Vibro repairman
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2003
- Posts
- 281
In a wide, hacked clearing near the mouth of the valley of Elariél, where not half a moon ago stood many a majestic towering tree, lays a mass of huddled, hide-covered tents, surrounded by a tall stockade. At the centre, a tall standard flutters in the wind: the banner of the Black Fangs, a pair of black sharp-toothed jaws on a bright red background.
In several deep pits in the camp, each covered with a crude but secure lattices of hewn oak, elm, and ash limbs, lay the prisoners of the orc clans latest bloody victories. So confined, they await their fates with dread, their destinations still yet to be determined - maybe to a gladitorial pit where they will be forced to fight one another... maybe sent out of the valley in chains as so many processions have been before to be sold in distant slave markets or to work in the dismal dark orc mines in the distant mountains... or perhaps to the tent of an orc warlord to amuse their captors in other ways.
So far, the elven people of the valley have been unable to resist the advance of the Black Fangs through their territory, the barbaric, militant orcs having carved a bloody swathe through the wooded valley the elves have called home since time memorial. From an eagles view, the path of destruction the orcs have wrought is clear - for burnt and blackened trees, and oft still-smouldering ruins of once proud elven homes, mark it well.
It is here that the War-Chief, Grorak Blackfang, resides over a ‘court’ of his most able warlords and shrewdest shamen, upon a throne of smelted elven gold, covered with fine furs and pelts. On a number of sharpened poles about his great tent are the skulls, not just elven, but human, dwarvish, and even orcish, each with garishly painted runes upon their bleached bone pates, champions and heroes and would-be contendors for his position who have met Grorak in combat and payed the harsh consequences.
Chests are already filled to overflowing, as ages-old elven artifacts smelted down without care of their intrinsic beauty and masterful workmanship into base ingots of gold and silver, crudely stamped with the mark of Grosak, a double-bladed axe strung with wolves teeth, and leather pouches bulging with delicately-cut many-faceted gems, fine furs and fabrics, elven tapestries and polished statuettes carved of wood, from the plunder Grorak's warriors have taken from the valley.
Blades of enchanted elven steel, once wielded by some of the valleys greatest elven warriors, now hang from orcish belts, the once-shining blades now tainted with the blood of the people who had forged them.
Previously proud elven noble women and elven maidens alike, find that the fine necklaces which once adorned their slender throats, now exchanged for crude collars of thick black iron, as they are reduced to the level of mere chattel, forced to serve their orcish captors.
The great orc horde has paused in its advance once more, to celebrate its latest victory. The elves further back in the valley, where orc feet have yet to tred, wait fearfully, knowing it will not be long before the Black Fangs rampage presses on. Elven warriors regroup in ever-diminshing numbers, the once proud voices of their champions growing tired and weary, as they try to stem the orcs relentless advance...
Grorak surveyed the scene before him, as he pulled his axe-blade free of the still-twitching corpse of an elven warrior, the enchanted great axe he wielded having cleaved through the fine elven-wrought chain his last opponent had worn with ease.
The War-Chief of the Black Fangs was an imposing sight, garbed in his armour of blackened steel, its angular jagged edges giving it a cruel and foreboding look, yet it had obviously been fashioned with great artifice, the tightly interlocking plates slipping easily over one another as he moved with uncanny speed for an orc of his great size. The helm he wore was fashioned in the visage of a cruel-lipped, narrow-eyed daemonic face, behind which his red eyes currently burned with the fury of combat.
The last few of the elven warriors, the dragonguards - amongst the shrinking army of Elariél's finest trained and most experienced warriors - were fighting desperately to keep the orcs back from a temple dedicated to the goddess Adriella, the elven peoples patron goddess of beauty, love, passion and romance. The panicked priestesses and last springs initiates into the temple sisterhood waited uneasily within the elegant building of white marble and carefully-nutured bowers the outcome of the battle that raged outside, an outcome which now seemed to weight most heavily in the orcs favour. The cries of quickly growing fear from the elven maids within the temple were drowned out by the warcries of the orc warriors as they pressed their attacks once more against the last line of elven troops.
The elves fought with valiant, grim determination against the mass of orcs which pressed upon them, yet, one by one, they each fell to crudely-fletched black-feathered orc arrows, or beneath the swing of an orcish blade already stained thick with elf-blood. The grounds about the temple, once carefully-tended grass and flowerbeds, had been churned to mud with the blood of the fallen and the uncaring, trampling feet of the orc warhost.
With a loud bellow, Grorak pushed back into the fray, swinging his axe with barbaric ferocity, carving through the fine-wrought shield of an elven warrior who sought to parry the blow. The axestrike forced the luckless elf to his knees, who unsuccessfully strove to contain the yell of pain which boiled up in his throat. A second almost leisurely swing of the great axe, and Grorak silenced the elf , the warriors dragon-winged helmet clattering onto the temple once pristine-white marble steps - the dragonguards head still inside the ornate winged helm, his now lifeless face contorted with the agony of his death.
Grorak kicked the body over, and struck at another elf with the backhand swing of his axe before the last luckless headless armoured corpse clattered against the stone temple steps. His next victim was caught in the back with the sharp point that jutted out on the other side of the axes haft to the heavy axe blade, which shattered the dragonguards spine and sent him sprawling forward with a cry into the pressing mass of the attacking orcs. Blades swiftly rained down about the elf to be raised fresh with elven blood.
As the last few dragonguard were being overwhelmed, and dragged into the massed orc ranks to meet their demise, their final defiant shouts swiftly ended, Grorak reached a black gauntletted hand down. Picking up the severed elven dragonguards head - helm and all - he thrust it aloft, bright red elven blood trickling down his arm.
"Kasrag!" he cried aloud, victory in the guttural tongue of his people. Orc fists and weapons alike struck skyward as the Warhost gathered around him answered his cry. Not one single elven warrior now drew breath to hear that near-deafening roar.
Grorak turned, and climbed the steps into the temple, before throwing the head towards the feet of one of the priestesses, splattering the gold-trimmed hem of her white gown with elven blood as the head fell free of the helmet, the winged helm clattering against the tiled floor. She shrieked and pressed her back to the pillar behind her, her eyes drawn to the lifeless stare of the dead dragonguards own.
Laying his large gauntleted hands upon the pommel of his great axe, Grorak gave a throaty growl, returning the trembling priestesses attention to him. In fluent elvish, to the surprise of the elven priestesses, Grorak exclaimed "Your place lies not now with the temple serving your goddess - who has abandoned your cause - but now lies at the feet of orcs, serving them."
The startled priestess opened her mouth to reply, staring at Grorak, but any words she sought to utter had been stolen from her in her state of abject horror. She slid down the white marble pillar wound with ivy at her back, glistening tears streaming as she wept heavily, burrowing her face in her shaking hands. The others likewise wailed, trying to shrink back from the orcs as they encroached into the hallowed grounds of the temple, but they had nowhere left to run or hide from the invaders.
Striding over to the prominent temples altar, bedecked with carefully arranged floral decorations and intricately carved offerings, Grorak raised his axe back high. "Vaknos Drognar ka Kasrag!" he cried out, his voice ringing clear over the now quietening din of the ended battle - Praise Urgesh for Victory! - Urgesh, the orcish God of battle, wealth and virility. To the elves, Urgesh was a demon of slaughter, rapine and plunder.
The axe was then brought down with a contemptuous bellow rumbling from its wielder, the blade biting deep into the stone, splitting the intricately carved altar - which had been carefully maintained for over a twelve hundred years by the temples sisterhood - cleanly in two, scattering delicate flowerheads and wooden trinkets alike.
With this desecration, came the shouted chants of the gathered throng of Orcs in answer. "Kasrag za Urgesh! Kasrag za Grorak!" - Victory to Urgesh! Victory to Grorak!
To the acute ears of the elven priestesses and initiates, the shouts which rose to an almighty crescendo were enough to bring several to a faint, in mounting fear of what was to become of them.
In several deep pits in the camp, each covered with a crude but secure lattices of hewn oak, elm, and ash limbs, lay the prisoners of the orc clans latest bloody victories. So confined, they await their fates with dread, their destinations still yet to be determined - maybe to a gladitorial pit where they will be forced to fight one another... maybe sent out of the valley in chains as so many processions have been before to be sold in distant slave markets or to work in the dismal dark orc mines in the distant mountains... or perhaps to the tent of an orc warlord to amuse their captors in other ways.
So far, the elven people of the valley have been unable to resist the advance of the Black Fangs through their territory, the barbaric, militant orcs having carved a bloody swathe through the wooded valley the elves have called home since time memorial. From an eagles view, the path of destruction the orcs have wrought is clear - for burnt and blackened trees, and oft still-smouldering ruins of once proud elven homes, mark it well.
It is here that the War-Chief, Grorak Blackfang, resides over a ‘court’ of his most able warlords and shrewdest shamen, upon a throne of smelted elven gold, covered with fine furs and pelts. On a number of sharpened poles about his great tent are the skulls, not just elven, but human, dwarvish, and even orcish, each with garishly painted runes upon their bleached bone pates, champions and heroes and would-be contendors for his position who have met Grorak in combat and payed the harsh consequences.
Chests are already filled to overflowing, as ages-old elven artifacts smelted down without care of their intrinsic beauty and masterful workmanship into base ingots of gold and silver, crudely stamped with the mark of Grosak, a double-bladed axe strung with wolves teeth, and leather pouches bulging with delicately-cut many-faceted gems, fine furs and fabrics, elven tapestries and polished statuettes carved of wood, from the plunder Grorak's warriors have taken from the valley.
Blades of enchanted elven steel, once wielded by some of the valleys greatest elven warriors, now hang from orcish belts, the once-shining blades now tainted with the blood of the people who had forged them.
Previously proud elven noble women and elven maidens alike, find that the fine necklaces which once adorned their slender throats, now exchanged for crude collars of thick black iron, as they are reduced to the level of mere chattel, forced to serve their orcish captors.
The great orc horde has paused in its advance once more, to celebrate its latest victory. The elves further back in the valley, where orc feet have yet to tred, wait fearfully, knowing it will not be long before the Black Fangs rampage presses on. Elven warriors regroup in ever-diminshing numbers, the once proud voices of their champions growing tired and weary, as they try to stem the orcs relentless advance...
Grorak surveyed the scene before him, as he pulled his axe-blade free of the still-twitching corpse of an elven warrior, the enchanted great axe he wielded having cleaved through the fine elven-wrought chain his last opponent had worn with ease.
The War-Chief of the Black Fangs was an imposing sight, garbed in his armour of blackened steel, its angular jagged edges giving it a cruel and foreboding look, yet it had obviously been fashioned with great artifice, the tightly interlocking plates slipping easily over one another as he moved with uncanny speed for an orc of his great size. The helm he wore was fashioned in the visage of a cruel-lipped, narrow-eyed daemonic face, behind which his red eyes currently burned with the fury of combat.
The last few of the elven warriors, the dragonguards - amongst the shrinking army of Elariél's finest trained and most experienced warriors - were fighting desperately to keep the orcs back from a temple dedicated to the goddess Adriella, the elven peoples patron goddess of beauty, love, passion and romance. The panicked priestesses and last springs initiates into the temple sisterhood waited uneasily within the elegant building of white marble and carefully-nutured bowers the outcome of the battle that raged outside, an outcome which now seemed to weight most heavily in the orcs favour. The cries of quickly growing fear from the elven maids within the temple were drowned out by the warcries of the orc warriors as they pressed their attacks once more against the last line of elven troops.
The elves fought with valiant, grim determination against the mass of orcs which pressed upon them, yet, one by one, they each fell to crudely-fletched black-feathered orc arrows, or beneath the swing of an orcish blade already stained thick with elf-blood. The grounds about the temple, once carefully-tended grass and flowerbeds, had been churned to mud with the blood of the fallen and the uncaring, trampling feet of the orc warhost.
With a loud bellow, Grorak pushed back into the fray, swinging his axe with barbaric ferocity, carving through the fine-wrought shield of an elven warrior who sought to parry the blow. The axestrike forced the luckless elf to his knees, who unsuccessfully strove to contain the yell of pain which boiled up in his throat. A second almost leisurely swing of the great axe, and Grorak silenced the elf , the warriors dragon-winged helmet clattering onto the temple once pristine-white marble steps - the dragonguards head still inside the ornate winged helm, his now lifeless face contorted with the agony of his death.
Grorak kicked the body over, and struck at another elf with the backhand swing of his axe before the last luckless headless armoured corpse clattered against the stone temple steps. His next victim was caught in the back with the sharp point that jutted out on the other side of the axes haft to the heavy axe blade, which shattered the dragonguards spine and sent him sprawling forward with a cry into the pressing mass of the attacking orcs. Blades swiftly rained down about the elf to be raised fresh with elven blood.
As the last few dragonguard were being overwhelmed, and dragged into the massed orc ranks to meet their demise, their final defiant shouts swiftly ended, Grorak reached a black gauntletted hand down. Picking up the severed elven dragonguards head - helm and all - he thrust it aloft, bright red elven blood trickling down his arm.
"Kasrag!" he cried aloud, victory in the guttural tongue of his people. Orc fists and weapons alike struck skyward as the Warhost gathered around him answered his cry. Not one single elven warrior now drew breath to hear that near-deafening roar.
Grorak turned, and climbed the steps into the temple, before throwing the head towards the feet of one of the priestesses, splattering the gold-trimmed hem of her white gown with elven blood as the head fell free of the helmet, the winged helm clattering against the tiled floor. She shrieked and pressed her back to the pillar behind her, her eyes drawn to the lifeless stare of the dead dragonguards own.
Laying his large gauntleted hands upon the pommel of his great axe, Grorak gave a throaty growl, returning the trembling priestesses attention to him. In fluent elvish, to the surprise of the elven priestesses, Grorak exclaimed "Your place lies not now with the temple serving your goddess - who has abandoned your cause - but now lies at the feet of orcs, serving them."
The startled priestess opened her mouth to reply, staring at Grorak, but any words she sought to utter had been stolen from her in her state of abject horror. She slid down the white marble pillar wound with ivy at her back, glistening tears streaming as she wept heavily, burrowing her face in her shaking hands. The others likewise wailed, trying to shrink back from the orcs as they encroached into the hallowed grounds of the temple, but they had nowhere left to run or hide from the invaders.
Striding over to the prominent temples altar, bedecked with carefully arranged floral decorations and intricately carved offerings, Grorak raised his axe back high. "Vaknos Drognar ka Kasrag!" he cried out, his voice ringing clear over the now quietening din of the ended battle - Praise Urgesh for Victory! - Urgesh, the orcish God of battle, wealth and virility. To the elves, Urgesh was a demon of slaughter, rapine and plunder.
The axe was then brought down with a contemptuous bellow rumbling from its wielder, the blade biting deep into the stone, splitting the intricately carved altar - which had been carefully maintained for over a twelve hundred years by the temples sisterhood - cleanly in two, scattering delicate flowerheads and wooden trinkets alike.
With this desecration, came the shouted chants of the gathered throng of Orcs in answer. "Kasrag za Urgesh! Kasrag za Grorak!" - Victory to Urgesh! Victory to Grorak!
To the acute ears of the elven priestesses and initiates, the shouts which rose to an almighty crescendo were enough to bring several to a faint, in mounting fear of what was to become of them.
