[centre][h2][colour=peru]The Hogtusk Tribe - Turn 0[/colour][/h2][/centre]

“Right, issat how you want it, bruv?” Oogor asked and pointed a fat sausage of a finger at the poor excuse for an attempt at a tipi. Rog-mohog thought to himself that the way the sticks were stacked somewhat reminded him of an unlit bonfire. The pelt lazily wrapped around them appeared as though it was meant to keep the sticks nice and cozy, and the half-attempt at tying anything together with sinew was reminiscent of thread’s natural tendency to knot itself together. 

Rog-mohog dug two log-like fingers deep into his eyes and let out a groan that could’ve been mistaken for a minor quake. In a voice like grinding stone, he muttered, “No, Oogor… Tha’s not how I wanted it. You bloomin’ thick in the noggin or somefin’? I wanted a house - a house - ‘n all you’s given me’s a lump’a sticks wrapped in a bundle. What’m I gonna do withit, huh?”

Oogor hung his head. “Oi, I worked pretty hard on it, y’know.” 

Rog-mohog retracted his leg, skipped once to close in and sent a mighty kick into the stick bundle, sending it straight into the nearby mountain wall and shattering it into splinters. Oogor winced and hunkered down underneath his hands. The chief stomped over and grabbed the shivering male by the messy hair on his scalp. He tugged the whimpering ogre’s face up to his own and gave it a salty scowl. 

“You’s gonna make a bigger, better hut for your boss, or I’m gunna smack you so hard you gonna have a twitch, I swear on me dad.” 

Oogor nodded desperately. “Sure, sure, sure! Got you covered, bruv! You can trust me!”

“I don’t, you bloomin’ git, so you better make it good.” He let go of the hair and Oogor sprinted over to salvage what he could from the wood piles. Rog-mohog growled to himself and stomped off. A moment’s concentration on thinking about what weapon to beat Oogor with eventually brought him to a cliff overlooking the rest of the camp in the making down below. Herds of animals flocked around the outer rim of the settlement, shepherded by furry giants wielding sharpened sticks. More and more ogres managed to erect decent tents in time, and primitive fences made of bone, grass and wood were slowly being erected around designated animal pens.

“Oi, big boss.”

The voice broke Rog-mohog out of his contemplation and he turned. It was Wololo, the tribe shaman, his crooked stature seemingly caving underneath a huge boar pelt over his shoulders and head. He supported himself on a staff made from the trunk of a sapling oak. Rog-mohog bobbed his head at him. “Wha’chu want, sham?”

“Is almost time for prayin’, boss,” Wololo responded in his feint shadow of a voice. Rog-mohog nodded again and got to his feet with a strained sigh.

“Oight. I’m gunna find a right fine hog. We’re giving to the Boar Spirit today, right?”
Wololo nodded. “‘S right, boss. Boar Spirit needs a toppa’ if he’s gunna keep our pigs fat ‘n cows milky.”

“‘S natural,” Rog-mohog reasoned and descended the mountain. With difficulty, the old, crepid shaman snailed down after him.

The camp seemed to part before the chieftain, many ogres either slinking away sheepishly or standing up to nod or grunt a greeting. Therefore, the stroll to the outer edge of the camp took merely a few minutes. There were three great clans he had to govern - his own, the Pig Clan, the Ox Clan and the Goat Clan. In the Pig Clan, Rog-Mohog did not have the biggest herd - not by a long shot. That honour belonged to his cousin, Crunch the Lad. To say the least, Crunch and Rog-mohog did not get along very well, not even as subject and leader. Since it was prayer day, though, he could not avoid interacting with Crunch to ask him for a donation. Of all the things in this world Rog-mohog did not like, interacting with Crunch was fairly high on the list.

The furry visage of Crunch came into view among the shepherds. The ogre stared Rog-mohog down and the chieftain stared back, sparks igniting between them and scaring the pigs. Crunch stabbed the butt of his stick into the grassy ground and grunted in tow with a few curious pigs. 

“Oi, wha’chu think you’re doin’ here, HUUHN?!” Crunch bellowed at the chieftain. Rog-mohog eyed Crunch up and down, then judged the boars trundling around their legs. 

“Here to snatch a pig for prayer day.”

Crunch gurgled up a ball of phlegm and spat it at the ground. Sadly, it hit one of his boars and it looked at him, betrayed. The shepherd left the stick standing in the ground and shoved the chieftain aggressively. “Oh no, you’s not! Snatch one of your own, you git! These’re my pigs, got that understood in that thick noggin, huh?!”

Rog-mohog staggered backwards, then snarled and curled up his fists. “Boar Spirit gunna be bloomin’ mad at you if you don’t gimme a pig right this moment.”

“Then he can be mad for all I care. Sod off!”

Rog-mohog roared and sent a stone-like fist straight into Crunch’s jaw. The shepherd had barely any time to react and fell straight to the ground, knocked out cold. The onlookers blinked at the chieftain shaking his aching fist. The boars around them ran in every direction, squealing. Thinking fast, Rog-mohog sprinted for the nearest one and caught it in a hold. He picked it up by one of its hind legs and hauled it over his back. It squealed and kicked, but this was necessary for the good of the tribe.

He turned at eyed the still-unconscious Crunch. A smile spread across the chieftain’s mouth. Boy, did he love being the boss.