[ENWWC] ENWorld Writer's Circle Story Hour!
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fett527
First Post
“You must be there by midnight,” the hushsed voice whispered.
“I know what I need to do,” Grel snapped back. The hooded figure stepped back, a hand darted underneath a cloak.
Grel shook his head and clasped his hands in the rebel’s sign. “Please, I am sorry to be on edge. I risk much of myself.” Grel’s thoughts drifted again to how much the hand symbol resembled Grommsh’s, his own deity, greeting.
“The risk is understood and appreciated,” the hand eased, but stayed concealed within the cloak as the unnamed messenger faded back into the shadows.
Grel felt the bite of the cold and began to pick his way back to the camp. He had been with the gods-forsaken army since the beginning of its arduous march East. The journey had been quite uneventful to the orcish acolyte. His shaman teacher was a harsh taskmaster and did not allow his student much free time. It was only by luck that the old bastard had found an orc bitch crazy enough to bed him and allow Grel to sneak out from under his all-knowing gaze. Grel certainly considered the repulsive G’rodush insane enough to make love to his master, but the thought of them together…Grel shook the image from his mind again and tried to focus on his steps.
The smallish orc had never understood the conquering ways of his people and he longed to be free from their constant savagery. Grel kept his true feelings hidden deep and had at least manipulated himself into being apprenticed to the shaman, Reklamash, so he would not have to engage in battle. His master, the almighty, powerful Reklamash, though always reminded him that he was a pitiful, wretched life form. A meaningless student barely worth more than the spittle Reklamash spewed forth during his daily beratings. Grel never forgot how useless he was as Reklamash never let him forget it. The acolyte, however, was more intelligent than his master and he knew it. His master would pay for the humiliation he constantly endured at his filthy hands.
The army had occupied Lankhor now for only a couple of weeks, but it was enough time for Grel to befriend some of the human students at the university and to quickly be taken into their confidence. These rebels had recognized his obvious intelligence and given him not only the opportunity to be free from his vulgar existence but also the chance to exact revenge on his master. All he had to do was prick the High Orc, Kelgreshpah, with the poisonous dart and with his death the occupying force would be thrown into chaos. This would be an easy task since Reklamash was personal advisor to the High One and Grel, being his apprentice, is required to aid his all-seeing master in all things (except, thank Grommsh, with G’rodush). Blood feuds would erupt as the clans would each scramble for the mantle of leadership and the power that accompanied it. At that point the rebel mages would strike, taking advantage of the confusion and disorder. Before he made his way to the rendevous, Grel would sate his hunger for vengeance by quietly slicing open his master’s throat during the turmoil.
Again, Grel made a concerted effort to keep his mind on his footsteps as he trudged through the snow-packed streets. “I must get back without incident,” he thought to himself. “Nothing will hinder my path, now.” As this thought crossed his mind, Grel caught the flash of something in the torchlight fall and roll from one of the human corpses being tossed into one of a myriad of pyres. He stomped on it just before it was to fall into the sewers and scooped it out of the muck. Rubbing it clean he saw a dragon’s maw staring at him from the face of a gold coin. As he rotated it he noticed markings in the ancient orc tongue on the opposite side. Grel couldn’t read it of course, something else Reklamash admonished him for-not studying the old ways. Pocketing the coin, the young acolyte returned to his focus and pushed on toward the camp and his master’s tent.
“Where you be, slime?” Reklamash exclaimed as he grabbed Grel by the topknot and threw him to the dirt floor.
Grel rocked to his knees quickly and groveled as he replied, “Only fetching you water, oh great and wise master.”
“You know we see Kelgreshpah, yes?” the shaman spat.
“Yes, wise and all-powerful one,” the apprentice whimpered.
“Go, now wretch,” Reklamash ordered.
Grel grabbed his master’s bag of bones as he knew he must and followed. Reklamash always looked for omens in the presence of the High One and the young apprentice felt the scars on his back as he thought of the last time he made the mistake of forgetting the sack. As he thought of the lashings, he began to shake with anticipation of his revenge. Soon. He would loose himself from his shackles this night.
The stench of the High Orc’s tent grabbed at the acolyte well before they were inside. Kelgreshpah reveled in the fact that he did not bathe and it took all of Grel’s willpower to keep from revealing his disgust every time he entered the powerful orc warrior’s tent. The High Orc was physically impressive, but to Grel everything about him was repulsive. From the garish hole in his cheek to the spiked boots he never seemed to remove. The orc leader showed none of his possessions respect save for the waraxe, Headtaker, and his armor which both laid next to his throne.
“What omens show tonight shaman?” rumbled the High Orc.
“Patience,” Reklamash retorted. “Bones, wretch,” the spellweaver waved at Grel to put the bags on the table next to the imposing orc leader.
As he placed the bags on the table, Grel discreetly removed the deadly dart form the folds of his robe. He palmed the tiny, but deadly weapon carefully and backed away from the table, bowing. The young orc knew once the shaman splayed the bones across the slab they would forget he existed.
The bones clinked and clattered as Reklamash scattered them about and Kelgreshpah looked on intently. Slowly, Grel slid his dagger from its sheath and stealthily made his way behind the bulk of the High Orc and the scrawny figure of his master. Summoning the courage from deep within the acolyte plunged the dart in to the back of the orc warrior and lunged at his all-powerful master releasing all of his pent up rage. As the dagger sliced into the wretch’s throat Grel almost exclaimed aloud as the ecstasy of his release was overwhelming. Overcome by the years of torture and humiliation he could not stop himself. He lashed out time and again in a mad frenzy with the black-bladed dagger. Finally, he was broken from his revelry as he realized his hands were getting cold instead of warm with his master’s blood. Horror and dread crept across his being as realization dawned. Reklamash had turned into a wet pile of snow and was melting before him.
The cackle from behind the pile of rotting garbage invoked a vomiting spell from the young acolyte. The shaman’s gleaming visage shambled from behind the refuse and smiled at Grel.
“You thought you smart, yes?”
“Because you talk good, you think you smart, you think humans better than orcs,” Reklamash screeched.
Grel thought quickly and began to intone the spell of darkness. He grabbed quickly into his pocket for an item to cast the enchantment on to. He released the magic and tossed the item out to make his escape.
Nothing.
“Wretch think Grommsh will help him? Think Grommsh will let him use his power against his children?” Reklamash’s grating laughter increased with volume as a large figure rose from behind Grel.
As Grel felt the huge hands close around his head the maw of the golden dragon seemed to mock him from the dirt floor. "At least the shackles will be gone," was his last thought as Kelgreshpah twisted his powerful arms.
“I know what I need to do,” Grel snapped back. The hooded figure stepped back, a hand darted underneath a cloak.
Grel shook his head and clasped his hands in the rebel’s sign. “Please, I am sorry to be on edge. I risk much of myself.” Grel’s thoughts drifted again to how much the hand symbol resembled Grommsh’s, his own deity, greeting.
“The risk is understood and appreciated,” the hand eased, but stayed concealed within the cloak as the unnamed messenger faded back into the shadows.
Grel felt the bite of the cold and began to pick his way back to the camp. He had been with the gods-forsaken army since the beginning of its arduous march East. The journey had been quite uneventful to the orcish acolyte. His shaman teacher was a harsh taskmaster and did not allow his student much free time. It was only by luck that the old bastard had found an orc bitch crazy enough to bed him and allow Grel to sneak out from under his all-knowing gaze. Grel certainly considered the repulsive G’rodush insane enough to make love to his master, but the thought of them together…Grel shook the image from his mind again and tried to focus on his steps.
The smallish orc had never understood the conquering ways of his people and he longed to be free from their constant savagery. Grel kept his true feelings hidden deep and had at least manipulated himself into being apprenticed to the shaman, Reklamash, so he would not have to engage in battle. His master, the almighty, powerful Reklamash, though always reminded him that he was a pitiful, wretched life form. A meaningless student barely worth more than the spittle Reklamash spewed forth during his daily beratings. Grel never forgot how useless he was as Reklamash never let him forget it. The acolyte, however, was more intelligent than his master and he knew it. His master would pay for the humiliation he constantly endured at his filthy hands.
The army had occupied Lankhor now for only a couple of weeks, but it was enough time for Grel to befriend some of the human students at the university and to quickly be taken into their confidence. These rebels had recognized his obvious intelligence and given him not only the opportunity to be free from his vulgar existence but also the chance to exact revenge on his master. All he had to do was prick the High Orc, Kelgreshpah, with the poisonous dart and with his death the occupying force would be thrown into chaos. This would be an easy task since Reklamash was personal advisor to the High One and Grel, being his apprentice, is required to aid his all-seeing master in all things (except, thank Grommsh, with G’rodush). Blood feuds would erupt as the clans would each scramble for the mantle of leadership and the power that accompanied it. At that point the rebel mages would strike, taking advantage of the confusion and disorder. Before he made his way to the rendevous, Grel would sate his hunger for vengeance by quietly slicing open his master’s throat during the turmoil.
Again, Grel made a concerted effort to keep his mind on his footsteps as he trudged through the snow-packed streets. “I must get back without incident,” he thought to himself. “Nothing will hinder my path, now.” As this thought crossed his mind, Grel caught the flash of something in the torchlight fall and roll from one of the human corpses being tossed into one of a myriad of pyres. He stomped on it just before it was to fall into the sewers and scooped it out of the muck. Rubbing it clean he saw a dragon’s maw staring at him from the face of a gold coin. As he rotated it he noticed markings in the ancient orc tongue on the opposite side. Grel couldn’t read it of course, something else Reklamash admonished him for-not studying the old ways. Pocketing the coin, the young acolyte returned to his focus and pushed on toward the camp and his master’s tent.
“Where you be, slime?” Reklamash exclaimed as he grabbed Grel by the topknot and threw him to the dirt floor.
Grel rocked to his knees quickly and groveled as he replied, “Only fetching you water, oh great and wise master.”
“You know we see Kelgreshpah, yes?” the shaman spat.
“Yes, wise and all-powerful one,” the apprentice whimpered.
“Go, now wretch,” Reklamash ordered.
Grel grabbed his master’s bag of bones as he knew he must and followed. Reklamash always looked for omens in the presence of the High One and the young apprentice felt the scars on his back as he thought of the last time he made the mistake of forgetting the sack. As he thought of the lashings, he began to shake with anticipation of his revenge. Soon. He would loose himself from his shackles this night.
The stench of the High Orc’s tent grabbed at the acolyte well before they were inside. Kelgreshpah reveled in the fact that he did not bathe and it took all of Grel’s willpower to keep from revealing his disgust every time he entered the powerful orc warrior’s tent. The High Orc was physically impressive, but to Grel everything about him was repulsive. From the garish hole in his cheek to the spiked boots he never seemed to remove. The orc leader showed none of his possessions respect save for the waraxe, Headtaker, and his armor which both laid next to his throne.
“What omens show tonight shaman?” rumbled the High Orc.
“Patience,” Reklamash retorted. “Bones, wretch,” the spellweaver waved at Grel to put the bags on the table next to the imposing orc leader.
As he placed the bags on the table, Grel discreetly removed the deadly dart form the folds of his robe. He palmed the tiny, but deadly weapon carefully and backed away from the table, bowing. The young orc knew once the shaman splayed the bones across the slab they would forget he existed.
The bones clinked and clattered as Reklamash scattered them about and Kelgreshpah looked on intently. Slowly, Grel slid his dagger from its sheath and stealthily made his way behind the bulk of the High Orc and the scrawny figure of his master. Summoning the courage from deep within the acolyte plunged the dart in to the back of the orc warrior and lunged at his all-powerful master releasing all of his pent up rage. As the dagger sliced into the wretch’s throat Grel almost exclaimed aloud as the ecstasy of his release was overwhelming. Overcome by the years of torture and humiliation he could not stop himself. He lashed out time and again in a mad frenzy with the black-bladed dagger. Finally, he was broken from his revelry as he realized his hands were getting cold instead of warm with his master’s blood. Horror and dread crept across his being as realization dawned. Reklamash had turned into a wet pile of snow and was melting before him.
The cackle from behind the pile of rotting garbage invoked a vomiting spell from the young acolyte. The shaman’s gleaming visage shambled from behind the refuse and smiled at Grel.
“You thought you smart, yes?”
“Because you talk good, you think you smart, you think humans better than orcs,” Reklamash screeched.
Grel thought quickly and began to intone the spell of darkness. He grabbed quickly into his pocket for an item to cast the enchantment on to. He released the magic and tossed the item out to make his escape.
Nothing.
“Wretch think Grommsh will help him? Think Grommsh will let him use his power against his children?” Reklamash’s grating laughter increased with volume as a large figure rose from behind Grel.
As Grel felt the huge hands close around his head the maw of the golden dragon seemed to mock him from the dirt floor. "At least the shackles will be gone," was his last thought as Kelgreshpah twisted his powerful arms.
Last edited:
Shadowdancer
First Post
About time for another chapter.
Daniel Knight
First Post
Well this was a waste of time then, wasn't it. 
NoOneofConsequence
First Post
Daniel Knight said:Well this was a waste of time then, wasn't it.
Actually, it had a longer life than I expected. I've been pleased. The last time I was involved in this sort of thing it was on a fanfic board where people submitted daily and that one petered out in about six weeks.
Maybe it would work better if there was a closer level of collaboration. Who knows?
Let's try again with a different concept maybe?
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