skullsmurfer
First Post
►One
The wind swept plain stretched for miles. His people call it Desolation because it feels lonely in any season. He is relieved to leave it behind. Ogrod pulled the fur hood tightly over his head. It is cold. There are hundreds of names for snow and sleet among his people. The ranger can't think of any right now. His mind has passed beyond words, the wolves are howling. He sighed, unwilling to curse the beasts hunting for his flesh. Nature gives, nature takes. That is the way of the world.
The ranger turned his back on the wolves and started his climb. His spear makes a fine walking stick. The Plain of Desolation stretches out into the sea. At it's end is a great mountain. The elders will not say it's name, probably out of superstition. The men from the Empire came from there to invade his people's lands. The tales say a green valley lies on the other side. Ogrod breathed in the cold briny mist. Wind blown snow is bad enough. There is water on either side of the peninsula. A green valley sounds like a fool's dream.
He looked up into the featureless gray mist. Only twenty paces are visible at any one time. It is an eerie sort of blindness. When he was a boy, the elders used to sing tales about the delvers, the bearded men who lived their entire lives within the mountains. They spring from the very earth, the old women said. Their halls are lined with riches, said the scarred warrior men with their eyes aglitter. Ogrod could care less about those things. The tales told of a great door on the side of a mountain. The men from across the sea would come there to trade with the delvers. Delver steel was worth the trip from the great Empire beyond. Their witches hungered for it. Why would women care for steel?
Ogrod doubled his pace as the howling resumed. The elders never said anything about wolves climbing mountains. They are not goats. There are no antelope for them to eat here. An arrow shattered on the mountain stone beside his head. They've found him. Green skins, no-men, if they can ride a wolf, as the rumors say, then maybe they can get one to climb a mountain. The ranger ducked into a deep cleft and used it as cover while he continued to climb. He was shocked to discover a series of steps cut into the rock. In fair weather, the steps would be covered by shadow. He only found them by accident, Praise the Gods. The elders said the delvers were clever.
When the men from the Empire came, they would climb a path cut into the mountain. The delvers put terrible faces into the stone to ward away evil. Ogrod lay his hand on the leering bearded face. He's found it. The way still exists after so very very long. The ranger gritted his teeth. He can hear the foul language of the green skins echoing up through the cleft. It would not be right to bring his enemies to the delver's door. His people still follow the Laws of Hospitality. A guest should not bring a burden onto his host. Ogrod threw off his heavy fur cloak. He asked for the Bear to quicken his blood, the Raven to witness his death, and the Earth to take his Soul.
A slice of dried mushroom slowly melted beneath his tongue. It's potent effects will allow the Bear to touch his spirit. Ogrod smiled. It is all or nothing now. The enemy must die if he is to make it to that legendary door.
“No-men!” He called down to the green skins. “You face Ogrod Death of Trolls, son of Maruk of the Bear Clan!”
An arrow was his answer. The ranger snarled, two more arrows flew up to him. They must think they are hunting rabbits. Ogrod dodged sideways and kicked at a large chunk of stone he found by the side of the delver path. It rolled downwards picking up speed as the ranger followed. The no-men would have had to climb up single file. They can't avoid the rock. As far as the ranger is concerned, the green skins deserve to die like animals. The little ones don't fight worth a damn, their masters though, are a worthy challenge.
No doubt, the little wolf riders are being pushed forward by one or more of the larger green skins called orcs. Ogrod shuddered as the Bear claimed his flesh and his jaw clenched tightly with the growing rage. An arrow pierced him, he felt nothing. The men from the Empire wore iron skins for protection. Ogrod is sad for them, they had weak Gods.
“No-men, I come!” He heard himself say.
Three little ones lay broken at the bottom. He thinks they are called goblins, the elders refuse to call the invaders anything out of fear of offending the Gods. They came on ships from beyond the sea, they don't belong in their world. The Gods did not name them in the First Tales. No Man will name them after. A big one is calling to him. There is an ugly cleaver in it's hands. A mix of green skins loiter at it's back. He can count six large wolves the size of ponies. He's never seen their like. Ogrod spat, more invaders to desecrate the land of his people.
A spear nearly ended him from behind. Cowards! Ogrod clove the assassin's skull with a hatchet. The Orc attacked while his attention was caught elsewhere. The ranger batted his heavy weapon aside and kicked him in the gut. It is a tough brute. Ogrod found himself dodging a brutal combination of blows from the orc's spiked gauntlets. His blood started to boil beneath his skin. The ranger's mouth opened and the Bear roared, though his own breath stayed in his lungs. It is just as the legends say. Ogrod did not pause to wonder. The field of battle has been consecrated. Honor and Blood, the Gods are watching!
The wind swept plain stretched for miles. His people call it Desolation because it feels lonely in any season. He is relieved to leave it behind. Ogrod pulled the fur hood tightly over his head. It is cold. There are hundreds of names for snow and sleet among his people. The ranger can't think of any right now. His mind has passed beyond words, the wolves are howling. He sighed, unwilling to curse the beasts hunting for his flesh. Nature gives, nature takes. That is the way of the world.
The ranger turned his back on the wolves and started his climb. His spear makes a fine walking stick. The Plain of Desolation stretches out into the sea. At it's end is a great mountain. The elders will not say it's name, probably out of superstition. The men from the Empire came from there to invade his people's lands. The tales say a green valley lies on the other side. Ogrod breathed in the cold briny mist. Wind blown snow is bad enough. There is water on either side of the peninsula. A green valley sounds like a fool's dream.
He looked up into the featureless gray mist. Only twenty paces are visible at any one time. It is an eerie sort of blindness. When he was a boy, the elders used to sing tales about the delvers, the bearded men who lived their entire lives within the mountains. They spring from the very earth, the old women said. Their halls are lined with riches, said the scarred warrior men with their eyes aglitter. Ogrod could care less about those things. The tales told of a great door on the side of a mountain. The men from across the sea would come there to trade with the delvers. Delver steel was worth the trip from the great Empire beyond. Their witches hungered for it. Why would women care for steel?
Ogrod doubled his pace as the howling resumed. The elders never said anything about wolves climbing mountains. They are not goats. There are no antelope for them to eat here. An arrow shattered on the mountain stone beside his head. They've found him. Green skins, no-men, if they can ride a wolf, as the rumors say, then maybe they can get one to climb a mountain. The ranger ducked into a deep cleft and used it as cover while he continued to climb. He was shocked to discover a series of steps cut into the rock. In fair weather, the steps would be covered by shadow. He only found them by accident, Praise the Gods. The elders said the delvers were clever.
When the men from the Empire came, they would climb a path cut into the mountain. The delvers put terrible faces into the stone to ward away evil. Ogrod lay his hand on the leering bearded face. He's found it. The way still exists after so very very long. The ranger gritted his teeth. He can hear the foul language of the green skins echoing up through the cleft. It would not be right to bring his enemies to the delver's door. His people still follow the Laws of Hospitality. A guest should not bring a burden onto his host. Ogrod threw off his heavy fur cloak. He asked for the Bear to quicken his blood, the Raven to witness his death, and the Earth to take his Soul.
A slice of dried mushroom slowly melted beneath his tongue. It's potent effects will allow the Bear to touch his spirit. Ogrod smiled. It is all or nothing now. The enemy must die if he is to make it to that legendary door.
“No-men!” He called down to the green skins. “You face Ogrod Death of Trolls, son of Maruk of the Bear Clan!”
An arrow was his answer. The ranger snarled, two more arrows flew up to him. They must think they are hunting rabbits. Ogrod dodged sideways and kicked at a large chunk of stone he found by the side of the delver path. It rolled downwards picking up speed as the ranger followed. The no-men would have had to climb up single file. They can't avoid the rock. As far as the ranger is concerned, the green skins deserve to die like animals. The little ones don't fight worth a damn, their masters though, are a worthy challenge.
No doubt, the little wolf riders are being pushed forward by one or more of the larger green skins called orcs. Ogrod shuddered as the Bear claimed his flesh and his jaw clenched tightly with the growing rage. An arrow pierced him, he felt nothing. The men from the Empire wore iron skins for protection. Ogrod is sad for them, they had weak Gods.
“No-men, I come!” He heard himself say.
Three little ones lay broken at the bottom. He thinks they are called goblins, the elders refuse to call the invaders anything out of fear of offending the Gods. They came on ships from beyond the sea, they don't belong in their world. The Gods did not name them in the First Tales. No Man will name them after. A big one is calling to him. There is an ugly cleaver in it's hands. A mix of green skins loiter at it's back. He can count six large wolves the size of ponies. He's never seen their like. Ogrod spat, more invaders to desecrate the land of his people.
A spear nearly ended him from behind. Cowards! Ogrod clove the assassin's skull with a hatchet. The Orc attacked while his attention was caught elsewhere. The ranger batted his heavy weapon aside and kicked him in the gut. It is a tough brute. Ogrod found himself dodging a brutal combination of blows from the orc's spiked gauntlets. His blood started to boil beneath his skin. The ranger's mouth opened and the Bear roared, though his own breath stayed in his lungs. It is just as the legends say. Ogrod did not pause to wonder. The field of battle has been consecrated. Honor and Blood, the Gods are watching!
Last edited:
