Well, well, well. I remember you Grundle, and I certainly remember this.
Interest? Peaked.
Computer? On.
Potatoes? Baked.
Interest? Peaked.
Computer? On.
Potatoes? Baked.
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The Tired One
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Dreams
Early Spring of the year 315 P.F.
Language.
Batuul had not realized how much division simple linguistics would cause to her people, how much language seemed to be a unifying force. She never had to deal with it causing division to her as most orcs knew how to speak the common tongue, at least in some capacity, but now it seemed that it was completely foreign to them. Her own words were understood in perfect clarity by them, and such was the same that her ears understood every little word uttered by the lesser orcs, such was the nature of black speech and being a scion of Chernobog. Yet for the life of her, she could not understand how to solve the issue, especially when she already understood the two as clear as water.
Luckily, Bula and Bolag’s spat had devolved into snarling and grunting, with lots of aggressive body language involved, things Batuul could understand how to solve. After hearing the two try to assert either one as the more dominant over the other, Batuul stepped between them and silently looked between the two of them with a face of anger and rage. The two backed down once more as the matron made her presence known, a simple grunt coming from her as she stabbed her spear into the ground. Batuul brought her arms up, gesturing for either of them to challenge her, wordlessly making them aware that she was not afraid to bring them down if she had to.
“I do not care where an orc is from,” Batuul growled, looming over Bolag for a brief moment before turning to Bula and continuing, “And I certainly don’t care about your bickering.”
She let out a huff as she looked to the sky, noticing that it had grown darker and the sun was close to setting on the hilly countryside of Calesbail. While Batuul was certainly not truly tired, her divine connection to Chernobog made sure she could go a long while without sleep, she was never able to get good sleep while imprisoned by the White One. Looking back at Bula, she stepped to the side and said, “I want you to learn his southern speech, I don’t want to teach Black Speech to a bunch of pissants right now.”
As Batuul turned to walk towards a small tree, Bula stepped forward and said “My matron, this bea-”
Batuul let out a roar as she turned on her heel, silencing the lesser matron into submission and shooting a look of impatience to Bolag and the other warlocks. With that issue dealt with, the massive form of the orc sat under the tree and folded her arms across her chest as she looked over the small warband. They were looking back at her, not that she cared. She let out a sigh and leaned her head back against the wood of the tree, and watched the sky slowly turn black and fill with the light of the stars. Never had she thought that she was going to miss the darkness of the night, remembering the blinding white lands that she had been trapped in. It had been brighter than anything that she had seen, it had been so bright that it went through her eyelids whenever she tried to rest. At least now, in the comforts of the mortal plane once more, she would be able to find that little bit of rest.
Her eyes grew heavier as she began to relax until eventually the darkness enveloped her, the feeling of sleep finally taking her after all the centuries.
At first, there was nothing.
Then, the shadow of sleep parted and Batuul found herself in the midst of a vision.
She stood at the base of a tremendous mound, mountainous in proportion - a heap of broken and torn human bodies. Women, children, the eldery, fools and kings had all been piled here indiscriminately and visited upon by ruination itself. Their blood ran like mountain streams, forming great rivers that wound into the indiscernible distance, their tails meeting the horizon and staining the whole of the world a crimson pitch.
Atop the mound was a pyroclastic plume. Human screams of untold anguish intertwined with howling maelstrom winds. Burning embers, sooty ash, and the scent of brimstone saturated the air like snowfall, fluttering all about Batuul and the heap of charnel. All this destruction and death, it brought joy to her heart as the dream of fulfilling the ambitions of Chernobog filled her every emotion. With her wicked spear in hand and her hands feeling the blood of an untold many upon her, she let out a hearty laugh, her own voice joining the chorus of screams that surrounded her. It was the same feelings she had before she had been imprisoned by the White God, before the humans could muster any defense against her rage and brutality.
Even as she reveled in the cacophony of human suffering intermingled with fiery consumption, the pyroclastic winds seemed to shift and swirl. Atop the mound of bodies, the incandescent flume seemed to part - and rising from the peak of the throne of death, guttering forth like shadowed clouds from the mouth of an eruption, came a jagged and ineffably darkened form. It rose and stretched itself up and outwards, arms that were pitch-hued ravines torn in the sky unfurling almost like wings. Great ribbons of dribbling blood-red magma seeped from that monolithic darkness’ bowels and ribs, a dusken and ruddy light boiling over uncounted multitudes of human faces that dissolved and intermingled into a mosaic of misshapen, pain-wracked expression. Silhouetted vapors of their screaming countenances rose like specters, spiraling about the towering immensity that continued to billow forth from the peak of the mountain of death.
A great brow rose at the peak of that unequaled abyss in the sky. An inky tree of cruel brambles and crags shot out from it, a crown of stygian veins taking root in the heavens - and as the pale and guttering light of the whirling tapestry of human suffering veiled that dark form, two great eyes, cavernous, immense and agleam with otherworldly balefire, opened. As the light of those malignant spheres was cast downward, the whole of the world beneath Batuul’s feet quaked and trembled.
The Matriach shifted her footing as her perch grew unstable moment by moment, thrusting her spear into the mound of bodies to stabilize herself as she watched the dark form. After a moment, Batuul bowed to the dark figure, recognizing it as her dark master who had no doubt come to shame her for being captured by his greatest enemy. She wanted to explain herself, wanted to apologize for the time she had wasted within her prison, wanting nothing more than to keep his favor as his warlord. Yet, words escaped her mind, unable to find any coherent speech that would make up for her failure against his true enemy.
Chernobog, the Black God, loomed over the whole of Batuul’s world, wrathful and omnipotent. A crevice tore across his face, a furnace leading straight to a pitiless inferno sending howling winds to careen about the mound - torn and dismembered human limbs pinwheeling across the sky like gnats. His breath was the putrescence of empires, and his voice was the shuddering collapse of bastion walls.
His maw unhinged to reveal a thousand blackened teeth and yet no tongue, and of course there were no words that tumbled forth. The Chernobog’s voice was ever a wordless song; the Black God issued his commandments and his desires through other means: burning agony, leaping flames, and visions in the smoke were only a few of his ways. Dusky fumes and foul vapors spilled from the Chernobog and writhed their way through Batuul’s nostrils, reeking of death -- not the glorious metallic odor of blood, the putrid stench of carrion, or any of the other innumerable scents of battle -- this sort of death smelled of a dusty tomb that had been left dark and untouched for a thousand years.
Thump.
A pulse tore through the air and Batuul’s feeble form...
Thud! THUMP!
The Chernobog’s monstrous heartbeat attuned to a rhythm that boiled the blood and evoked rage, for he was most displeased. Louder and more powerful than any bronze gong or warhorn, the beats shook the whole of the world and throbbed deafeningly inside of the scion’s head as she prostrated before her sire.
THUMP!
TOO
THUMP!
LONG!
The pulsing rhythm and the meaning that it carried tore through Batuul, unable to think as her own nerves began to get to her and her heart beat faster and faster. She gulped in fear as her grip tightened around her spear, taking a deep breath to slow her nerves, pushing through the stench of a thousand years of old carrion that almost brought tears to her eyes. Finally, she looked up to the dark god, still prostrating before Chernobog, kneeling amidst broken limbs and twisted corpses as she attempted to calm herself, curdled blood pooling around her hands and knees.
“I am sorry, Lord. The White God’s chains were too hard for me to break,” she said in a fear ridden voice.
The slow pounding attuned itself to a beat that bespoke of ire. It grew faster, frenzied, stronger. The Black God’s titanic form wavered in the molten heat of an untold million bodies burning at his feet, but the piercing, unblinking intensity of his eyes scythed through the haze to bore unerring into Batuul’s prone figure. There was no respite to be had from his withering glare, and through the drumming heartbeat it was as though he struck his worthless daughter across the face, over and over, mercilessly and relentlessly. Each throb was like the battering blow of a mace, sending a shivering hot scream of pain through her skull. She could hardly stand it, wanting to crumple to the ground and try to concentrate on something other than the waves of pain.
Yet, she knew she had to show to her master that she was still strong, able to continue to lead the Fell despite her defeat. Batuul spoke through her pain, her words coming out forcefully as each word was a labor in itself, “I know I have failed, Lord! Allow me to make up for the failure and lead the armies of the Fell against the manlings once more! You know that I have not failed you against your enemy’s worshippers, that is why they had to have their god imprison me personally, Lord!”
The rapid heartbeats abruptly ceased -- both those that came from within the Chernobog’s towering bulk, and those within Batuul’s own breast. Her blood that had been stirred and brought to a boil by her sire now was cold sludge in her veins, and all her strength fled from her as the thundering influence of the Black God cracked across her spine. She could sense the Black God’s answer to her.
NEVER
Lacking the strength to stand, Batuul collapsed.
FAIL
Her breathing ceased. Her vision blurred, and the world darkened.
AGAIN!
Struggling to even move, Batuul managed to look up - and bore witness to the immensity of her lord’s arm raised high in the burning sky, wreathed in flames, its talons leaving whirlwinds in their wake as they clove through the air. With all the impending exigency of a collapsing tower, the Black God’s arm fell to smite Batuul from his sight.
The matron suddenly sat up from her dream, panting and sweating out of the fear that she had felt from seeing her dark master once more. She held up her hands only to see that they were shaking, another reminder of how small and weak she felt in his imposing presence, knowing she was nothing compared to his power. Batuul looked around, only to see that Bolag and Bula were gone with only the other warlocks and their retinue resting under the night sky. With a huff, she leaned back against the tree she rested under and merely watched her kin rest, no longer feeling the need or desire to rest. Her eyes drifted over to the night sky before figuring that she should do something rather than sitting there idly, Chernobog would disapprove of such action.
Batuul rose from her rest, snatching her spear from the ground before she moved some matted hair out of her face. She took in step to try and find her two favorites of the party, Bolag and Bula.
The Cheiftan
Part One
Early Spring of the year 315 P.F.
Two days had passed since Batuul had been brought back to the mortal plane and in two days had she not felt the fury of battle nor had she tasted the blood of her enemies. The small party of warlocks and their retinues, numbering only thirteen, had insisted that they make haste to Arugoth without drawing the ire of the manlings. The scion had listened to them, though showing clear disdain for the idea of moving quietly through the countryside, much preferring to resume her campaign in Calesbail and slaughtering the likes of man. Yet, she found it odd that Chernobog had not yet given her a boon, a reward from breaking free from her prison. Perhaps he was waiting to see if she would survive returning to the home of the orcs before rewarding her for her loyal service, even after defeat.
Whatever the case, Batuul walked along the rocky outcrop that was the home to the Cales, occasionally kicking a rock or looking around for any hunting party that would attempt to ride them down. It seemed that, much like in her prison, boredom would be one of her primary enemies as the warlocks did not attempt to make conversation with their lady and their retinue was too afraid to say anything to her. It was not the orc's way to be this silent, she remembered a loud and boisterous people that would let out howls and warcries in enemy countryside all day long, but these old wretches had clearly spent too long studying history to be of any use to her.
“How much longer do we have, old fools?” Batuul asked in a grunt, raising her spear to rest behind her head as she looked to the head of the party.
“Another two day’s travel, if we walk through night, a week at our pace,” the warlock answered, not looking back at his patron as he stepped over a rock, “We make camp soon, rest for the next day.”
A grimace came across Batuul’s face before she pushed her way past the other warlocks, angrily walking ahead of the group before one of the warlocks ran after her. It was the youngest warlock, Bolag, who stepped in front of the scion and for a moment she stopped to look over the one who got in her way. It took a certain level of courage or stupidity to stand in front of her when she did this and not many would, even when she knew warlocks with more spine than this lot. She rested her spear at her side, looking over Bolag.
“My matron! Unlike you, these souls cannot fight off a manling party even if we wanted to. They need rest for their decaying bones, you are a vessel of the Dark Lord and are above such base needs. Understand that we came at great risk and we cannot risk losing you again,” Bolag stated in an eloquent, for an orc, fashion that seemed to confuse Batuul more than anything.
The Matron of the Orcs took a moment to process the words of Bolag before snorting and saying, “You do not speak like an orc should.” She suddenly brought her spear down to thrust at Bolag, the young one flinching out of fear though not quite meeting an end quite yet. The great spear of Batuul stopped a mere hair’s length away from Bolag’s body, another moment and he would have been skewered. However, Batuul’s point had been made, displeasure showing on her face as her massive hand grabbed the apprentice by the scruff of his neck and threw to the ground in front of the others. Then, she beat her fist against her chest, stating, “You are all weak! You are not orcs! My soldiers would have burned all the manling homes we came across! I cannot believe I was brought back by such spineless cowards!”
The warlocks collectively looked down, ashamed of themselves as Batuul berated them for their weakness and lack of bloodlust. Bolag could only look up at her as she did so, looking to her eyes and seeing that she only felt anger and rage at them for their transgressions against all of orc kind, before an insult about how their mothers should all have killed them as babes if they knew that they’d be as weak as they were. When one attempted to say something, she let out a roar that sent the warlock cowering back down into his place before Bolag began to return to his feet, his own anger rising for being lumped with the old ones.
“Enough!” Bolag bellowed, slamming his wooden staff into the ground, dark magics pulsing through it before it exploded and sent splinters flying outwards. He remained unaware of the magics that had ruined his staff, as he shouted back at Batuul, “We warlocks may be weaker than you, but we know the ancient ways! We are the last bearers of the dark magic of the fell and we are stronger than you think!”
Batuul was silenced for a moment, taken back by the youngster’s sudden aggression, staring down Bolag as he defiantly stared back at her. It seemed that the young orcs still knew how to act properly, how to show some meaningful amount of strength even if this one had done it through magical means. The other warlocks stared at him for his display, though it was clear that they were more shocked for his magical affinity than anything else, Batuul could tell this much. She stepped forward and took a deep breath of air, the scent of the young one’s strength hitting her nose before she reached a hand out, clasping the sides of his face and looking him over, inspecting him.
“Hmm.” Batuul stated, before pushing the warlock back, turning away, “Too scrawny to breed.”
The warlocks and their retinue stared speechlessly at the scion as she began to walk away, ordering, “I will scout ahead, set up camp for the night.”
After stalking away, Batuul took the time to think about her position, to think about how she might introduce herself back into Chernobog’s court. It was clear that she would take the responsibility for saying that she had broken out herself, she had just needed to gather enough strength to overcome the Exalted One’s chains. For that idea though, she’d need to make sure there were no opposing stories, she’d need to silence the warlocks. Batuul knew she’d have to kill them regardless, however, she thought about the scrawny one, Bolag, and saw his latent power that almost bubbled to the surface. Bolag might yet live, however, the others had grown too old to be of use to her.
Her other thoughts were far more primal and less brutal in nature, a focus on reinstating herself as the Matron of the Orcs and to bring forth a more loyal and unquestioning force, one that knew less fear than the retinue of the warlocks. There was once a time where her armies were entirely composed of her sons and daughters, a time where there was no question as to who their leader was and what she wanted. Batuul knew orcs who showed no fear, orcs who knew no retreat. Seeing where they were now made her far more angered than it likely should have, after all, they were still her distant kin. Yet, she knew she’d have to reinforce the old ways and bring back the armies that she was used to leading, but for that she’d need to find someone strong.
The sound of hooves brought her out of her thoughts, her hands bringing up her spear before she heard yelling and hollering, then an orcish roar. Batuul rushed to the crest of a hill and as she gazed into the small dip below, she could see an orc being circled by the men of Calesbail. Without thought, her spear was thrown into a horse, impaling into the ground as the rider struggled to free himself. The two others brought the horses around before shouting to each other, turning and fleeing away away from the sight of her. Batuul, content to investigate the unknown orc, allowed the horsemen to flee and as she stepped down the hill to retrieve her spear, the orc threw herself onto the downed manling, sinking her teeth into his neck and devouring him alive as if she were some starving animal.
Cocking an eyebrow, the matron approached the feasting orc, settling a foot onto the now dead horse and pulling her spear out of its carcass, only then did the orc look up to her with a look of rage and a desire for carnage. Batuul looked over the female for a moment before asking, “Who are you?”
The orc remained silent for a moment before wiping the human blood from her mouth with her wrist, answering, “Chieftess Bula of the Devil Reaver clan… You speak well for a troll.”
Batuul let out a hardy laugh, finding it funny that the chieftess knew not who she spoke too, “I am no troll! I am Batuul!”
Bula took a moment before her eyes widened in realization, scrambling to bow to the Matron of the Orcs, making her obedience to the scion known. Her body was deteriorated, her muscles slightly atrophied and her skin riddled with scars that were partly infected, but even still she let herself bow to Batuul. She did not know what to say, only knowing that she was in the presence of a divine being.
“M-my matron! How may this chieftess bring honor to your name?” Bula asked, still shocked that Batuul stood over her.
“First, explain to me why a chieftess is without her closest champions,” Batuul ordered, wiping the blood on her spear against the horse carcass.
“We were captured when we tried to raid the manlings, matron. Many of us were killed, those of us who survived were thrown into the pits to fight for survival. I escaped, but my lot are still in the pits, I’d say fifteen of us were still alive the last I counted,” Bula answered, looking down, albeit hungrily at the human carcass. She pushed her matted hair back, running her unkempt digits through it to try and separate the knots. The chieftess had obviously been reduced to being nothing more than an animal for the past time, which was not odd for an orc but it was still proof that the humans and orcs were still actively fighting each other at all meetings.
Batuul pondered for a moment before ordering , “Show me this town… after you eat, of course. Hardly got any meat on you. Though, I think you should eat at my camp.”
The two matriarchs walked away from the site of the skirmish, though Bula was hesitant to leave her snack due to her ever aching hunger. Though, Batuul managed to convince her by asserting her dominance over the much smaller one. Nonetheless, the two walked over the rocky ground, carefully retracing their way to the camp as to not bring about anymore interest upon themselves. Their route, while short, was tiring to the malnourished one who was gasping after a short walk and needed to stop to rest. It was clear that she was weak after her imprisonment by the humans, which was why Batuul was not pushing her immediately.
When they reached the camp, the warlocks and their retinue were eating some small game that they had managed to grab, not much to be much of an adequate meal. Though, when they turned to see Batuul, they went to greet her but stopped when they saw Bula. One of the retinue immediately drew his sword and took a step towards the matriarchs before a mere growl from Batuul made him fearfully step back into place.
“That is no way to welcome a matriarch,” Batuul said with a scowl before sitting down, resting her spear in her lap.
“They know no respect,” Bula said in agreeance with the Batuul, the warlocks turning their heads to one another before Bolag stepped forwards.
“You bring a Devil Reaver here? They abandoned your ways after you were defeated!” Bolag exclaimed, looking at Bula who only looked to Batuul in a confused manner. Batuul returned the confused look to the other matriarch before motioning for her to respond to Bolag.
“I don’t know what he’s saying. I don’t understand South Speech,” Bula responded, looking up at Bolag before giving a snarl.
Batuul looked between the two, her mind sitting upon the fact that these two orcs could not understand each other despite being of the same race. A moment of tense silence passed as the Unifier tried to think about what to do in the situation as she knew a simple display of power would put them back into their places but that would not solve the immediate issue. Even she, an orc who knew only violence and slaughter, could see that the issue of linguistics would hamper her ability to lead them as there would be no cohesion. In the end, it was all the same as she rose from her place on the ground and as her shadow grew to look over the lesser orcs. Bula and Bolag looked up at her, bringing themselves low to her out of submission, along with the rest of the party.
The Unifier would not tolerate this kind of infighting within her ranks.
Batuul Comes to Calesbail
Early Spring of the year 315 P.F.
The night was dark, the sky blocked by a thick curtain of storm that came down upon the highlands of Calesbail, no light except for the occasional flash of lightning. Valleys and peaks seemed black and the patrols of those men who inhabited the highlands would not be able to see even twenty paces past the light of their torch, assuming the rain and wind did not put it out. Even the animals, huddled in their herds, were flocked to the safety of a barn or some common area within a village so as to not be lost to the storm. It was a night of roaring thunder and a darkness brought about by the very elements themselves.
The night was perfect for a group trying to sneak through the countryside unseen, passing borders and patrols without detection or notice. An occasional shepherd, trying to usher his herd back to his home, however, needed to be silenced for fear that he would see the figures moving about in the dark. Such was the merciless way of the orcs who wished to be unnoticed, old and unable to fight in fair terms against the likes of man anymore. They were warlocks, some of the last practitioners of the magics that the orcs remembered, yet they were knowledgeable in the oral history of their respective clans and peoples. Many months had passed since they prepared for this night, much planning and preparation had gone to even crossing the border into Calesbail nearly two days before.
One of the oldest among them, haunched forwards to a degree that he would face the ground if he did not raise his head, brought his spear high to stop the party. He looked back and forth before slowly crawling up the hill he was on, spying the fortified settlement in the distance before turning back to the group and ushering them forwards.A flash of light was the only thing that illuminated their presence on the hill, a risk they had to take as the oldest stabbed his spear into the ground.
“This is the spot, I can feel her anger,” the head warlock, Nulgha, stated, looking to the others who nodded their heads in agreement. He gazed around before another flash of lightning illuminated the land, revealing a nearby hut that they had not previously seen nor scouted. Turning to his personal retinue, the old orc growled, “Go! Silence any in there before they see us, I do not want them to ride us down before the ritual is complete.”
Three of the group snapped at each other, snarling and growling as they made their way down the hill to eliminate the potential threat.
Meanwhile the warlocks began their work, stabbing their spears into the ground and weaving bindings between them to form the symbol of their dark god, Chernobog. Nulgha inspected the symbol before he moved to stand in the middle of their creation, with a single finger moved the hard earth around him, now drawing the symbol of Batuul. The old warlock let out a pained grunt as he forced his back to straighten as much as he could, pulling his cloak off and tossing it to the side. The rain felt cold, aching his old bones, but it mattered not in the moment. Nulgha knew what must be done, but it was a shot in the dark, no being could overcome the might of a god but the ritual must be attempted.
The old one looked to another cloaked orc, much younger than him before speaking, “Bolag, my apprentice, you shall speak the writ. Once you have, you will take my place as warlock of the Gorfangs.”
The younger was taken back at first, the other warlocks looked to him, his nerves began to grow weak as he shifted in place. Bolag, however, knew to show strength and steeled himself as much as he could before raising his arms to the air. The ritual must begin.
“In the name of Chernobog, we beckon his first warlord to return to us. The orcs have never been as fractured as they are now, the clans fight for survival and many have abandoned the old ways seen in the First Age!
In the name of Chernobog, we beckon the Slaughter of Ten Thousand to return to us. May she bring forth a new age! The Age of the Orc! May she cull the numbers of the race of man, bring them to their knees, force them to be but servants to our people!
In the name of Chernobog, we beckon the Matron of Orcs to return to us. May she bring our number to bear against the enemies of the Fell! May she bring our people out from their squabbling and unite them as she has!
In the name of Chernobog, we beckon the Unifier of Fell to return to us. May she bring the remnants of the trolls and ogres to unite under her banner, to bring us revenge upon those who forced us to to hide in Aurgoth!”
The apprentice looked to another warlock before speaking in the same ritualistic tone, “Bring forth the weapon!”
Two warlocks brought forward a massive spear, nearly the size of a troll, bringing it to Nulgha who stood there expectantly. The old warlock took the spear into his hands, struggling to raise it for a moment, though just barely managing to overcome the weight of the weapon. Nulgha kept both hands upon it, keeping it steady in front of him before the words of the ritual came to his ears once more.
”Batuul, Matron of the Orcs, Unifier of Fell, Slaughter of Ten Thousand, First Warlord. We free you from your bindings so that you may continue your work in the name of our master! Hear our call and break your chains and to usher a new Age of Slaughter!
Chernobog! Free your Champion!”
The warlocks began to chant, slowly and deeply did their voices overcome the deafening rain and roaring thunder. With heads bowed, they raised the hands to the air, urging forth the essence of Batuul from her prison in the Plane of Chains. While they did not raise their voices, their chant became louder and louder, the rain becoming silent in comparison to them. All but Nulgha fell to their knees, continuing their ritual even as the storm grew harsher and harsher over them, lightning became more frequent and wind whipping at them all the more.
At the climax of the dark ritual, Nulgha suddenly raised the massive spear into the air and let out an ear-splitting roar in the same instance that a massive surge of lightning hit the old warlock. The lightning did not stop, however, as the form of Nulgha became foreign to the chanters due the lightning overcoming his form. Finally, a singular strike hit the location and stayed there for much longer than any lightning strike would, certainly making Nulgha into nothing more than a smoldering corpse.
When the strike finally relinquished itself, in Nulgha’s place stood a towering form much larger than the warlocks who silenced themselves to merely gaze upon the mass. The figure looked between them in a moment of silence, the sound of rain returning to them before the mass raised the gargantuan spear and let out a roar to match the thunder. Joining in, the warlocks and their retinue roared into the air along with her, knowing that their ritual had worked.
Batuul walked free from her prison.
Her form loomed over them and as she looked over them and the land, she was not greeted by an army and instead had but a mere foraging group. Batuul’s face formed a grimace as she spotted the walled settlement of what was clearly a human city, but with much different architecture than what she could remember. She could remember that his land was empty, the land where she had met her defeat at the hands of the White God. Yet, a tug at her hand brought her back to reality, a warlock seeking to gain her attention.
“My warlord, we must leave or the human will find us,” he warned, a display of cowardice that earned him a raised foot to kick him to the side, though not enough to kill him.
“Men cannot destroy us, wretch,” she growled as she looked to the city once more to see horse riders coming out and towards their direction. Batuul snarled as she looked to one of the warlocks, asking savagely, “Who are you?”
“B-Bolag, my matron,” the young warlock stated, prostrating himself before Batuul, “I headed the ritual to free you.”
Batuul inspected the young one, bringing herself down to breath in the air around him before the sound of hooves on hard earth caught her attention. She let out a sigh before giving an order in a deep, guttural voice, “We must return to Aurgoth, I must raise my army! But first, let us kill these men!”
The retinue of the warlocks raised their weapons and let out their roars, forming around Batuul as she stayed upon the hill, merely watching the horse riders coming to them. As they neared, Batuul let out a deafening roar as she began to run down to meet them, their horses spooking at the noise and their charge momentarily halting as their mounts reared back. The orcs fell upon them, the men stabbing out with their spears while others were pulled from their saddles and slaughtered like animals.
Batuul threw her spear at one horseman, the weapon catching the rider and throwing him off his horse before being impaled to the ground. Another, who had regained control over his horse, charged at the massive orc, seeking to bury his spear through her, but being unable to as Batuul ran into the horse itself. Her massive form lifted the beast into the air before throwing it at another horseman, crushing him under the mass of another horse. It was a display of savagery that these men had not seen as Batuul herself began to end their scouting party nearly by herself.
In the end, their resolve broke and those who still had life within them began to run back to the safety of their city, some even riding with horses that had not been injured. The orcs began to give chase, but Batuul stopped them by letting out a loud grunt to get their attention, “Leave them, I want them to know that I have returned! Now, lead me to Aurgoth!”
The orcs let out their savage cries as the horses that survived Batuul’s onslaught, were slaughtered as they ran into the countryside leading their newly brought back matron to their lands. Though, the survivors of the scouting party knew of their existence and word would spread quickly among the lands of Calesbail that there was an orcish party with some form of monster in the hills. Batuul knew hunting parties would be organized to ride them down, knowing that the likes of men would stop at nothing to kill them.
Yet, that was where the fun would come. There was no fun if the humans did not want to fight her.
I will get a CS up as well.
Introductions: IV
Starring: @Lauder@Naril
Rin made her way, with care, through the corridors of W-178, which she very much agreed ought to be called Weiro instead; a sentiment the rest of the crew seemed to share. Though a late arrival, she’d managed to stake her claim on a room with a view - a small one, but a view all the same. Like always, unpacking had taken less than an hour, and Rin wondered - not for the first time - just what it said about her that she could still fit most of her life in a pair of luggage cubes. Maybe it just meant she was good at packing light? Or maybe it meant she was always ready to leave. Maybe they were the same thing.
She stepped around a Turian waiting for a cargo lift and made her way further into the ship. She was dressed in her usual outfit - button-down shirt, comfortable pants, boots that were no more armored than a pair of warm socks could provide. If she looked more like a transplant from an out-of-the-way world, that was fine with her. The day had already been long - and so had the night, for that matter - and to Rin, comfort mattered more than anything at the moment.
The sight of a Turian busying himself down the hallway gave Rin a small pang in her heart. This was all familiar, it was all too familiar. She found herself trying to walk the way she used to, with a swagger she never realized was there, and felt her artificial leg shift to catch her. She half-stumbled, caught herself on the wall, stood again, brushing a lock of hair out of her eye. No, she couldn’t just slide back into old habits. But that was probably for the best - the galaxy was different, this crew was different, and she, most of all, was different. Rin shook her head, and managed to laugh at herself. She’d been on board less than a day. It would probably do to let at least a day go by before worrying about ghosts.
A few moments later, Rin made her way to the ship’s medical suite, buried more deeply in the heart of the ship than her room. She touched the door controls and made her way inside. To her mild surprise, the lights were already on, stacks of crates in the middle of the room, all marked with the universal medical symbols of Council races. And standing next to them, a slim Quarian woman, her suit accented in saffron and orange.
“Oh, hello,” Rin said, walking into the medbay, “You must be Sosa’Numos, right? Ship’s captain?” She grinned, gesturing to Sosa’s suit, “I love the pattern! It goes so well with those gold accents!”
The Quarian turned to the human who had come into the Medbay, her helmet not directly facing Rin but her eyes clearly looking towards her. She suddenly hopped up, the orange glow of her Omni-Tool disappearing as she frantically waved at Rin as an impromptu greeting as she had come in unexpectedly. Sosa’Numos let out a giggle before speaking, “Oh hello! Erm, human… female.. medical bay. You must be Severin Zahir, right? I was just reading up on your file!”
“In the flesh.” Rin smiled, leaned forward in an elaborate bow, her artificial hand making a small circle, metallic highlights flashing on the back of her hand.
Standing, Rin said, “I would ask how much of that is redacted, but, well…” She waved a hand, an expansive gesture, “Well, I suppose it probably isn’t.” Another grin, “So, these are our new Spectres, eh?”
A thoughtful look crossed Rin’s face, “Actually, wait. Does that mean that’s all of us? Are you a Spectre? Am I?” She looked down at herself. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for that uniform anymore. You, though…well. A little blue might go with the orange, hm?”
“We aren’t Spectres, they were disbanded. Remember?” Sosa’Numos commented, hinting to Rin about the secrecy of their new position and tapping the side of her helmet to reinforce the thought. She brought her weight onto one hip as she tilted her head, letting out a laugh as she continued the conversation, stepping towards Rin, “That said I do have a blue and white suit for C-Sec activities, hate it though. It just doesn’t compliment me, y’know?”
“Oh, of course,” Rin said with a laugh, “Silly me. No, of course not.” Rin leaned against one of the crates, and the smile on her face spread a little, “See, I always thought that too. But my sisters always told me they thought the uniform looked good, so maybe I’m no judge.” She looked away and chuckled, memories of finding out that some people really did love a woman in uniform. Rin glanced at Sosa - maybe a fashion show would be in the future? But that would be a discussion over drinks, not here in the medbay.
Rin cleared her throat and shook the thought away, let her voice turn playful, “So, O Captain, my Captain, what can I do for you? I think you’ve actually been in my medbay longer than I have, so I’m not sure what I’ll have to report. Unless this is a social call?”
“Well, first I came down here to see you since I’m trying to meet the crew before our first mission,” Sosa’Numos answered truthfully, rubbing the back of her helmet as she let out an awkward chuckle before continuing, “But, you weren’t here. So I thought I’d go ahead and take inventory of our medical supplies so that you wouldn’t have to.”
The Quarian gestured to the medical crates, stepping to them and placing her hand on top of one as she tried to read out some of the names of the supplies. After the first few, she gave up trying to sound out the names as it became clear that she seemed to not have much of a clue of what each of the supplies were past medi-gel. She straightened her posture as she took a step away from the medical crates, now a little embarrassed for not being able to read the names. Sosa’Numos looked back to Rin and let out a sigh before she voiced her complaints to the doctor, “They should really make these things have shorter names.”
Rin smirked, “Well, that’s the secret: Doctors get to charge by the syllable for whatever we’re talking about. Makes us sound fancy.” She looked down at the crate, ran a finger across the label, “Those are actually for Krogan medicine - and not particularly easy to get outside of Tuchanka. I’m impressed.”
She looked back up at Sosa, “First mission already, hm? C-Sec always did want things done quickly. But I suppose that’s better than waiting for them to make up their mind.” A grin, “You know, if you like, I wouldn’t mind help getting all this stuff put away. I can teach you how to pronounce some of these. And...well. I wouldn’t mind getting to know you a little more, hm?”
“Maybe another time,” Sosa’Numos commented with a light giggle, holding her hands behind her back. She looked over Rin again, noting her knowledge of the medicine before she stepped towards her, invading her personal space. Letting out another giggle, she spoke, “Though I wouldn’t be opposed to learning some medical terminology.”
With a laugh, Rin said, “Mmn. Well, I suppose that’s fair, I’m sure you have captain-type business to be getting on with.” She took a half-step toward Sosa, close enough to wrap her arm around the woman’s waist, though she refrained from the moment, “My quarters, then, after we’re underway? I’m on deck B, room 9. The one with the window. I’m pretty sure I’ve still got a bottle of something from Palaven, too.”
“Oh? Are you flirting with the captain, now?” Sosa’Numos asked, coyly tilting her head to the side.
“Mm-hmmn,” Rin said, “And I’m inviting you on a date.” She grinned, “What happens next is up to you, I should think.”
Sosa’Numos let out another giggle before responding in kind, her voice changing to a teasing tone, “Unfortunately, I don’t think it would be a good image for the Captain to be picking favorites already. Besides, it’s never a good idea for coworkers to date.”
The Quarian took a step back and folded her arms behind her back as she turned to walk away from the doctor, leaving her to her own thoughts about what had happened. Though, as Sosa’Numos reached the entrance to the Medical Bay, she turned her head as if to look back at Rin for a brief moment. The captain let out another light-hearted giggle before she spoke in an increasing teasing manner, “Besides, you’ll have to impress me more than with a promise of some Turian drinks.”
And with those final words, Sosa’Numos left Rin to her own devices.
Rin watched Sosa go, laughing to herself with a small shake of her head. She turned back into the medbay, and lifted the lid off the crate Sosa had been examining. Inside, rough ampoules and canisters of what passed for Krogan medicine - the kind that worked, anyway - were swaddled in fabric and foam, all the better to survive whatever trip they’d taken to get here. She picked one of the canisters up, her artificial fingers clicking on the metal, then made her way to a cabinet. She set the canister inside, used her fingers to position it just so.
It all felt so familiar; the Turian in the hallway, flirting with the captain in a way neither of them would ever do anything about, these Krogan medical supplies - so rare they were virtually contraband - even the way Weiro smelled. The memories, never far away but never shoved down, bobbed a little closer to the surface, and Rin smiled. She pulled another container from the crate, moved it to a different cabinet, set it down with a metallic scrape. It all felt familiar, but even more than that, it all felt right. There were volumes that could be written about that fact alone, but for now, Rin smiled, picked up the next canister, and went back to building her new home.
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Mass Effect: Phoenix | A search for a Captain and Co-GM
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3 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
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