[centre][h2][colour=peru]The Hogtusk Tribe - Turn 3[/colour][/h2][/centre]

Rog-mohog gave his hut a proud, fatherly pat. Even though he hadn’t built it, his authority had directly caused its inception and creation. He never planted the seed, but this tree stood because of him, and he wondered for a moment why his thoughts had drifted to trees. Trees… Leaves… Branches… Branches are made of wood… Wood is a building material… Ogres use wood to make stuff; ‘stuff’ is part of a category of words that describe unspecified items generalised into a single group… Within this group is [b]furniture[/b]. 

Rog-mohog peeked in through the tent flaps. It was empty, save for a boring mat of goat fur. He hummed. A proper chief needed a fancy chair - one like the Ancestor Spirits described and constantly, smugly teased him for not having. Even now, Rog-mohog could hear the distant snickers of his father Mohog mocking him for not owning a fancy chair.

This would end today.

“MASTA BUILDAS!” he thundered. Nothing happened. He groaned and boomed again, “MASTA BUILDAS!”

A familiar collection of shabby workers wielding rocks for tools slumped up to the chief’s tent. The leader of the workforce, the esteemed Slamjam, snorted out a booger the size of a pebble and grunted. “Wossit, boss?”

Rog-mohog pulled aside the tent flap and pointed inside. “Wot you see in there?”

The master builders crowded the entrance as they looked inside. Polite hums buzzed between them as they tried to think of the answer. “Boss’s sleepin’ furs?”

“Besides that.”

“Oh, uh… Noffin’.”

“Da’s roight, ye gits. Wot kinda chief got noffin’ inside his hut?”

“Well, plenty, actually. Up-slup da Big was known for ‘avin’--”

Rog-mohog sent the protestor flying down the hill. The other builders gulped. “Up-slup was a bloomin’ git! Ancestor spirit says that daily!”

There came nods of agreement. “So, wot you want us buildin’, boss?”

“Build me a fancy chair. A real fancy one - none’a that not-fancy-chair-business.”

The builders huddled together and whispered in the way one does when one wants to be very obvious about laying a plan. After thirty seconds, they broke apart again and Slamjam nodded at the chief. “Roight, boss. We got it. Gunna makes you a fancy chair.”

“Very good,” Rog-mohog praised and waved them off. As the builders slumped back down the hill and collected their companion along the way, the tribe shaman Wololo peeked out from behind the tent with the quickness of pitch. 

“Boss, ‘ave you got a moment?”

Rog-mohog grunted. “Aye, wot you needin’, Wololo?”

“‘S about time to read the five spirits again.”

Rog-mohog groaned. “Wot, again? Didn’t we just do it?”

“Is a yearly fhing, boss. Been ‘xactly one year.”

“Issat so? Well, noffin’ to do but do it, then. Wot we needin’?”

“The usual - a boar bone plate, a dog toof, an owl feavva’, the foot o’va dead ogre ‘n some fresh moss.”

“It gotta be fresh? There isn’t any moss around ‘ere,” Rog-mohog complained.

“Gotta be fresh,” Wololo insisted. “Try checkin’ around Big Rock. Might be a cave or somethin’ with some shade ‘n moss.”

Rog-mohog frowned in a surly manner before eventually nodding. “Roight, got it. It’ll be ready by tomorrow.”

“Readin’ the spirits is important for knowin’ what comes, chief. This’ll be good for us.”

“Mhm.”

[hr]

[i]Somewhere far to the west…[/i]

"So, whoss we gonna do with this'un?" Crunch mumbled out loud as he dangled the gnome by the collar. "Y'fhink it's tasty?"

"Not as tasty as a slice'a bacon roight about now," Snaglag muttered as she picked her teeth with a stray metal pipe. 

"Oi, don'chu like mutton better than pork? Ye call yeself a goatie?"

"Who you callin' a goatie?!" Snaglag spat back and shook her fist menacingly. Crunch frowned curiously back.

"You're not a goatie?"

"'Course I not! I'm a ogre!" She stomped off angrily.

Crunch's mouth flattened out until it had about the same appearance as his bushy unibrow and his eyes shifted back to the gnome in his hands. "We're surrounded by gits, isn't we, lil' gnome?"

"Surrounded by [i]what[/i] now?" the gnome choked out despite his collar being accidentally clenched so tight that he could barely breathe. "I demand that you release me at once!"

Crunch gave him a hard, pensive stare. "You sure talk a bunch fo' such a lil' fhingy. Is you some kind'a dog, per'aps?"

The gnome's face was turning about as red as that funny cap on his head, and not just from embarrassment at the conundrum he found himself in--oxygen deprivation seemed to be an equally important factor. His tiny hand tried in vain to wrap around two of the ogre's fat, sausage-like fingers to pry them off.

Not understanding the very evident biological signals portrayed by the gnome, Crunch gave the futile effort a confused frown. "Oh, lil' gnome, didn' ye parunts ever teach ya that big boys make short work'a small boys, 'n that it don't work the ovva' way?" He suddenly got a thousand yard stare. "Mine did... Mine sure did... That bloomin' git Nathan in the neighbour hut nevah left me alone... Oi, why's you coughin'? Is you sick?"

"Can't...breath!"

"Wot ye mean 'can't brief'? You insultin' my skill at shortenin' stories for the sake of convenience and understandin'?"

The gnome went limp and further responses were not forthcoming.

"Huh. 'S wot I thought." Crunch dropped the gnome to the ground (where it promptly crumpled and stayed) and began poking about in a nearby junkpile. "You don't just say mean fhings like that 'n don't expect anyfhin' to come back at ya. If ye can't accept tha', then I'mma just smoosh ya."

The lack of response from the gnome caused the ogre to look over his shoulder again. "Wot, ye sleepin' now? Oi, don't you ignore me. Wot do you even know about me, huh?"

Nothing, saith the body. Crunch scoffed.

"Bet you was jus' a small humie after all." He plucked a sharp iron rod from the scrap pile. "Oi, Snaglag!"

A moment passed before the ogress peeked over from behind a wrecked balloon frame. "Yeah?"

"'Ave the gits grab as much'a this..." He slammed the iron rod against a nearby rock with enough strength to dent and bent it - however, to his surprise, it didn't break. "... This 'ard sticks as they can."

Snaglag uncovered her ears reluctantly. "Wot was that?"

"'Ave the gits grab sticks like this'un. Owl Spirit's telling ol' Crunchy that this'll be a nice fhingy to shank with." 

Snaglag pursed her lips and furrowed her unibrow. "... Issat so..." She pulled a crooked iron pipe out of the wreckage and pressed it against her palm. It drew a few droplets of blood and she sucked in a pained breath. "Owie! Crunch, I cut myself!"

Crunch frowned back in concern. "You ever wonder if ogres was meant to survive past teenhood?"

"Wossat?"

"Noffin'. Let's get to it."

A moment later, the ogres had grabbed whatever iron splints, rods and pipes they could and hoarded them in sacks fashioned from ripped balloon hides. Gathering up curious stragglers, the ogres eventually began to make their way homewards. However, Crunch was stopped in his tracks by one of his fellow Boar Clan ogres. He drew a long sigh. 

"Wot is it, Digganob?"

"Boss, is just, uh... Didn't that gnome say there was more of 'em about?"

Crunch eyed the gnome carcass in his hand. His intention was to bring it home and give it to his kids, but the thought of bringing back even more tickled his fancy quite seductively. "Aye, he did say that... Oi, Digganob, you got kids?"

"Sure do, boss."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh. Woss their names?"

"Gob, Rob, Nob 'n Elizabeff, 'course."

Crunch nodded. "Wot would you say to bringin' home one'a these for 'em to play with?" He shook the gnome corpse teasingly until it started making broken bone sounds. Digganob clapped excitedly.

"Oh, that'd make 'um really happy, boss! But, where'll I find 'um?"

Crunch sniffed and looked around. "Uh... Try stayin' in the ruins. Take about, uh, half of us 'n just see wot you can find. Just remember not to snack on 'em."

"They any tasty?"

Crunch shrugged. Digganob hummed pensively.

"I will--"

"Don't try it."

"--not eat any."

Crunch nodded again - approvingly, this time. "Good. Bring 'em home - alive, if ye can. Kids love it when their toys move on their own."

Digganob saluted clumsily. "Roight, boss," he said and strolled off, herding together about half of the war party. Crunch, Snaglag and the rest strolled on back towards the camp, happily carrying lots of iron, some balloon hides and one very brutalised gnome.

They walked back through a forest that seemed conspicuously lacking in birds, with the few ones around seeming skittish and shy about singing their songs. Indeed, Glough's war upon them was already starting to have some noticeable effects. The ogres tromped along in a generally westward direction, oblivious to the warning signs and telltale demonstrations of gnomish might. There were no more of the tiny creatures to be seen, even past the wreckage where they'd salvaged the iron rods, and they started to grow bored and disappointed. But then, just as some were beginning to contemplate turning around or having their thoughts stray to dinner, they heard a strange sound--it was some sort of high-pitched wailing, coming from a copse of trees up ahead. Digganob gave the trees a suspicious glare, his lazy eye dangling in his left socket.

"Oi, Brutus, check that out." A massive hunk of ogre lumbered its way past Digganob, an oak sapling in his hand. His torso caused windshear as it swung from side to side with every earth-shaking step. He squinted, and his miniscule eyes tried their best to see past a small forest of eyebrows onto whatever was hiding in the trees.

There was a small splotch of red visible through the leaves, its stark contrast letting it stand out even to the beady eyes of the ogre as he stomped forward.

"WHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!" Treecog shrieked out to the bristly pine in front of him, the only thing that would listen. He was so consumed by grief at his having been exiled a few hours ago that he didn't even notice Brutus until the ogre came close enough for him to smell (which was admittedly still a decent ways away, such was his reek!) at which point he turned about and started. With a yelp, the gnome instinctively ducked around to the other side of the tree to hide.

Brutus' nose was in contrast much more accustomed to the indescribable stench of its owner - learning through abuse was a tried and tested ogre strategy, after all. As such, it effortlessly picked up that something was not quite right - or rather, it was right in the sense that it picked up the scent of the exact creature they were after. The faint cologne of mustache wax was unmistakable, mostly because it was utterly foreign to him, like any other cosmetic or hygienic ointment. With limbs like logs, he reached around the poor pine and mumbled, "Oi, I smell you, y'li'uhl..."

As the great, thundering [i]beast[/i] approached, a thousand things went through Treecog's genius mind. There was the Director's words, the fate he'd been sentenced, [sub]"Enjoy living off the land and among all the nasty wildlife and [i][b]local animals[/b][/i], you sub-gnomish cretin!"[/sub] Indeed, a small part of his mind considered the idea of trying not to resort to flight or flight when confronted by these beasts, but to attempt to set them at ease and live among them, making of his life the new goal of domesticating, training, and ultimately dominating the giants through sheer wits and gnomish ingenuity. These creatures were [i]huge[/i], so it was obvious that they were score quite lowly on the Zekel-Voight-Greasegear; they were probably somewhere between a small dog and a crafty kobold in terms of intelligence...

But they were [i]huge[/i]! And smelly! And scary! Those smaller, woolly creatures that had marched into the Crash Site seemed much likelier candidates for cohabitation, and honestly, he'd already come to the half-baked idea of looping around the Crash Site so as to find those so-called 'dwarves' on their way back to wherever they came from...assuming that Glough and the animal trainers even [i]allowed[/i] those dwarves to leave on their own.

In the end, shot nerves won out over the appeal of surrender, or of a challenge, or whatever [i]madness[/i] whispered for him to do anything save run or hide. The inventor still had a sharp wit about him! He reached up, feeling at the [i]stupid[/i] red hat on his head. He was surprised that they hadn't confiscated that upon revoking his party membership, but then again, that wasn't [i]really[/i] a symbol of authority or belonging. It was just [i]extremely[/i] fashionable. But what had fashion ever done for him? And what had the Red Cap Party done either, for that matter? The hat meant nothing! He tore it off his head and placed it atop a gnarled root sticking out of the ground a few feet away, then scrambled into a nearby pile of pine needles. By the time that Brutus' hands came groping around the other side of the tree, Treecog was already hidden. At least, he hoped so.

Eventually, Brutus' bratwurst fingers felt something soft. With a dumb smile, the fingers clasped around the item - only to find disappointedly that there was no sensation of breaking bones or dying squeals. He pulled the cloth shrapnel to his beaten nose and took a deep wiff, sucking in a number of red scraps. His nose wrinkled as if he was about to sneeze, but he was left grimacing. With a hum that sent tremors through the ground, he turned. This piece of filt had indeed expelled the scent he had picked up before, and no one would willingly tear up such a fancy hat just to run away - of course not. It was a really fancy hat - like, really fancy. He eyed the remains in his hand with pursed, pensive lips. Half of it was salvageable, so he put it on the small vulcano of black hair erupting from his shrunken skull. He didn't have a lake to mirror himself in, but he was certain he looked swell. He spun on his heel, leaving a small crater, and lumbered back to the group.

As he heard the ogre go stomping back the other way, Treecog let out a barely audible sigh of relief. He'd been holding his breath that whole time! But then cold panic crept into his veins--would the beast have heard him?! Hopefully the cracking twigs and pine needles beneath its feet, combined with its laborious breathing, overpowered the sound of his exhalation. The fading sounds of minor earthquakes hinted that the ogre was either too deaf or too simple to have made the connection between a distant gasp and the fact that someone may have been hiding. 

Brutus returned to the other ogres, a grin still about his face on account of the hat. Digganob eyed him curiously. "Oi, Brutus, did you find anyfhin'?"

Brutus put two colossal hands over his head. "... No." Digganob's eyes hardened.

"So there really was noffin', huh?"

"No."

"Noffin' at all."

"Nuh-uh."

"No birds?"

"Nah."

"No pigs?"

"Nope."

"No gnomes."

"Noffin'."

Digganob muttered to himself. Another voice came up behind him. "Oi, wossat you coverin' on your head, Brutus?!"

"Is noffin," Brutus mumbled back.

"You hidin' somefhin'?"

"No."

"Boss, he's hidin' somefhin'," said the ogre and stomped over to remove Brutus' hands from his head. Before anyone could stop him, Brutus had already removed one hand, fastened it around the assailant's neck and tossed him to the ground. Digganob frowned.

"A'roight, Brutus, don't--... Don't kill 'um, roight?"

Brutus let go with a quiet "roight". Digganob put two fists on his hips and looked around. "Well, noffin' here then. Keep going or go home?"

"I'm tired. Wanna rest," came a complaint from the back.

"Me, too!"

Digganob sighed. "Roight, then... Let's rest up 'ere, then. We'll keep lookin' tomorrow."

"Roight!"

Treecog, meanwhile, had been listening in silence. So the monsters were going to stay for the entire night, which meant that [i]he too[/i] would have to stay for the entire night beneath a pile of itchy pine needles, lest he risk getting caught if he tried to break a run for it. The realization was degrading and humiliating, but not so much as what would happen if they found him and tried to use him as some sort of chew toy...

[hider=Actions!]
D) Rog-mohog has the master builders make him a fancy chair because he is boss.
F) Half of the exploring ogres are bringing back iron pipes and leather from the balloon crash site.
X) The ogres are starting to prepare for the yearly Spirit Reading event...
X) The other half of the exploring ogres keeps exploring...
[/hider]