, some still believe, that on mystical occasions, when every living being on some region suddenly feel urgent need to get home, is the result of magical music made by one of Midsummers instruments. Truth or not, but nowadays such occasions still happen, and they remind listeners of ancient times when the ritual was held, bringing sadness and despair.

High Elf

Elven people always were born with a special affinity to magic. Every elf can use mana as soon as they pass initiation into maturity. Specific tests and challenges are made for young elves to overcome and let them feel control over their born ability. The procession is called Wea Waana - Adult Pass and is important in every elven settlement, as its core of race society.

Usually, it is time, when children with special conditions are found, like afflicted ones or elves with an especially strong bond of magic. So-called Witches, who can sense and guide souls, Bards with bit of old magic, believed to connect with lost Midsummer event, Three Whisperers, who converse with forest in a special way, Pool Priestesses with enough mana resources in their souls to invoke new mana streams, and, of course, High Elves, ones with incredibly high affinity to use of raw mana for high-cost demanding powers. It is common that such high elves become Elder Mages, after decades of close connection to magic.

High Elves are trained as leaders of local settlements. Almost every High Elf is part of leadership and considered noble, even if born outside of noble families (which is a rare case, to begin with). In some way, it is a fair deal, as elven nobility is the only status, given or changed by needs of the community. Some believe, that high control over magic helps such High Elves to make decisions not only by knowledge they possess, but by conversations with magical weave itself. In times of war, even one High Elf in company of few Elder Mages can make devastating strikes of raw mana force over huge distance, which often demoralised enemies so strong, that even some wars ended after such event.

P.S. When I’ll be ready, I’ll type my thoguhts on other people works ('lot of to write, so kept for later). In any case, damn, I love your works so much, they are awesome!

[Gorvar]

Loving the flavour texts for these cards, Anderty. It’s like right out of something on a Magic the Gathering Card.

[Gorvar]

Little heads up, I wont be here from Monday till Friday so I wont be able to post anything.
Got something in mind for the Cowardly Noble tho, got an ongoing storyline going on now
But don’t let that stop you from posting! Post them stories, post them reviews, artwork!
Do it! Do it nao!
…
Please

[Gorvar]

Back, guys.

[Gorvar]

I’ll post something tomorrow, guys.
If you want to post something, go for it! You get 10 hero coins out of it and you can discuss with the folks around here!

[Gorvar]

Cowardly Noble

The caravan moved on sluggishly, to sluggish even for the likes of Lord Harold Barnsworth of Gryphon’s Crown, 8th in line to the crown and a descendant to the great Wizard Thomas Barnsworth. At twentytwo summers he was as tall and handsome as his ancestor and founder of his house, Ser Fergus Barnsworth, was. He was not as muscular as a knight but still quite fit with a well trimmed beard. He had bald head which he elected to shave every day for reasons he kept to himself. He scowled annoyed at the route more and more the closer the caravan got to the borders of Sanctuary. He looked around the caravan to distract himself.
His house’ banner, that of a red fox on a green field, flew along the large carriage he was seated in. Smaller banners were held by knights as they rode beside the procession.
Along with the large cart were several men at arms, hunters, servants…and several non-humans.
Troll warriors and goblin mercenaries marched alongside the humans, kept in line by their superiors and their love of coin.

The land of Wildriver Run, where Harold was a ward for most of his young life, had many races in them and with the Grand Alliance that lasted still since the beginning of the Second Blight. Although they all tolerated each other, friendship between races who fought each other for generations were still rare.
Thankfully Harold, raised to become a master negotiator, managed to not get one but two ‘savage’ bodyguards. To his side on a horse rode a orcish female wearing the garb of a shaman. Like most shaman she looked passive and held her staff cluttered with animal bones much like a sceptre.
On the other side marched a large troll that easily towered over the cart and moved quite lithe despite his enormous size. He was green muscles made form and wore jewellery (and even a crown) that clashed with his otherwise tribal garb.

The orc turned to her friend as he was sulking. With a smirk, which she only spared for him and the troll, she taped his head with his staff.
Harold snapped out of his revelry angrily before he saw the orc’ smirk and returned the interruption with a half-hearted wave.
“Oh praise the swamp, you started smiling again. I thought that scowl was permanent.” the troll sighed relieved.
“I am sorry, Aziboo.” the noble replied." I’m not really being a bundle of joy, am I?"
“Are you really upset to go back home?” the troll asked.
“I WAS home, Azi.” Harold snapped." Rich Vail was my home since I was nine. I had friends there, duties, a live!" The orc shaman cleared her throat which made Harold retrace his words." Yes, I got you and Aziboo with me, Frekkia. But it’s not the same."
" How so?" Aziboo raised his brow.
“Look it’s…you won’t get it.”
“Political manoeuvring, being told whom you are supposed to mate with to create a alliance that will last for a generation or two if you are lucky, old money mixing with new?”

This got Harold raising his brow in confusion and even got a look from Frekkia.
“Politics is not the invention from man, Harold. It is what divides us from beasts.” the troll nodded sagely.
Harold smirked." I thought it was empathy?"
“That to.” Aziboo agreed.
“Architecture.” Frekkia spoke one word.
“That to…”
“Oh, what was it last week…music?” Harold chuckled.
The troll got angry. “You know what I mean!” he snapped annoyed." Point is, you are going to inherit the same game of thrones that’s been played by your ancestors. You might as well play it and try not to die."

" I know what role I would play as a pawn in that game. I am a noble, I make money appear. Either by making trade agreements or alliances as a negotiator or a…stud.“Harold leaned back in his cart.” What if I don’t want to play? What if I don’t want to be a pawn?"
The Marsh prince gave a wicked grin. “Then be exiled like me.”
“Tempting…” Harold rubbed his chin.
“Meaning you will have to start hunting, cooking and providing for yourself.”
“Or seek sanctuary elsewhere, like you did in Rich Vail.” Harold said.
This got a snort from the troll but otherwise nothing. Feeling his victory he turned to Frekkia who shrugged and otherwise concentrated on the path ahead. She peered her eyes and motioned forward with her staff. Company. As if to illustrate, Ser Kay rode towards him." Our escort to Queensville has arrived."

A band of dwarves marched toward them. Fourty score bearing the banner of a thaig Harold did not recognise. They wore armour shaped like a gryphon along with maces that looked similar to the mystical beasts the dwarves worshipped. In front of them was a female dwarf who looked just as tall as her peers with a white streak in her auburn hair.As the caravan got closer, Harold saw there was a fierce look in her eyes much like a wild beast. The similarity between her and Aziboo were uncanny.
“Who of you large folk is Lord Harold Barnsworth?” she demanded to know.
“That would be me.” Harold replied." Who is asking?"
“Captain Greta Dainson, I was send here by my aunt to escort your arse to Queensville in safety.” she extended a letter to Ser Kay.

The knight took the letter and read it before passing it to Harold. The young noble looked to the letter and saw the seal of Queen Freya II. He frowned slightly, why would a dwarven queen care about some human noble whose coming back home?
“Any reason why the roads are unsafe, we come with a large host ourselves.” Ser Kay pointed to the caravan." It’s not the Blight, is it?"
“Naye, not the Blight lad. Tis somethin’ else.”
“What then?” Aziboo asked.
The dwarf looked strangly at the troll, her reply slow." Religious fanatics under Mother Mercy have been causing trouble."
“Mother Mercy?” Harold asked." Who is she?" He saw his troll friend’s eyes blink for a moment, he knew this woman who ruled over fanatics apparently.
“I dunnea know nor do I care. I got my orders and i’m following them. Now let’s get moving, shall we?” Before anyone could reply the dwarves took to the front of the caravan and marched on.
Ser Kay turned to Harold who gave a weary nod. The knight called the caravan to march and so it did.

“Friendly bunch…” Harold muttered to his bodyguards. He turned to Aziboo." You know Mother Mercy?"
“Aye, we’re related.” the troll replied. This got a look from Harold.
“Really, I always thought you looked quite elven.” Harold said sceptically.
“Dwarf.” Frekkia replied shortly.
He folded his arms. “My grandmother’s mother met then Prince Halmadir one and a half centuries ago, apparently he smoothtalked her while his mates were stealing a treasure hoard my kin…apprehended from a nearby village. She got exiled for her troubles and nine months later had a mongrel child.”
“You call your own grandmother a mongrel?”
“I can call her worse. My family has a history of being kicked out of tribes and places, leaves a mark. Anyway, there’s blood there and I know Mother Mercy or Abigail rather. She spend some time with us other bastards her old man sired, her compassion was…admirable.”
Harold took a flask of water. “So, what made her turn into a apparent fanatic then?” he drank.
“Like most villains do I presume, you get pushed over the edge.”

The caravan marched on until the sunny, cloudless day was replaced by the stars of night. The large caravan stopped a few miles away from Queensville.

“But my lord, the city is just five hours ride away, tops!” Ser Kay objected.
“But it’s dark, Ser Kay.” Harold replied." We don’t want to run into any trouble at night, do we?"
The knight turned to the dwarven captain who merely shrugged nor did he get anything off Aziboo or Frekkia but shrugs. The young noble wanted his freedom as long as he could and if that meant sleeping another night in a tent, so be it.

Ser Kay relented and so sentries were set up, food was shared out as were tales and ale. The dwarves kept to themselves surprisingly. Even Harold heard the tales of dwarven friendship and how their laughter and mead brightened up many a camp fire, but it seemed the Winged Warriors were a breed apart. Grim, determined, fierce and solitary. But that did not stop the goblin sellswords from taking their place and their screeching laughter, horrible jests and awfull ale did cheer up the men. While Harold went to bed early, Aziboo made it his personal duty to oversee the men. He was a prince, a Marsh Prince and princes always oversaw their people. That is how he saved the lives of the goblin archers the week before.

The goblins heard about the rumour about Harold and his bodyguards, more specifically Frekkia. Those who have spent much time near her have described the woman as intimidating.
Like all shaman she had a fondness for fire and enjoyed scaring people away with her flames, most people did stay away. Except for two, Harold and Aziboo.
Not many people know much about where Frekkia came from, but ever since Harold became old enough to train, the orc had been close by. Aziboo once asked what she saw in the young human. The orc gave him a smirk and showed the stone circle around her neck, the orcish symbol of reincarnation. That was the most he got out of her.
Rumours used to spread about a romantic relationship between the two in the castle until Frekkia found out about them, and then suddenly they stopped. The goblins thanked the troll for his kind words. If there was one thing goblins appreciated besides gold, was self-preservation.

Of course sometimes rumours tended to have a core of truth.
In the lord’s pavilion, Harold slumbered in his tent. Beside him, sharing the same duvet, was the orcish shaman. She had her strong, green arm around him, a dagger under her pillow. Both his garb and hers were scattered over the floor, his pink skin bruised in places but having a happy smile in the process, the result of frustrations of the two weeks traveling had claimed it’s toll from their collective patience.
She awoke immediately when someone entered the tent and drew the dagger from the pillow and jumped toward the intruder. She nearly gutted Aziboo when Harold called her to stop.

“Aziboo…” Harold rubbed his eyes." Do you want to go to the After? You know Frek get’s like…this."
The female glared at the troll and did not even offer a apology when she withdrew her dagger.
The troll rubbed his stomach where the dagger was before he spoke." We got a problem."

The three, including a now awoken Ser Kay, looked into the distance. The horizon was lit up like it was day time, the smell of smoke and burning flesh caught Aziboo’s nostrils.
“Is that…Queensville?” Harold asked to which Ser Kay nodded.
He felt cold sweat on his brow. If the caravan travelled just a bit longer, they could’ve helped those people. He took Ser Kay by his shoulder. “We need to move, now!”
“What if it’s the Blight, my lord?” the knight asked.
“Then we’ll fight them.” it came to so easy out of his mouth. He was rubbish at fighting. Why else did he have two bodyguards?
“You, Lord nancy?” Greta yawned loudly as she walked up to them." Very well, just stay behind us, don’t want to fail my charge because of you."
Harold frowned." Try not to be to concerned."

It was dawn when the caravan nearly reached Queensville. The outlying villages and houses were burned down. Harold peered at the ruins when he realized." This is not the Blight or the work of Immortals."
“How so, Lord nancy?” Greta asked as she ate a apple.
Harold let that one slide and motioned to the area around them." No rotting ground, the footprint beneath us show a formation, a march even…disorderedly but still a lot more than a herd rampage that the Immortal hordes leave behind. Also…" he walked over to a tree and pointed to a large X that was crossed alongside it.
“The symbol of the Holy Church…” Ser Kay agreed." So what the captain said it’s true, it’s fanatics…"
The caravan went searching for survivors, and it did not take long to find them.

Men, women and children came in singles first, then in droves. Most in singed clothing with little possessions save what they could carry.
“They broke the gate with their giants!” one of the survivors called Terrence cried. He was a baker, his red hair singed and covered in ash, his freckles became more pronounced as the day went on. His early work hours saved his life since the attack came early in the morning. He was able to flee when the walls came down. " They charged in, killing everyone who resisted!"
“Who?” Harold asked." Who did it?"
“Mother Mercy and her…her monsters! Said the city was a nesting ground for something called the Undying. Called themselves Children of the Light.”

Aziboo rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
It was decided early on the caravan avoided Queensville, even with their manpower they could not take down a giant, and marched further east towards the lands of King Halmadir. Every village that wasn’t burned was warned and most villagers followed the growing caravan.
Attacks began to occur afterward.

Harold was speaking to some merchants to get some food for the refugees when a mob of fanatics pursued the rear guard and attacked fearlessly and without mercy.
A man he was speaking to moments ago was skewered by a sword right in front of him, it’s wielder a mere boy of sixteen in scavenged armour who wore a black X on his forehead. Both his bodyguards were hard pressed on their fronts, the zealots being with many.
The noblemen drew his dagger and fell back on his training. As the mob tore through the supplies and rear carts, Harold’s world was just between him and this boy filled with anger. He managed to get a few stabs in but the boy overpowered Harold and raised his sword to kill him. The young noble would’ve died if it wasn’t for a certain dwarf who smashed her mace into the boy’ skull and led a dwarven charge that saw the zealots dead or routed.

Harold gasped heavily, his face covered in blood. He did not even recall having accepted Greta’s hand and getting pulled up. The small camp where tents and carts were was now smashed, littered in the bodes of the dead and the dying.
He looked to Frekkia who shared a concerned look. She gave a small nod which he returned.
A cry brought him back to the present as Greta’s foot was on the wounded arm of one of the zealots.
The woman cried in pain as the dwarf looked to the noble. Howard frowned, his fear replaced by anger.
“Why did you attack us?!” he demanded to know.
The woman cried some more as the dwarven foot applied pressure." To purge the wicked! To kill those who escaped Queensville! To stop the Blights!"
“By killing innocent people?!” Howard replied." You killed traders, people who gave us food!"
The zealot winced." Those who trade with evil must be purged. Burn the whole apple crop to stop the taint…"
Howard nodded to Greta to drag the zealot away, the first prisoner in a war between the living.
Frekkia and Aziboo went to their companion, both covered in blood and scars.

“So…where to now?” the troll asked.
“We go home.” Howard decided." We tell the king, we tell everyone. We stop these zealots from getting any further north and destroy more lives."
It was time for the Cowardly Noble to stop being cowardly.

[Gorvar]

I plan to do Dragon Knight next.
Going with the Iron Crown Campaign.

[Gorvar]

Dragonhelm Knight

It was the 44th day of the Iron Crown campaign, a campaign that the living were losing. Dwarven strongholds burned as the dead destroyed the mighty thaigs, The once living swamps full of Trolls and wildlife were now covered in a thick fog where nothing living stirred. The elven forests were cast in eternal autum as dark shadows moved below the foliage, eager to feed on anything living that passed. Even the desert where the sun shone brightly was covered in blackness. And all along the roads leading to the safety of the west was riddled with signs of battle and the few living dead whose state was so damaged that they were forced to crawl as they tried to catch up the undead horde miles ahead, going passed overthrown carts, destroyed pieces of armour or dwarven artillery.

The refugees of all races had all fled to the safety of the dwarven fortresses of Smallhill, Orangecraig and Sorcerer’s pass or even braved the deserts to find safety in orcish villages, the former greenskinned invader now their only chance for survival. Unless reinforcements came from the other lands, the entire province of the Iron Crown would fall to the Blight.

Dagda the gnomish druid flew on a eagle, courtesy of King Halmadir, as she oversaw what was now the frontline down below. She saw formations of armoured humans march on the roads towards the slowly moving tide of corruption and foulness east as the sounds of dragonfire and dwarven canon sounded in the distance. She saw the banners of the Children of Light march, a large X behind the head of a one eyed giant, alongside those of the living, mostly humans she noticed, and even found them aiding refugees to get to safety being offering food and water. A far cry from their more zealious compatriots home who attacked any who would be seen as a heretic. Still their spread to other lands, definatly those cursed by the Blight, was worrisome and Dagda decided to inform the king of this when she returned from her mission.

When she flew over the ports earlier she saw boats laden with refugees setting sail as thousands cried and begged to be let on. She read the annals of what happened in Sanctuary when the Blight came but could not imagine how her home would’ve looked like in those dark days a century ago. Now with this land being so close to death, she had a notion and it filled her with dread.

She looked to her map and quickly situated herself. She steered her eagle east, passed the front line to the small village of Small Haven. It was there where her contact was.
The village was the only remaining place where the living remained east of the elven forest of Druid’s thicket, a safe harbour for those few remaining survivors who were making the trek west. But the villagers who once lived there themselves had all fled or, more likely, conscripted into service by their lord. Even so, the human lord had long fled as several banners graced the village center, a mix of feudal lord ones and sellswords.
As she landed she saw the last bits of a skirmish.

Human swordsmen held up a shieldwall in front of a busted open gate as the undead bashed against them, it would not take long before it would fall. Above on the palisades, a few orcs assisted the human defenders there from the undead who managed to climb over the walls. On the church tower in the middle of the town, she saw a few of her cousin dwarves use their blunderbusses to pop the enemy off from afar, scor tallying and bet making was overheard despite the loud gunfire. It was a desperate mix of races that had banded together in a fight they knew they would lose.
Dagda immediately joined the fight as she landed and turned to the sole surviving tree in the village. She connected with the spirit within and urged it to help the living.
“The dead will claim this land sooner or later, my friend.” she intoned." I am sorry I cannot do anything to change that. But I can give you a change to avenge it, will you accept?"
The tree unrooted itself as it’s branches and roots turned to limbs, turning itself into a Ent, as it stomped towards the buckling shieldwall. Their leader, a blonde haired youth, called the survivors to stop aside as the Ent smashed into the dead horde.

Dagda had a small smile on her lips as she ran to the blonde youth." Are you in charge here?"
“A druid, thank the spirits…” the youth moved. She noticed that the young man had a necklace with different colour pebbles in the, the sign he worshipped the spirits of nature rather than the monotheism the Holy Church and the Children of Light worshipped. Which worked to her favour since the gnomes and elves likewise worshipped the spirits. The dwarves had a mix of ancestry worship and the spirits but they only worshipped the stone from which they build their homes.
“May the wilds keep you safe, young man.” Dagda replied." Again, are you in charge?“
The young man looked older than he probably was, probably a farmer’s boy who was trained a year or so ago and now had to fill in dead men’ shoes.” Yes, i’m Marshall Raynor. This is what’s left of the 17th Legion of her Majesty’s royal army. We were ordered to hold the line until word came from the Queen to fall back.“
Up close she saw most of the swordsmen were militia, some even not human but rather dwarf or half-elven, with only few veteran warriors. The boy’s eyes blinked with hope for a moment, a sharp contrast between his tired and battered face.” Are you a messenger?"

The gnomish druid winced internally." Not exactly. I come from Sanctuary to find Athellia the Judge, have you seen her?“
The marshall hid his disappointment well but she saw the last bit of hope died with her request. He pointed above to the palisade.” She’s upstairs with Ser Gregor."
The druid thanked the marshall and ran up the stairs as the ent continued venting his revenge.

When she reached the palisade, she saw orcs and humans fighting their hardest to keep the dead from gaining a foothold anywhere along the wall. Where they struggled however, there was a figure who aided them. He was taller than many humans, not as tall as a half-giant but close anyway, and his armour was dark gray as he wielded a large two handed sword. His cloak was bright red as his helmet had the shape of a dragon.
“That must be Ser Gregor.” Dagda said to herself." A Dragonhelm Knight…"
It made sense, Dragonhelm Knights were often paired with spellcasters as a bodyguard.

The knight cleaved the undead with ease, his very presence seemed to entice the undead to go for him, leaving them exposed for the defenders to quickly end them.
She heard that Dragonhelm Knights were once protectors of magical crypts, trained by the academy to deal with graverobbers and the undead before the Blights became a common thing.
They were human and bled and died like any other but there was something unreal about them, like most who were trained at the academy or the Citadel by the Grays.
Ser Gregor kept fighting, unmoved by the gore that splattered on his face or the cries of the dying and the undead. For a moment, Dagda did not know what she feared most. The undead and their insatiable hunger…or the unknown darkness that slumbered within the knight.

A ghoul snapped her out of her revelry as it swept for her with his clawed hands. With a frown she drew her scythe and severed the creature’s limb with a quick flick of her wrist.
As it stumbled she lunged on it, her anger and rage demanding blood. She kept slashing the creature, blood spraying everywhere as her blade sliced away tendon and bone.

Before she could finish it however, a bright flash came down from above. She shielded her eyes from the whiteness as it seemed to burn her much like a hot summer’s day. When the whiteness disappeared, all the undead had turned to ash, much to the cheering of the men.
As her eyesight adjusted back to her normal self, she saw a human woman had appeared in front of her. She was dressed in a all blue robe, a hood covering most of her face as small bits of sweaty purple hair tangled out. She seemed to be breathing heavily and even swayed as she tried to remain on her two feet. She no doubt would’ve fallen if it wasn’t for Ser Gregor who caught her. Regardless she spoke without any infliction to her voice.
" You are Dagda of the Ivy Climbers." the woman spoke as she leaned on Gregor.
She hated the clairvoyant, Dagda frowned slightly." Aye, I came here for you Athellia. The council has need of you.“
The sorceresses who was called the Blind Justice smile as she raised her head, revealing a ornate white mask that hid her eyes.” No." she replied.“You came for the orb of Moltenforge.”

A few hours later, Dagda left the church room. Angered, disappointed and frustrated.
The Blind Justice mage was given a tea by her bodyguard as she elaborated in detail why she refused to give up the orb. She was holding the object in her free hand as she did, straying it like a pet. It was a sphere the size of a large apple, coloured a deep purple with sparks of orange. It was forged in the dwarven city of Moltenforge after the First Blight where it along with many other weapons of it’s kin. Dwarven craftsmenship added with elven and human magic allowed the wilder of the orb to expand a mage’s magical range a thousand fold. A wizard could throw a lightning spell at a dragon on the other side of a province and the dragon would not know what hit him. Seven were made of which only two were used at a time, the rest staying at the Citadel. If a orb were to land in the hands of a necromancer, the Undying would have their instant Immortal Horde which they could summon anywhere on Alundria.

“The orb is the only artefact allowing me to stop the front from falling back even further.”
“You are fighting a losing war, Athellia.” Dagna remembered her calm." And the council has evidence to think a thief will come after it. We already lost one in Queen’s Maul last month!“
She looked to the Dragonhelm Knight who remained impassive. Even with his helmet off, which showed a short shaved rather handsome pale looking man, Dagda still felt uncomfortable.
If the Blind Justice could frown, she would’ve.” I do not fear these Undying. Yes I heard the rumours about what happened. One ambush and a few youths who knew how to create the Blight are not that organised. Likewise the missing orb was probably…misplaced."
“MISPLACED?!” That tore it." My master died in that ambush! We lost colleagues when we lost the orb!"
"And for that I am sorry, but I will not let shadows stop me from doing my duty. Tell the council and your king Halmadir that the orb remains here. Now please leave, I need to regenerate my mana…"
And like that, the discussion was over.

She slammed the church door shut behind her as she walked to her eagle, who was loyally waiting for her at the town square. It was there where she was greeted by Raynor and a few others.
“Druid!” Raynor smiled." Thank you very much for your aid.“
She wanted to scream at him but calmed herself, remembering her mentor’s teachings.” I did my part like you would’ve done if the places were reversed."

“I knew she would say that!” a dwarf warrior said, nudging his smaller companion." Pay up, Villi!"
“Shut up, Ve…” the smaller dwarf replied and shoved his elbow at his companion in the ribs.
A orc female stepped forward." You helped save what was left of my warband." she saluted the gnome druid." I, Hirgma of the Beastmaw wish to honour you with a night of mead and meat.“
The gnome sighed internally, the last thing she needed was losing more time. But a look from Raynor told her that it was unwise to decline the invitation of a orc.
“Alright.” Dagda forced a smile.” I could use a drink."

At the hour of the wolf, she was having her third cup of grog as the survivors celebrated their victory. Some of the men enjoyed throwing banners over the Ent in a attempt to make it look like a cape, who was confused by the joy. They started dubbing it Ser Tree of Small Haven and even began chanting the name, which the Ent tried to mimic with it’s crouching, wooden, slow voice.
“The men needed this.” Raynor confided." For three weeks we’ve been forced to stay here. Losing friends every single day against those things. The refugees stopped coming ten days ago. We’re now just getting survivors from the front who somehow ended up here."

Dagda looked confused." I did notice you had a strange mix…“
Raynor agreed with a nod and elaborated.” The 17th Legion held the line here after we got defeated at Golden Crown. We lost our officers one by one until…well, I was in charge. Then Hirgma and her warband showed up along with a few dwarves from Ravenspire and remnants of the 28th Legion. The exodus to the west was a complete route and mess. Nightmare Lord appeared i’m told, attacked the caravan along with a army of swift elven Immortals. In the confusion a lot of people died. Armies scattered. . So they came here and stayed in the hopes more of their friends appear before they move west."

Dagda’ eyes fell on Hirgma and her orcs as they watched some dwarves wrestle as the two dwarven brothers took bets from the humans. Hirgma shook her head with disapproval when the match ended and turned to her one eyed compatriot to complain…only for him to get a portion of the gold as well. The frown on the orc female’s face and the other orc’s confused, scared look made Dagda smile a little.
She turned to Raynor. “So, what’s your plan?“
He shrugged.” Little Haven is my home, I’ll stay here as long as I can.” He motioned to the church." I was born there during the big storm twenty years back. Haven protected me and my family when the entire land was nearly destroyed by the hurricane. I owe it this town to protect it, as long as I can." He paused." This place has a soul, a spirit. I can’t abandon it. You know.“
She nodded as she thought of her own village, her own home.” I do."

More hours passed but the druid could not catch any sleep. She laid her head on her eagle’s back as she watched the stars. Most others had gone to bed, drunk with mead and merrymaking. Thankfully Raynor had some up guards for the night.
Her mind wandered, how could she come back to the council empty handed? How could she explain Athellia’ stubbornness? King Halmadir entrusted her with this charge himself. She worried well into the night as sleep almost began to take hold.

A cry stirred her awake and immediately the gnome got up. It came from the palisades, near the Blind Justice’ room. A thief, she thought. She raced up the stairs, nearly pushing a guard aside as she went for what once was the mayor’s house. The house had a balcony near the walls which gave a good view into the bedroom. She heard another cry and was about to leap when a guard stopped her.
She turned." What are-?!"
The guard, a older man, pointed to the bedroom window across the balcony. The sight made Dagda blush.
She saw from the window that Ser Gregor was stood upright. Nude. He was writhing and moving as he held something the gnome could not quite see. The well toned muscles and abs did distract her as well. When she took her eyes off him he saw her pick something up and moved towards the window, that is when she what was the point of his attention. Athellia, likewise nude, was being made love to as she hanged on to the knight, her purple hair flying as she whipped her head back in exstacy.

“Spirits…” Dagda cursed.
“I know…” the guard agreed." Every time she uses a spell, they go at it later." He grunted." No idea why."
“I…do.” she admitted which got the guard’s attention." When you use magic, you make a connection to something. Your god, the spirits, other people. That connection is what we call mana and so we can cast our spells. When I connected to that tree and asked him to become an ent, the spell worked. During lovemaking of any kind, there is a connection where mana could be gained if the right…spells are used."
“Aha…and the mana pools?” the guard asked.
“It’s a easier path, we drink it so we can cut out the middle man sort of speak.” Dagda explained, thankfully her attention was away from the knight and the sorceress." The mana pool is a connection between the magic ley lanes and water, a more materialistic kind of connection."

“Ah…” the guard shrugged and looked back at the couple." Or they could be in love with each other."
Dagda shrugged and moved back to her eagle, trying her best to ignore Athellia’s cries of passion culminating in a climax. Before she reached the stairway, she heard a thud. A body falling. she turned.
A shady figure was stood over the guard she just spoke to, dead.
The figure saw Dagda and quickly threw something at the bedroom, the loud clashing sound waking everyone. Dagda tried to tackle him but fell through him, as if she tackled fog. the smell of arcane hung in the air. Teleportation spell.

As lights lit up the village, a agonising cry rang out. Her heart stopped. It was the call of the Dragonhelm Knight to call the undead.
Dagda and a recently woken up Raynor ran up the stairs of the mayor’s house and barged through the bedroom door. There they saw Ser Gregor, dressed in his armour, was holding the body of his lover, his red cloak used to cover her naked form. Or what was left of it.
A faint trace of the Blight hung in the air as Athellia’s body had turned into one of them, a Immortal. Where a few minutes prior she was alive and vibrant, now she looked like she was dead for over a week, eyeless sockets that were drilled through the back of her skull.

The knight did not weep or stir, and only moved that night when the dead came and his bloody revenge began. The village of Small Haven burned as it’s last defenders left without even giving a fight save the one Ser Gregor provided.
When the Undying came to find their prize, they found nothing save the killed Immortals and abandoned buildings. The orb was gone.

[mammon]

Alright, let’s take a shot at this. I do like these cosy and friendly fanfic forums. And my apologies for doing a card that has already been done, the character just spoke to me.

Outcast War-chief

Don’t you give me that look, boy.

Yeah, ya. Who else would I be talking to? I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me all night, like I’m some feral animal. Like I could lash out at you the moment you relax.

Don’t give me that nonsense either, just because we be fighting the same foe doesn’t mean you have to like me and it certainly doesn’t mean I have to like ya back. But I won’t harm ya, kid. I’ll let those immortal bastards deal with that tomorrow.

Hmpf, that’s not what I meant. I was talking about how meager ya look, especially for an orc. They banished me, but they let a beanstalk like you into their ranks? Preposterous!

Yes, I just called ya meager. What’re you gonna…

Wait, I know that look. You think I’m a cannibal, don’t ya?

Yes ya do! The way you deny it only confirms yer lies! You’ve been eyeballing me because ya thought I was gonna eat ya, for Alundria’s sake! Yer anxiety kept me tense all evening because yer believing those stories that all outcasts are cannibals!

Whatta I say about apologizing, kid? Don’t talk to me, yer voice annoys me. Just know that we ain’t no cannibals. I mean, how many cannibals do you think there even are? All those tales about my tribe eating people is just hogwash. Not a single one of us even tasted orc meat before!

Well, off course it’s true! Yer don’t let cannibals and non-cannibals into the same tribe, it’s just common sense. Any refugee that tasted the wrong kinda pork we direct to the swamps to the east, and any non-cannibals seeking refuge in their territory first… Well, I pretend no one ever wanders into their territory first.

Argh! That’s the nastiest look yer threw my way all night! For the last time, I don’t wanna be ye friend. You don’t need to like me SO DON’T!

Because I don’t want to be your friend, beanstalk!

Because I don’t want to be friends with any non-exile orc! I’m only here because my tribe can’t survive this mess alone and neither can yours. It doesn’t mean I forgive any of you for exiling me to some humid hellhole that smells like farts.

Yer looks really do say a thousand words, don’t they? Don’t deny it, ya thought there must’ve been a good reason for me to get exiled like I did. That I must be some monster like those filthy cannies! Well, I tell you why they exiled me, it’s because of love! Because I loved the daughter of my chieftain and she loved me back. That’s why they cast me out! So take your high horses and shove 'em up yer ass!

Off course it is. Orc politics are just as cruel as any other race’s. At the very least, I had hoped to get away from all of that in my new home…

Sigh…

I wouldn’t have helped you guys if it weren’t for that night. Hell, if it weren’t for that night, I would have denied the call when the orcs rallied the living. I wouldn’t have believed their tales, probably would have thought it was a trap to lure us out of our home and kill us all. And even if I did believe them, I probably would have ignored it. Why wouldn’t I?

Everything is so quiet in the swamps, the problems of the world so far away. When the swamps are your home, any problem of kings and generals seems so detached. So alien. Someone else’s problem. Those problems would pass by your swamps, you’re too insignificant to bother with. I can understand why the trolls reacted so slowly better than anyone. It’s simply unthinkable that you should be bothered to do anything when your life is so mellow.

But the trolls experienced the threat of the immortals eventually and so did we. That one night, the problems of the world suddenly became our problems when a dozen undead trolls wandered into our village.

I can still hear the shrieks of my tribesmen throughout the otherwise quiet swamps. Those death-screams aren’t anything like the ones you’re used to on the endless planes. And I’m not talking about the screams coming out of the throats of women and children, or that I knew the person to whom every dying voice belonged to.

No, screams in the swamps are like a person’s soul cast into oblivion. The muddy ground, the mangrove trees, every wrangled object around you. They distort sound and break it up. There is no echo, and you don’t know you miss it until it’s gone. And when that happens to a death scream, it’s like you hear the soul of that person just ending. Like it’s being denied death itself.

It’s a good thing that trolls are such slow creatures, About half my tribe managed to get away from them before the other half started to give chase. We didn’t fight for our home, it was a piece of uninhabitable crap even before it got blighted. But we lured that other half with us and gave them their final rest.

…

For Alundria’s sake, boy! Whatta I say about that there look? We ain’t friends! You’ll probably die tomorrow anyhow.

I’m just saying that there is a damn good reason why I’m here, helping you non-exiled. I bet there are still a ton of tribes out there, refusing to help because they don’t.

I pray they’ll never get one.

…

…
A fair distance away, two orcs pass by. One of them curiously looks at the chieftain and throws his friend a questioning glare.

Orc II: Hm? Him? That’s Kezhell wandertongue.

Orc I: What’s wrong with him? Why is he talking to himself?

Orc II: I don’t know. From what I heard, the man has been talking to himself even before he exiled himself a few decades ago. Spoke to people who weren’t there and ignored the ones who were. And then one day, he simply wandered off into the wild before anyone could stop him never to be seen again. It was only by the tribe garments he still wore that we were able to identify him.

Orc I: Really? What happened?

Orc II: How am I supposed to know? All I know is that a few scouts found him wandering through the planes all alone, dying of dehydration but still talking to invisible people. He claimed that he and his tribe were fleeing from the immortals, but we never saw any undead orc coming from the direction he pointed at.

Orc I: So he’s some crazy lunatic, huh? Then why is he wearing a clean officer’s tunic?

Orc II: Crazy or not, this guy knows his way around a swamp and he’s a pretty good guide when he acknowledges your existence. I dare say he actually improves our prowess when fighting in a swamp with his guidance.

Orc I: Wait, this guy lived in a swamp? What kind of orc would live in such a damp place?

Orc II: I know, right? Swamp-orcs. Unheard of.

The two orcs laugh and continue their stroll while Kezhell walks up to a tree and flirts with it.

[mammon]

Forge urchin

‘No.’

Beaten, dirty, hungry and cold, the small boy stares at the clouded sky and the relentless raindrops hammering in on him with a frantic look. His young brain unable to process this kind of emotion, the intensity of the despair that engulfs him.

‘No. It can’t be.’

Tears well up in the boys eyes as he realizes he’s all alone. Everyone he knew, everyone he loved. Everything that was dear to him.

‘Me Pa… Me Ma… Me Master…’

The urchin notices the body of the heavy-set blacksmith twitch. Not a part of him fathoms the chance that the man might still be alive. He knows it’s not to be. He knows from experience what will happen next, yet he doesn’t move.

‘Me Sis… Me nephew… Even ole lady Sullyr… They’re all…’

The urchin knows the danger he’s in. He knows that the man he once saw as a mentor and a friend will attack him. And he knows the small wooden sword clamped in his hands won’t help him. Yet he doesn’t move.

‘They’re all gone. They’re all dead.’

The urchin begins to sob as the blacksmith slowly starts to move, the inelegant frame struggling to get up with all the unbalanced weight holding him down. The urchin knows that the blacksmith won’t be able to hold himself back once he stands up. No, if such a thing were possible, his mother would have. Or his father. Or his sister. But all had proven to be as vicious and relentless as any other immortal. None had shown mercy.

Sob ‘Me Ma!’ Whine ‘Me Ma! Save me, me Ma!’

The urchin starts wailing out of pure despair and the wooden sword he cherished as his last hope falls out of his hands like the useless toy it is. Motivated by this sound, the blacksmith tries to get up even faster, awkwardly hobbling towards the young boy as he does. And yet, the boy doesn’t move.

Big tears gleaming like pearls are rolling of the boys cheeks as he cries at the skies without reply, any dignity or restraint long gone.

Moan

Despite his short dwarven frame, the blacksmith towers over the young boy as he finally manages to get up and walks towards the easy victim. The undead don’t show dignity or restraint either, the man will simply topple over the kid and end the boy’s misery any way possible once he reaches his target.

Smash!

The blacksmith topples over and clashes against the cold stone walls just inches from the urchin, his face leaving a bloody smear on the already grimy stones. The urchin grows silent and looks at his late master and the brain matter dripping from his split skull. Then, he looks at his mysterious savior.

‘Well I be a griffon’s arse, there are survivors after all. Guess I owe Bundril 5 gold.’

The man laughs as he wipes off the blood on his axe with the blacksmith’s shirt. The urchin still looks at the man without making a sound, unsure what this means.

‘Don’t just sit there, lad. Get yer ass moving already!’

Slowly and without any energy, the urchin stands up. For some reason, his life has been spared yet again while such a fate was denied to those he loved. Why? Is it some twisted joke faith is playing with him? To deny an end to his misery, and have the despair continue while he can still feel?

What’s the point? What good is there in living when everyone he knows is gone? What does he have to live for in these lands of the dead? Why should he even bother running when there is no more place to run?

‘Say lad, I’ve got a little proposition for ya if yer interested. I need this here report delivered to me superiors at Dawnecho but me and the others are already shorthanded as is. Would you be willing to run the errand for me?’

The strange man takes the urchin’s hands and puts a fumbled up letter and a strange heavy object in them. The urchin looks at the paper with empty eyes, not registering the bad handwriting nor the crest of the griphon in the top corner. If his hands weren’t still cupped in the man’s hands, they would have fallen to his sides without another thought and the letter would have fallen to the ground.

Then, the urchin’s eyes turn to the strange item the man placed in his other hand. The single piece of gold is heavier than he assumed one would be, and there is a strange warmth to it. But more than anything he notices how pretty the gold gleams in the sullen morning sun breaking through the rainclouds. For some reason, this simple piece of metal has an attraction to it.

‘Aye, that there doubloon is a tip for delivering the message as quickly as yer scrawny little legs can carry you. A gracious tip for such a simple job, I know, but fair considering the circumstances.’

The boy doesn’t react as he looks at the gold in his hands. He never held something so valuable before. Before now, he never understood why grown-ups would do what they did for these simple pieces of metal. But as the boy looks at the glimmering coin, the greed that ran through the veins of his race since ancient times surfaces.

And the boy experiences a feeling he never quite felt before. A feeling that briefly reminds him of the love he once felt for his Ma and Pa, for his sis and even for his master, yet so different. The feeling is lesser, colder and indifferent, yet strong. A love he knows won’t be taken by the immortals. One he knows can’t be taken by the immortals. And there is only one thought on his young mind:

More.

The boy looks at the man with a newfound determination in his eyes and he wipes away the tears from his former life. He pockets his new treasure and the piece of paper and picks up his wooden sword. Then, he darts off to his new destination as fast as his young legs will carry him. There will be more gold to gain there.

‘Heh, guess it’s true what they say. For a handful of coins, a Forge Urchin will run to the ends of the world for you.’

The man sheathes his axe and looks at the running boy.

‘The kid should have searched the body of this here immortal before he went though. That hammer on his belt ought to be a better weapon than that toy he’s carrying. Well, penalty for the inexperienced, I guess.’

The man crouches over the fallen blacksmith and takes out the man’s pouch, counting a total of 24 golden coins which he quickly pockets himself.

[Gorvar]

Hey dude!

First off, love your Urchin story!
It really fits with the artwork with the card and this story is perfect for the atmosphere of the game. Well done, I hope we get to see more of this
And its ok if you do characters that have been done before, a fresh pair of eyes is always a good thing!

[Gorvar]

Just read your orc one.
Not a big fan of the format at furst but then I liked it a lot. A genuine twist at the end.
Kudos man! Dying to see more!

[mammon]

Thanks, it’s good to hear people like my work! I really enjoyed the urchin’s story as well, I looked at the card and it just told this story to me. And I myself wasn’t a big fan of the orc’s first part either, but I couldn’t make the beanstalk reply and get an actual dialogue going for obvious reasons.

[mammon]

The following is a kind-of true story from one of the multi-player games I’m playing, although I stretched the truth a bit. It’s a story about the mighty Hydra, but one may also consider it a story for the Jester King as well.

The legend of the lone Hydra

Gather around children, and hear the tale of the noble sacrifice a wild hydra once payed in the war against the immortal blight. Huddle up and listen to a legend that most likely turned the tides of battle before they tipped over to the immortals side. Sit and hear a story that is shared amongst troll and dwarf alike, and who even the few goblin survivors of Hidden Dangle carry in their hearts.

Like many stories of this era, the tale begins with grave news. The blight, the accursed blight that had taken so many lives before and would take many more lives still, suddenly appeared in the peaceful valley of Jester’s Ball. When the news of this threat spread, people thought it must have happened to the dwarves whom inhabited the mountains, for it were their gryphons who spread the curse like wildfire. Or it must have been trolls in the swamps, who were too slow and laid-back to intervene before it was too late.

But nay, it was neither of these! To the surprise of many it were the Goblins amongst whom the blight first appeared, and none were more surprised then the Goblins themselves. Their camps were surrounded by thick swamps on all sides, and those swamps were surrounded by Dwarven claimed mountains and forests overseen by elves. What place would be safer and more secure than their little alcove in the very mids of these guardians?

But alas, it was them among whom the blight first appeared, and it was them who fell before they could muster up a defence able of warding off the dead. In less than a day, the life bled out of the camp of Hidden Dangle and many others and turned its inhabitants into servants of the evil necromancer.

Leading these goblins twisted into hideous monsters was the Jester King. A man of royal status amongst his peers, who was already one known to care little for etiquette, duty and proper strategy when he was still alive.

But after his demise and a bath in the now corrupted waters of the gloomy well, the mind of the Jester King was twisted into even more wicked ways and he began to dance. He danced and he danced, and he compelled his fellow demised to share this dance of the mad.

Some say this dance is the late King’s last act of resistance against the blight, for while the undead would spread in all directions to lay waste upon all settlements around much faster, they too would be easy pickings once we mortals would muster up our defenses. And others say that it was no act of resistance that compelled the Jester king to dance this dance, but the mere habit to disrespect his superiors and wipe his arse with his responsibilities like he did when he were still a mortal man.

Be that as it may, the Jester King danced and by this decree he danced alone. Now this is an important thing to remember, for without his solitude this legend would have never been possible. Were he accompanied by a hundred Goblin or by just one, I would most likely lack the beating heart to tell this tale and you the freedom of mind to listen to it. But the King danced and left his minions far behind as he ran into the shadows of the swamps.

The Jester King danced and the Jester King ran, he ran with frighting speed towards the Troll caves of Crowswater and the Dwarven kingdom of Tiredpass. And for the trolls of Crowswater, this mad king would be the end of their tale. While being just a lone Goblin, the Jester King proved more powerful than the entire garrison of trolls and their fortifications. I have no doubt they fought valiantly, but the wicked movements of the king fueled by the dance of hundreds of Goblins was too much to handle for these unfortunate trolls and their caves fell to the blight.

The clan leaders of Tiredpass heard of this terrible act and knew of its danger, none suggesting that they should wait out this storm in the confinements of their fortresses. Every dwarven man and woman capable of wielding an axe was sent with all urgency to the troll village of Huntersmoor to support the living or give the dead their final rest. They ran as fast as Dwarves can run, hoping to reach the trolls in time but at the same time hoping the Jester King would not spare these trolls as well.

This thought may seem dark and grim, it was monstrous even to wish demise and blighting upon a fellow race, but it was the lesser of two dangers. Because while none wished this fate to the trolls, they rather faced these immortals over the hydra that were already fearsome alive, much more in death.

But alas, the Jester King’s resistance against his own curse did not prevail this time and he left the roads leading to Huntersmoor for the damp and dark swamps to the south, sensing beings of great power in that direction. Troll and Dwarf alike gasped in terror as they got word of this development, knowing the grave implications. Surely, the southern swamps would be all but lost to the living once immortal hydra would roam it.

And the Jester King ran. Ignoring the foul smells the swamps produced as he trumped through it, paying no heed to the many branches and vines tearing at his expensive garments as he ran to the promise of life to slay.

He ran and he ran, until he reached the hydra pits of Remembered pool, where a whole family of these long-necked swamp lizards were cautiously eying this foul-smelling threat. Hydras never allowed other beings into their den, and this man was no exception. Yet they were cautious, for even they could sense the great strength emanating from the small Goblin’s frame.

Why the six hydras didn’t attack all at once and tore the Jester King apart with ease is a mystery repeated many times before. It speaks for itself why they didn’t flee from their pit, we mortals would not leave our homes so easily either and these primal beings feel an even stronger instinctive urge to never abandon their place of birth to the blight. But why they wouldn’t fight back with the ferocity that their kind is feared for, is not as easily explained. Unlike us mortals, whose citizens are unable to fight against the immortals without weapons and training, they were all savage beasts armed with their fangs and massive frames.

Together, their strength could never be bested by the undead. Yet they all cowered and would lay down their lives without struggle if their alpha male were to be defeated, as many other mystical beings did before them. And alone, the alpha male stood no chance against this mighty foe.

The alpha looked down upon the small being invading his territory, making himself look as big as possible and revealing his terrifying teeth in a snarl. To any mortal man this display would be plenty of reason to soil his pants and run home to mommy. The Jester King was not impressed however, and began his dance macabre once again to call upon the strength of the many mad minions he left to reap havoc across the lands.

The alpha roared and swung two of its massive heads to the Goblin, attacking the puny creature from both sides to force it into a hasty retreat. His middle head loomed over this scene, carefully observing everything that happened and pondering about what could happen next.

Middle had always been the clever one, being more careful and patient than its two brothers whose necks had been severed and whose craniums had sustained lethal damage several times before. Middle never had to go through the shame and pain of growing back, and saved their body on numerous occasions when the other two fell to greater foes or clever ruses.

But Middle could comprehend the Jester King’s movements just as little as his brethren. As if the king were standing on the solid tiles of his once admirable throne-room rather than ankle deep in the mud, he danced vigorously and jumped over Right like the scaled nightmare were but a simple chair or table. Landing on top of Right, the Jester King bellowed a most maniacal laugh and planted his fist into Rights temple.

Middle lunged at the Goblin as fast as he could, but he couldn’t prevent his brother’s fate. As if Right’s skull were made of soft clay, the king’s hand broke right through it and send spasms of pain through the alpha’s whole body. Left and Middle winched when they felt his pain and Right’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, as if to see what the King’s hand was doing in there.

Then, Middle’s teeth found the Jester King’s torso and caught the tiny being in a deathly trap. Biting down on the rotting flesh so hard he almost tore the goblin apart, Middle raised his head and swung it from side to side with ferocious swings. Four times did he jerk his head violently to the sides before he opened his mouth to get rid of the disgusting piece of meat. The Jester King’s body flew away and hit a nearby stone wall with a sickening crunch.

Middle smacked his lips with disgust as he tried to get rid of the foul taste of the undead creature, while Left gently nudged the motionless body of Right. Middle knew this gesture was in vain, there was no way Right could’ve survive that attack. And he had to be put down even if he did. Middle looked down and placed his mouth around Right’s neck just underneath his skull. Bracing himself for the pain he too would feel, he bit down and started to chew and tear through the thick meat to sever Right’s head.

As Middle was focusing on this macabre but necessary task, Left nudged him for attention. Middle ignored him, he didn’t want to hear the youngster’s objections. Left nudged him again, more pressing this time. Again, Middle ignored him. He heard Left move away and felt a small sense of relieve that the young head wasn’t making an issue out of this.

Suddenly, he heard Left snarl viciously. Middle looked up, surprised and agitated, only to find Left’s attention directed somewhere else. Middle followed his gaze and to his surprise, he saw the small Goblin he killed just moments ago stand up again, chuckling despite his beyond lethal injuries.

The Jester King’s royal status was no longer visible to anyone but those who knew who this man originally was. His robes were more tattered than those of a beggar, his jewelery covered in gore and his body mangled beyond repair. His guts hanging out, his chest torn up to the bone and one of his arms hanging from a lap of skin. It was no strange thing that the Hydra had deemed him dead, even those familiar with immortal tenacity would be surprised to see a body so far gone still being able to move, much less stand up.

But the Jester King didn’t just stand up straight. His chuckle turned into a laugh and his torn up feet started to tap to a tune none but he himself could hear. And his one good arm raised to the sky to orchestrate an invisible choir while his torn arm swung along awkwardly. And the dance began once again, more enthusiastic and terrifying than ever.

Middle looked at this scene, his primal mind unable to process the information. Left snarled more viciously, his simpler thoughts less impressed by the superhuman feats of the Goblin. And then he shrieked in pain and surprise as hundreds of sharp teeth dug themselves into his neck.

Right moaned angrily as he tried to tear out Left’s throat, his glazed over eyes showing no emotion as he tried to kill his own brother. Middle looked down in horror before he himself bit down into the spot he had been chewing at just moments before, trying to kill Right before he could kill Left.

Left screamed in agony and fear, his panicking attempts to break free of this deathly embrace speeding up the process more than preventing it. Middle winched in pain as Left’s fangs scraped over his head and left nasty gashes around his eyes. But he pressed on and finally managed to chew through Right’s spine. Biting down as hard as he could before jerking his head to the side, Right’s head was torn of his neck and Middle screamed in agony as he too felt the immense pain of his brethren.

Left continued to scream, swinging his head violently to shake of the still latched on head of Right, the hydra’s jaws locked in place even after the curse left his body. Suddenly, the head shot loose and flew out of sight.

Middle looked at Left, who was panting hysterically. The young head had never been so scared and helpless before, and even now he could feel the blood gushing out of his veins. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t react when a small frame shot at him like an arrow from a bow.

Left screamed again, his fear regained faster than even the Jester King’s movements. But not by a lot, because the speed with which the king slashed through hydra’s open wounds with his one good arm was terrifying.

Unable to come up with a better plan, Middle could only bash his head into the Goblin as fast as he could, sending it flying once again. Beside him, Left’s head fell to the ground lifelessly, the wounds upon wounds too much to handle for any living being.

Middle wept a single tear as bit down upon the already battered part of Left’s neck but showed no mercy and spared no energy trying to chew it off. With ferocious prowess he tore through the flesh before Left would rise again like Right. Mere moments later, there was nothing more than tatters hanging from the left neck.

Middle rose his head again, trying to find the man responsible for all of this. His brethren would grow back again in due time, but that creature threatened not only his very existence but the future of his family. And if his first attempt didn’t kill the creature, a mere nudge like that wasn’t going to either.

Middle looked around, trying to come up with a strategy as his eyes wandered around the familiar breeding grounds he lived in all his life. With both his brothers gone, he not only lost over half his combat strength but gained two cumbersome appendages to worry about as well. Beating this Goblin was not going to be easy.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his chest and looked down. Below him, in his blind spot, was the Jester King tearing into his flesh. Slashing through his flesh and ribs as if they were paper mache, the creature had already inflicted mortal wounds upon the alpha’s body and Middle stumbled back. To cover this soft spot his neck could not reach, he instead fell over to ensure the wounds would be protected by his entire weight.

The Jester king jumped back and chuckled. Middle looked at him and snarled. If he were to tear off the king’s head, the accursed creature ought to stay dead. Middle lunged and the Jester king jumped out of harms way.

But the next moment, the Jester King felt himself caught by surprise as a hundred teeth enveloped themselves around him. Where most mystical creatures, hydra or otherwise, would aim for the head to sever it from the body, Middle had instead targeted the body. Knowing the Goblin were most likely fast enough to dodge, Middle has instead planned to bite into the body.

The Jester King reacted just as Middle expected by suddenly changing direction and placing his whole body within the monstrous mouth. Where no living being would ever willingly imprison itself into these fangs, the undead king felt no fear when he got swallowed up by Middle and began to tear into his insides with vigor.

With his last ounce of strength, Middle rose up and looked at his family. He knew he couldn’t survive the king’s assault for long, and he knew what would happen if he would allow himself to die like this. He knew, because he could already feel the blight coursing through his veins.

A single tone arose from his throat and turned into a beautiful song rarely heard by mortal ears. From all around, the swamp gases that ignited in blue and green flames flared up more brightly and turned to the Alpha hydra’s direction as if searching for the source of this magical sound. Then, the swamp wisps rose from their marshes and floated towards Middle.

The ground around him dried up and the humidity in the air dissipated as dozens of wisps started to circle around the singing hydra. Middle didn’t like this new sensation of dry skin, but he sang on. Then, his body suddenly caught on fire and the roaring of the flames mixed with the unearthly sound of his voice. For the first time, the Jester King screamed in actual fear as he franticly tried to claw his way out of harm’s way and the heads of Right and Left burned to crisps as Middle’s voice faded away.

The wisps floated back to their marshes again and the still smoldering body of a mangled Goblin tried to crawl away before it literally crumbled into dust.

And that, children, is the tale of the lone hydra. A feat of bravery few beings could match, for even a mighty hydra would often see itself come short when facing an immortal lord alone. And if it weren’t for Middle being as wise and experienced as he was, or if the Jester King had brought servants along, this tale wouldn’t have had the bittersweet ending that it has.

As you can imagine, the trolls of Huntersmoor and the dwarves of Tiredpass reveled in joy as they heard of the unexpected victory of the mighty hydra against the immortals. Suddenly, the threat that had seemed like an unavoidable disaster became a problem they could deal with.

The war was far from over, even for this small valley, but this single act of sacrifice had inspired hope into the hearts of everyone who was still fighting. And with the help of the lone hydra’s family, that hope would not go to waste.

[Gorvar]

I think this is the first time we had a story about the special monster units, I dig!
Jester’s ball, and tbh most dwarven centric maps, is one of my favourites and i’m pleasantly surprised how you actually brought character to the Hydra card. Basically making a monster into a hero/human character.
Again kudos, my friend! Kudos!

[mammon]

Great to hear! Don’t expect any more stories at this pace though, I burned through myideas already and now it’s a matter of waiting for a new stroke of inspiration. It could be a day, a week or an eternity for all I know.

[Gorvar]

No worries man
If you like, drop by one of the previous stories we posted and give us your thoughts. Who knows, maybe some ideas might pop in?
Also Jay is thinking for a expansion where we can have Righteous and Corrupted forms of cards. For example a Righteous Human Swordsmen might be puritanical zealots while the corrupted form might be dark swordsmen being corrupted by the blight but they’re still fighting the good fight.

[mammon]

Oh, righteous and corrupted cards sound awesome. I’m hoping there will be one amongst them with a dark but strategically necessary skill like ‘genocide’; to kill the entire population of a settlement before the immortals can. Probably a valour consuming skill rather than a mana one.
(Edit; just found out about the orc shaman that can do such a thing.)

That was a good idea, to go through the other stories again. I threw around some likes and came across one of your stories that inspired me to write another one. I was planning to use the name you gave him, but he was ironically the only orc you hadn’t named in the story…

The rite of fire and flesh

With a sigh of relief, Kragnar threw down his pack and rolled his shoulders. It had been a long journey and not a pleasant one, for even his race could only handle so much sand, blistering heat and hunger before the destination wouldn’t be worth the journey. And considering the destination was an end without glory to him, Kragnar lacked even this to motivate him. His sense of duty and honour were the only things that drove him during this long trek.

Ushnotz threw his pack down next to Kragnar and laughed.

‘Walking too hard for you, Krag? Must be difficult for a farmer boy like you to march along with the real orcs.’

Ushnotz slapped Kragnar’s shoulder in an attempt to pass this insult off as mere banter, but their lack of friendship made the whole operation more awkward than rewarding. Ushnotz had acted as if they knew eachother well ever since this journey began, but Kragnar knew his companion was facing his own demons as well. The two of them were the only orcs from their village chosen for this journey, and Ushnotz didn’t like meeting new people that much. Him watching over Kragnar like a friend was a sign of weakness and they both knew it.

‘True, it’s hard to press on when you know death awaits you. If only we’d be headed for the glorious call of combat, I would gladly march. But the only death that awaits me here is an antagonizing yet silent one, and one without honour.’

Ushnotz’s pretended optimism fell short when Kragnar mentioned their fate. Up till now, it had been a mere unspoken thought lingering over the group, but it could not remain unspoken when the large cave mouth was right in front of them.

‘I understand that you’re not as afraid as I am, Ushnotz, you have a much greater chance of surviving after all. But we both know I’m merely a lamb for the slaughter, needed to fill the quotient of the chieftain’s latest demands. This will be my final day on Alundria.’

Ushnotz could not speak for a moment, unsure whether to make fun of Kragnar or to speak some words of encouragement instead. Not knowing any such words, he chose banter instead.

‘Well, off course I’ll survive! My father was a member of the Dragon Brigade and my mother’s father was one as well. Surely I inherited their gifts!’

‘Probably, Ushnotz. While there’s always a chance you’ll die just like me, at least your chances are proper. But the only member of the Dragon brigade whose blood I inherited was my great grandfather. The shaman said there was less than a percent chance I’d survive this journey, so I’m all but certain to bring shame on my family by dying here today.’

‘Geez, Krag. If you’re that worried, just focus on doing the ritual right. That ought to improve your chances, right?’

Kragnar crouched down to take the raw wolf’s leg out of his pack and stripped away its paper wrappings. The leg was almost as big as a battle axe and already started to smell a bit foul after being subjugated to the heat and sweat permeating through his pack these last few days.

The ritual. Kragnar had thought about it even more than his fate during the journey. Was it a mere tradition, superstition, something for the initiates to do or was there a real truth to it? He guessed it was the third, for not even the bravest of orc would be able to stand still and wait as they would burn alive. If they were preparing to do a few things once the flames would engulf them, if they could latch on to one last task while they burned to a crisp, it would at least give them a modicum of purpose in their final antagonizing moments.

With this on his mind, Kragnar guessed that the ritual was fake. He would still preform it though, for even the smallest chance that it could work made it worthwhile. Yes, Kragnar would not cast aside superstition this time, he thought as he stripped off his clothes. And in these last few moments before the ritual would commence, he went over the steps one last time.

Soon enough, he and the other initiates would be wearing nothing but some scraps to cover their loins, leaving their packs and clothes behind. In a few days, these belongings would be claimed by the local shaman and be sent back to their families. The only thing he would take with him was the skinned wolf’s leg.

Then they would walk into the dragon’s den and stand before the mighty Belron, the ancient fire dragon who had helped them preform this ritual for hundreds of years. He would spit his fiery breath all over them and engulf them in flames hot as the sun itself, burning them into nothingness.

As he did this, the initiate was supposed to take a bite out of the wolf’s leg before throwing it into Belron’s opened mouth. It was said that the dragon’s flame would grill the meat to gain a perfect taste for a few seconds before it would char and become inedible, and that the rest of the leg was supposed to be a tribute to the dragon for the chance to taste this divine meat.

One of the other orcs, Kragnar hadn’t bothered learning his name, grunted to hurry up and walked into the cave. Kragnar wondered if he should stall a bit longer, just long enough to miss the ritual. There was no way the shaman could tell whether his ashes were missing if he were to leave now, and no one would know he fled from the ritual if he were to run away now. Unless he were ever caught, off course.

In those few seconds, Kragnar planned out his escape. If he were to take a few belongings from all the packs of his companions to make one full pack of equipment, the shaman wouldn’t notice that his pack was missing and his family would still receive his remains. After that, he would only have to make it out of the desert without anyone seeing his face, and he could trek to another orc tribe. He would claim to be the survivor of some tribe butchered by the Blight, plenty of those around these days. And he would have to live in dishonor, but he would be alive.

‘Come, Krag. Get your lazy arse moving!’

Ushnotz grabbed Kragnar and pulled him along into the cave, rendering all plans of escape futile. Resigning to his fate, Kragnar went along and followed the dark cavern to a large den. The charred bones of those who came before them cracked under Kragnar’s bare feet as he walked into Belron’s lair and looked at the dragon.

The beast was more magnificent than he could have ever imagined. His red scales glistening in the torch light and the eyes, both as big as Kragnar’s head, looking at the group of initiates with clear intelligence and wisdom.

Kragnar stared in awe at Belron as the mighty dragon bellowed in a deep breath and then blew his fiery breath over the group of orcs. A moment later, the entire den was set aflame as the dragon-fire turned into a burning whirlpool of heat.

Kragnar couldn’t even scream as he felt the indescribable pain all around him, and he could barely focus on the meat in his hands as he forced his melting muscles to throw it at the origin of the inferno. He couldn’t bring himself to take a bite of the meat first, knowing his body wouldn’t last long enough to do both things.

Feeling the meat leave his fingertips before the nerves in his hands melted away completely, Kragnar dropped his hands to the sides and waited for either the fire or his life to end. The pain had left his body completely at his point, his whole nervous system destroyed most likely. A few moments later, he noticed that the world was still burning around him and realized with a wry sense of humor that he did have the time to take a bite after all. Well, easy said in hindsight.

A few moments later still, Kragnar wondered how long this was going to take. Surely he should have died by now? Or did the living pass on to an afterlife of eternal burning and was the scene of his demise ironically indistinguishable from this hell?

Kragnar raised his arm and looked at his burning hand and the mesmerizing flames licking at his fingers. Such a pretty display for such a destructive force.

Stop.

Suddenly, the flames died out and Kragnar looked around him. Only now did he realize that the inferno had ended a few seconds ago, and that his body had continued to burn on its own.

Burn.

Just as quickly as the flames had died out, they sprang back to life and engulfed his hand again. Kragnar quickly doused them again with his mind and looked at his hands without the flames. Somehow they were completely unscathed, as if they never burned to begin with. The same for the rest of his body, with the exception of his loincloth which was completely gone.

‘Ha! And you were worried about dying without glory!’

Ushnotz’s gleeful voice stopped Kragnar’s train of thought and compelled him to look at his companion, who was butt naked and without scars like him. Ushnotz laughed loudly, the relief of surviving barely concealed behind his joy.

Three more orcs joined their little group as Belron grunted a warning for them to leave his domain. Kragnar looked at the others as they followed the tunnel back outside and a small grin spread over his face. He was alive, somehow he was still alive!

Ushnotz quickly started to redress himself as they reached their belongings and looked at Kragnar.

‘Hey Krag, what did you think of the wolf’s leg? Quite the taste, right?’

‘Dunno, I didn’t taste it before throwing it at Belron.’

‘R-Really? Ha, that’s rich! Missing an once-in-a-lifetime chance like that, you really missed out!’

‘I’m good, I’m just glad to be alive.’

‘Alive? We’re more than alive, Kragnar. We’re legendary soldiers to be!’

‘You know what? We will. We will become legends as we fight the blight.’

[Gorvar]

Oh this was interesting. I always wondered how the Dragon Brigade would come to be. How would their training be, was it a mutation passed on throughout the generations enctr…
I really liked this one. The names, the interaction, the ritual itself and the relationship between orcs and dragons. And above all else, very well written (some spelling mistakes here and there but seriously mine are a lot worse so it’s fine) and easy to follow.
Kudos man!