[b]Vanguar[/b] [hider=Nation Status]Current Leader/Government: High Chief Skar Bloodwroth Settlements Owned: 4 Provinces Owned: 1 Population: 100 000 Standing Army: - /<1, 000 Orcs>// - /<3, 000 Orcs>//<100%> Population Happiness: 50% Imports: Exports: Iron, Spice Wealth: Poor Alliances: None Trade Pacts: None Cease Fires: None [/hider] [hider=map][img]http://i.imgur.com/YxSY5Mm.png[/img][/hider] [center][b]The High Seat of Grimmhold[/b][/center] The large double doors to the throne room within the spire of Grimmhold stood ominous before Stryke. The doors were wrought with wood from some far away place, inlaid with beams of black iron. The runes of the old empire were scorched out of the wood, giving the appearance of scars that ran along the surface of the door. With a mighty groan from some unknown mechanism, they creaked open as he approached, Haskeer at his side. The throne room was a magnificent sight, one that still held the awe from what he remembered when he was last here, years ago. Smooth black stone floored the great wide chamber. Pillars of ivory towered overhead to lift the arching ceiling, drawing the eye down to the far side of the room, to a high chair of wood and great ivory tusks jutting out of the chair back overhead. Nailed into the wall, overlooking the chair, was a row of human skulls, the ones that once thought themselves lords of the Orcs. Stryke slowly walked into the chamber. Haskeer lingered by the door, struck dumb by the awesomeness of the room. Tattered blood dyed banners hung motionless in the still chamber, stitched leather maps of the world hung also, and human arms and armour, small and flimsy, a reminder of their ruined enemy. Stryke stopped just in front of the chair, placing a firm hand on the smooth wooden armrest. The humans decreed that he who sits the Grimmhold chair, rules the land of Vanguar. A foolish notion, for it was a mere chair. It should be hacked to bits, thrown into fire and turned to ash. Stryke told his father as much. Though Skar would never admit it, he had a certain admiration for the humans, the way they fought, built and ruled. He actually believed the words they spoke, that if Skar could just maintain this seat, Vanguar would indeed remain his. Perhaps there was some truth to it, after all, he has managed to force the Clans into submission since taking the chair. One glaring truth however casts doubt on such prophetic words. A human sat here to the very end, when his father drove a cleaver through his body, splitting him in half, and the seat did nothing. “Welcome back to Grimmhold, Bloodwroth,” said a spidery voice, tinged with malice. Recognition came swiftly to Stryke’s ears, he growled toward the source. From a hidden alcove behind the throne came an old Orc of pale green skin, his lower tusks chipped and broken, a roughspun cloak of wool draped over his frail frame. Stryke seized the Orc rougly, pulling him mere inches from his face. “You have quite the stones to remain here, old one, knowing I was coming!” The old Orc laughed, unfazed by the grip of Stryke. “And where would you have me go, Stryke? Follow your father to war? Bah! These old bones will not bear another war. Back to Wycke where they would have me quartered for treason? Hardly a welcome I would pursue!” Stryke snarled. “And what do you think I will do to you, hmm? What say the whispers in your skull to that, old one?” “Typical of you, Stryke, thinking with your fists, rather than your dim wits. How would it look to your father, should you murder the High Mouth?” “Murder?!” Stryke scoffed, his hold on the Orc persisting. “Who said anything about murder? Perhaps I wish to cast you beneath the spire, to live out your short days in a cell.” “I wonder how your father would take that news?” “Father goes to war in Amplesh, too far away to help you, old one.” “You think me fearful? You failed to carry out your threats before, Stryke. So do it, or leave me be!” With a growl, Stryke released the Orc. “Know that you are bound to my father, should he die in the north, you will share his fate, Calypso.” Calypso grunted. “I am not long for this world. Death does not scare me.” Stryke snarled. Calypso was a Mouth, an order of Orcs that cozied up to the humans, learning their fallen tongues, how to read and write, and for hundreds of years they aided in the oppression of their brethren. It is true that some defected, promised sanctuary by Skar and given a place as advisors in Grimmhold, but that didn’t mean that Stryke had to like it, nor hesitate to imprison or kill should they look at him funny. Calypso straightened his cloak, motion toward the throne. “Before your father left, he decreed you to be named General of Vanguar, to rule the realm in his stead, while he brings death to our enemies. That seat is yours, Stryke, until the return of your father, Gods willing.” Stryke slumped his shoulders, looking harshly at the throne as if it wounded him. “General of Vanguar… my brother’s title.” “Your brother is dead.” “I know!” Stryke snapped. “Have you word from my father?” “Last we heard, High Chief Skar was camped at Veneholm, assembling his army.” “Veneholm? I take it the Mordun whelps bitch at his presence.” Calypso nodded. “Indeed. They have little choice to play host, after all, should Skar fail in Amplesh, the coastal Orcs will fall on Mordun next.” “Unless they side with Amplesh before such would befall them, and I would not put it past the Mordun swine!” “That is a possibility,” agreed the Mouth. “In which case it will fall on us to act. Our charge is keeping the Clans united, revolt here will only weaken your father’s campaign.” “I need to assemble a band.” “I agree. Any thoughts on who shall sit among them?” “Haskeer, my second, and one I trust. I will have need of his voice.” Calypso looked doubtfully at Haskeer, who still lingered by the door. “You will need more than a mere slave-driver to advise you on matters of the clans, General.” Stryke snarled. “Aye. I will suffer you among the band, old one, but do not dare cross me!” “I wouldn’t dare. Who else?” “Send word to Chief Harrow of Mordun, praise his strength and leadership, and inform him that we shall give him a seat among the band.” Calypso eyed Stryke with keen eyes. “He will never leave Mordun to come here.” “No he won’t, but nor will he pass up a chance to have eyes and ears in Grimmhold. He will send a son.” “You invite a spy to this chamber?” “I will have Mordun’s allegiance, taking no chance to have discontent at my father’s rear flank!” Calypso nodded slowly in understanding. “You are seeking a hostage.” “Aye! Now go, carry out my will!” Calypso bowed and turned to leave. Stryke called out after him. “Tell me, old one, they call you Mouths because you spoke the fallen commands of the humans, speaking their words to keep us bound. Why then do you remain as Mouths, whose words do you speak now?” The old Orc turned, smacking his lips before he spoke. “I speak the will of my High Chief, and his general, of course.” Stryke nodded, seemingly satisfied. Calypso bowed once again and left.