Radush Eye-Drinker tended to sit during a battle. Unusual for an Orc Warlord, he set his one baleful eye over the formations and watches the enemy as they moved. Occasionally, he had the young orcs in training, as 'pages' such as the concept existed among orcs, as the next generation of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi’s recruits, signal with flags or torches to this or that company commander. He had warg-mounted members of the Chosen, veterans, in reserve to stiffen the fight if necessary, and to take advantage of the breaches. These were some of the oldest, most savage and scarred Tuskers in the company, along with the notably and unusually skilled. They were part of his bag of tricks. So were the catapults, the sappers, the campers in their train, highly organized and able to defend themselves to some extent. Not all were there -- some of the most valuable were stiffening the lines, others were hunting the enemy's most potent weapons. But many were here, waiting to be unleashed.
Massive and savagely regal, he sat with his axe across his lap and watched the battle, occasionally indicating changes in orders. He even had a bench for the purpose. His reputation as a warlord secure with his Tuskers, he could do that. The tuskersknew Radush as their prophet, their burning bush. The bunnies didn’t know, however, because few bunnies have ever survived a fight against the old Eye-Drinker.
But there were concerns. The mud was churning and making it difficult for the Tuskers. Not stopping them, but slowing the advance, making it hard to move the units. The conditions were hindering the fight; were it not for the mud already...
"So, heiress Aedyt," the old warlord spoke conversationally, accented Trade Chant, "you speak of triple the price, but Lord Arad's price was not in gold. What then, would you say to that? And perhaps you are a bunny that keeps her word, but any contract we ink will be a pact before the gods. You have until the witch comes back to negotiate, then we shall see if you will swear the oaths she would weave," he said this with a feral grin, as if to imply there was more to it than simply signing paper, "this time, Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi makes an inviolate oath on power, not some flimsy promise on paper."
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(Collab
@Hank @vietmyke @Aristo @Lurking Krog)
Dakgu was not a talker, not with other Tuskers at least. But his connection with the wargs went beyond speaking their language. He had some sort of connection to them that was downright spooky. He much preferred their company. Literally raised in with a litter of wargs by his mother and with her wargess counterpart, he was instructed in their ways that tribal orcs didn’t always get. After all, the lot of wargs and tuskers alike there was rougher -- the wargs were more likely to eat a tusker, and the tusker was more likely to mishandle the warg.
That didn’t fly in the company when a tusker named ‘Elf-Scalper’ with a reputation for cold viciousness was the the company’s Warg-Keeper.
And so he slunk out in the dark forest, soft soil underfoot, with a large pack and a few tuskers. The bunnies had sentries out -- he could see them quite well in the dark, and had an arrow nocked, but was looking back to the others to see if they were on board with that particular plan. He used hand-sign to flash the count of foes, even as the wargs reported by scent even as he scanned visually.
Gormac prowled nearby on foot, his Warg mount following him in a low stance just behind him. 10 meters to Dakgu’s left and a few meters behind, his razor sharp eyes scanning the bunnies that bumbled around the woods ahead of them. Like his fellow scout, Gormac already had an arrow nocked in his bow. With Dakgu only in peripherals, Gormac kept tabs on all the bunnies with a sort of primal awareness.
The sentries clomped around the forest with a poor attempt at stealth- the clink of chainmail and steel weapons rang obviously against the backdrop of the forest. The scouts wore a mixture of leather and chainmail, with only a few wearing breastplates, typically over some sort of surcoat or tunic. Many were armed with spears and crossbows, with a collection of shortswords and axes as sidearms.
Gormac growled softly to himself, slowing his breathing as he prepared to fire.
In the midst of the scouts and their wargs was a tall, dark shape that moved with preternatural grace, every inch of every movement intentional and controlled. Moordekrai, blood-witch, the Wailing Doom, a legend in the southern human kingdoms, felt the bloodthirst rise within her as they approached the human sentinels under the cover of darkness. Her burning, furious hatred of bunnies was renowned even among the ranks of Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi and inflamed even further by the disgusting betrayal Lord Arad was attempting to enact on them. Blood already trickled down her bare arms as she had sliced into her skin with her daggers and hoarsely whispered the Words in a language darker and older than any other in this world and gained the Sight in return. The innate power of the souls of the bunnies was visible to her now, even through the woods, and she could spy the brightness of their own magicians up ahead, hiding away in the midst of the bunny army.
“Cowards,” she whispered, and the very air around her seemed to ululate with the threat of violence. She saw Dagku’s hand-signals and raised a clenched fist --
affirmative -- in return, then pressed one of her daggers against the skin of her thigh. She was ready.
Omaz crawled among the wargs with his kin, an ensemble of predators that didn’t quite fit in with the typical pike square that was the company’s forte. Rather, these tuskers were the mavericks, unconventional in method and in spirit. No orcish war dirge would announce their slaughter. Only cold silence and the flash of metal. This was especially true of the White Snake, whose penchant for surreptitiousness had earned him half the moniker. The other half was his jade-white skin, which was now coated with mud to keep it from catching the moonlight.
The ground was mucky and stuck to Omaz’s hands and feet as he crept. Probably the bunnies’ doing - it would be hard for the company proper to fight on such muddy ground. It was hardly an obstacle to this splinter group, however. The wargs moved as one with the pitch of night. Omaz had learned to emulate them, but even he was as ungainly as a fawn when compared to the Elf-Scalper. As far as he was concerned, Dakgu was a warg in an orc’s body. Gormac came close; he’d always had a similar animalistic cast to him. Tracking came easily to the tusker and his knack for stealth rivaled Omaz’s.
However, neither came close to the reputation Moordekai demanded. The Wailing Doom, as she was called, was the company’s greatest secret weapon. The things she was capable of, the terror she could sow - it was the stuff of bunny nightmares. If you were a tusker, however, or maybe if you were simply Omaz, it was the greatest show on earth. Even he was sure he’d never seen all she had to offer, but the feats that he’d witnessed both excited and terrified him. Even now, he maintained a respectable distance from the witch, but admired her pre-battle rituals in the corner of his eye.
Dakgu relayed the bunny count with a signal and Omaz tensed, fingers curling around the bundle of javelins in his grip. He hefted one in his dominant hand, elbow bent, ready to launch.
The plan was simple; cut a hole in the bunnies, get the Wailing Doom in there and keep them off her back while she did whatever she had in mind for the mages. Moordekai was the company’s totem even as the banner was their standard, and it was their job to just go along and do whatever they could to swat lesser things off her back while she neutralized the enemy’s most potent weapons.
And so in letting Omaz decide who was his mark, the wargs would take others nearby and it fell to the Bloodhound and the Elf-Scalper to pick off the distant threats with bows. The first strike was important in hunting.
All in silence. Dakgu was rubbed down in mud and slime, but he came up from his crouch and drew back that bow of his, with the fletching near his cheek, and regulated his breathing. The arrow flew and found itself into the lung of a human. And then the rest of the fight went off, with growling wags leaping in to take down bunnies...and lightning and fire streaking at them from the clearing even as the sonorous chanting of the humans continued. He could feel himself flinch from the heat of a fireball and the wounding of a warg, but that made him hate even more, even as he released another arrow…
A guardsman stumbled to the ground, eyes agape at the javelin tip that stuck out from his chest. He let out a ragged moan before his vision faded, and Omaz cackled silently a few yards away. He readied another throw, watching a second human fall prey to Dakgu’s accuracy. The wargs were already upon them, lunging at throats and tasting blood. Flares of sorcery lit up the night as panicked mages hurled their spells at the phantom enemy.
Omaz suddenly threw himself to the ground as a purple bolt singed the air where he’d been standing. He grimaced, picking himself up and dashing closer to the fighting.
Whatever Moordekai plans to do, she’d better do it fast! He loosed another javelin at a guard, but the angle was poor and it careened off his armor in the scuffle. Too close now for a good toss, Omaz drew his falcata and began hacking with the wargs.
There were no battle cries, no savage screams for blood- at least not in their unit. As Dakgu began loosing arrows into the bunnies, so did Gormac. Sight, Breath in, draw release, breath out, nock. With deadly efficiency. The only sounds that echoed from the forest was the crumple of muffled steel on brush and the snapping of wood as men gurgled and fell to the ground. Even the wargs were surprisingly quiet- Gormac had to give it to Dakgu, the warg master had trained them well.
The bunnies began shouting indiscriminately as they tried to react to the sudden attack, but in the dark it was difficult for them to see. Gormac saw flames and bolts of magic began to fly, and quickly ducked behind a tree whenever they let loose- not to protect himself, even in the dark their mages were too blind and preoccupied with the faster, more vicious wargs than to notice him- but to protect his darkvision from the bright light.
Gormac saw a bunny draw a crossbow, a white ringed arrow pierced through his armor and pinned him to a tree. Gormac saw a bunny lose moral and begin fleeing, another white ringed arrow sent him careening into another soldier, toppling the two. The bunnies were treacherous little cretins, and Gormac didn’t intend on letting them off the hook that easily.
Nac’mrah was not used to needing to be sneaky and the muddy ground made it harder for him. He was more accustomed to standing in a pike square forming a spear wall. This fight however he was to help keep the bunny knights off the Wailing Doom while she dealt with their mages. He was now two meters to Moordekai’s left and a meter ahead hiding behind a thick old tree.
When the arrows started flying, the bunny foot soldiers panicking, and bunny mages flinging fire and lightning in random directions Nac’mrah smiled to himself. He turn slightly watching for bunnies that charge forward recklessly.
One in plate and mail started to pass by the tree where Nac’mrah. The bunny was pulled back and off his feet by the halberd in Nac’mrah’s hand falling back first into the mud. As quick as he had hooked the man, he brought the axe up then back down where the shoulder joint was on the bunny knight's right arm cleaving it off. The scream from the injured man echoed through the forest. Nac’mrah quickly silenced him with an axe to the throat before fleeing to avoid fireballs being flung at him.
It was down to the Witch now.
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