Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.
Rocket your D&D 5E and Level Up: Advanced 5E games into space! Alpha Star Magazine Is Launching... Right Now!

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="Goonalan" data-source="post: 4133642" data-attributes="member: 16069">Castle Whiterock- The Backstory.Turn 2.Grungarak’s story.It’s a cold morning.Frost on the grass, a low mist hugs the ground, rolls forward to surround the bed roll, two paces away a fire smoulders, the remains of a rough camp illuminated in dawns first light.The bed roll stirs.PARP.And farts.More movement.Eventually the creature emerges, grinning, taking in lungfuls of the crisp morning air, it exhales smoky white clouds, snorts and stretches, huge fangs clacking together in its oversized jaw.It’s an Orc.Nearly- the ears are strange, human like, not the large flapping angular ears of an Orc, clearly the creature is of mixed heritage.A Half-Orc, the bastard breed- outcasts by birth, wastrels and bandits by trade, doomed to short violent lives.The Half-Orc grins again.PARPFarts some more and settles to stoking the fire, dry wood is added, then moss for kindling, sparks fly and very soon the fire burns brightly.Less than five minutes later the low mist is being chased away by the smell and smoke of burning sausages.Burning because the Half-Orc is no longer in sight, somewhere not to far away a horse whinnies.The flop of feet landing on the hard packed dirt, the rider has dismounted.A man enters the clearing, a tall man, armed and armoured, cloaked against the cold- he’s very big, and very tall, a huge man in fact.The man looks around, expert eyes take in his surroundings, the rough camp, the abandoned bed roll, and finally the burning sausages- instincts take over, he’s lightning fast.At the fire in an instant, rescuing the cindered sausages, he juggles the burnt bangers in his hands- blowing hard trying to cool them down.“Put the sausages down.” The voice is half growl, half whisper- and all menace.The hulk of a man turns slowly; he’s facing the Half-Orc, who has a bow in hand, arrow notched, ready to fly, and pointing right at him, the space between his shoulder blades itches.The huge man drops the sausages.FWUNGAn arrow flies.Lances into one of the tumbling bangers and thuds into a tree about thirty feet beyond, the sausage still impaled upon it.“I meant back in the pan.” The Half-Orc growls again, genuinely unhappy.“They were burning.”“Then take the pan off the fire.”“Oh.”The big man shrugs.“Can I…”“No.” The Half-Orc is quick to counter.Silence stretches, the Half-Orc has another arrow notched ready to fly, the huge man doesn’t remember seeing him do that.“Where are they?” The Half-Orc growls.“Cillamar- Whiterock, the castle, somewhere… They went into the depths, they’ve been there… years.” The huge man gulps.The Half-Orc walks, scratch that, strides forward- towards the huge man who tenses- ready to shift his weight, draw his blade, it doesn’t happen- nothing happens the Half-Orc walks straight past him, following the line of his arrow.Up close the huge man can see, and feel, just how big the Half-Orc is, a head bigger than he is- nearly seven feet tall but whip thin, the Half-Orc’s face a patchwork of scars.It doesn’t even acknowledge him, he turns to stare, the Half-Orc’s back is all he can see- now’s the time he thinks, his palms feel greasy, and then just as swiftly he decides that now is not the time- the Half-Orc’s a coiled spring, he can tell. The creature’s not in the least bit frightened of him, which is nearly all of the huge man’s advantage gone.The Half-Orc reaches his errant sausage, shoulders his bow, retrieves his spent arrow and claims his breakfast, munches, then turns back to the huge man.“You can go now.” The Half-Orc growls and licks a finger clean.“My money…” The huge man holds the thought, forget the pay, chalk it up to experience, he saunters off, nearly tripping- trying to get away and yet affect nonchalance, in truth his cover is blown, and he knows it.“Your fee is on your horse, saddlebag, right-side.” The Half-Orc nods.“But how did you…”The Half-Orc’s stare cuts right through him, head down he breaks into a trot- and is quickly gone from sight.Soon after sounds come back of a horse departing at speed.Grungarak, the Half-Orc, kicks around in the ashes of the fire, spots something, bends low and scrabbles, comes up with the dropped, now almost charcoal, sausage.He sniffs it warily, blows ash and cinders from the offending banger.“Whiterock then.” He whispers.And bites.CRUNCH“Me fecking toof.”Grungarak holds his jaw tight shut, hops a little from foot-to-foot, and eventually flings the offending sausage into the undergrowth.The sun rises, crests a nearby hill and pours over the scene, the Half-Orc attempts feebly to shield his eyes as he continues to caper and dance.A sudden flash of gold winks and signals, a locket on a chain around the Half-Orc’s neck, it twists and dances in the air as Grungarak continues to pogo and not-so-silently curse.“’kin toof ya buggeroid.”</blockquote>

Verification