Tominas

Afterlife: Dead Sun

The beast had… missed. The monsters were ripping apart the kinbeast, the kit that needed protection. There was a scream, strange gurgling as claws tore through newly molded flesh, then nothing. The beast didn’t see, it was too busy hauling the small, furry-tailed kin towards the end of the bridge, dodging through the aberrations that sliced out towards its flanks. But it didn’t need to. The screams were loud enough.

One of its kin had perished. There would be time to mourn, but this wasn’t it. It still had to protect the rest of the kits, and the monsters were converging down the bridge, forming up on a wall. The strange ones were still pushing forward, and two of them seemed relatively capable of defending themselves. The problem was that with their two legs and small size, they were too slow.

Behind them, a gout of heat seared the creature’s tail, a bellowing roar echoing through the cavern. On an instinctive level, the animal was terrified. This wasn’t right, it was a predator, but whatever was in this cavern with them was an absolute horror. There was no fight to be had, only escape. It had to get as many of the kits out as it could.

The animal growled through the mouthful of hoodie, flexing its tail as it made to grab the… uncomfortable one. Shaking its head ever so slightly as it tore down a nearby fleshnid with its raking claws, the beast’s tail reached out towards the strange one just as he threw a fevered pitch towards the top of the fleshnid wall. The beast saw what he was doing.

The strange one needed more force. It was a wise choice, but the beast could do nothing but run and pray that it could barrel through. Pain ached through its body, blood soaking through the mane behind its skull-like face as it panted hard. They wouldn’t make it, not like this.

Except for the young kit. In a flash of inspiration, the beast remembered the strange ice the young kit had made. Between it and the metallic kit, the precision of the unpleasant one and the sheer mass of the beast, they had a chance of breaking through. Desperately, the beast shook its head towards the wall, making a large show of preparing to leap through it. Its legs tensed, muscles coiling against femurs, tendons stretched taut, fur flaring on the creature’s neck. It couldn’t speak; it had to broadcast its intentions as loudly as possible. If there wasn’t enough weakening fire through the wall, they would all perish.

If there was, this would be one hell of a beginning for the pack.

Iron Rose Adventurer's Guild

Korgath Ulverin

Name:
Korgath Ulverin

“I am large and hard to kill. You, less so. Stand back please.”

Alias(es):
Kor, Blueblood, Chip, Brick, Stormchild

Gender:
Male

Race:
Male
Age:
17

Rank:
D

Personality:

The orcs believe in leading by example, and as such Korgath strives to be an exemplar in everything he does. He laughs louder, drinks more, cries harder and shoulders as much as any other man he has ever known. In a more charismatic person, this would lead to a natural leader. For Korgath, the results are… a little uncomfortable, to be honest. He’s trying too hard and everyone knows it, but calms down when in more wild settings.

Spending most of his life traveling through the wilds to reach civilization, Kor has learned that he is, in truth, a hardcore introvert. If he had his druthers, he would live in the woods with Kitty, hunting and fishing without need for intervention from the outside world. This does not befit his station.

Considering his past, Korgath is more than aware that sometimes it is rude to inquire into someone’s history, and is happy to remain quiet on such matters.

History:

Pack Ulverin was a not a special one, yet another Hunter Pack for the city. Korgath himself was the spawn of then-king, Garill Ul’kadosh. The king was a large, mighty man, strong in body and spirit. He was a man who cast a shadow miles long. For this reason, Korgath trained himself since he was a child, pushing himself to be the best of the best, stronger and faster than any other member of his or any other martial Pack. He led them in hunts, was first in and last out of dangerous areas, and in their training he found his most trustworthy companion in Kitty, a beast he found after his Pack slew her mother. He showed an unnatural affinity with creatures of the wild, and soon spent more and more time away from his Pack. It was… unhealthy. Unnatural, if the Priest was to be believed, but his father would have none of it. It served the Hunt well.

Then, the Pack was sent on their Bloodquest. It was relatively simple. They were to find and kill a Cavebear, beasts as large as a house, having been dropped off naked in the taiga. Not easy, but simple. After two days, they had clothed themselves in furs, crafted primitive tools, and found their quarry.

It was an aged male, old enough to be the size of a small house, but still young enough to be quick and dangerous. Worthy prey.

They had found its den and were deep inside, the warmth of the slumbering beast’s breath practically slapping the six young orcs in the chest when they heard a powerful scream come from the entrance; a white drake had appeared, and was hungry.

Kor was fast, but not as swift as an enraged cave bear with a predator knocking on its front door. The beast knocked him aside as it woke from its slumber, slamming the young orc into the wall of the tunnel and knocking him unconscious. What happened next he could not say, but when he awoke, there was blood and fur everywhere, along with the corpses of his Pack. The only one left was Kitty, who had drug him from the fray in order to keep him safe.

Devastated, he returned to Kall, dragging the severed skull of the cave bear. Technically, his Pack had passed their proof. An orc with no Pack was a pitiful creature, and pity did not get one far in Kall-Luan. Korgath was given the option to stay, join the old Pack, and forget his comrades. Or, as his father spoke, there was another choice. He could leave.

Exile was a punishment for most, but this was no exile. Korgath had never been the same as the others. He strove to leave the city, explore beyond their borders and the protection of the Storm. With his Pack gone, it was a tragedy, but a chance for the orcs of Kall-Luan to know the state of the world once more. The strike of the ancients had happened long ago, but who was to say it could not happen again? It was time for the orcs to branch out, make friends and allies amongst the other races. The king extolled the virtues of knowledge and unity, and presented the case before the Twelve. They agreed, with one condition. Korgath would not return without a new Pack. Lineage did not matter, but no orc was to be alone. It wasn’t right.

Korgath left.

Magic:
-Due to a process he underwent before his right of travel, Korgath bears eyes able to see in complete darkness. Usually unnoticeable, in pitch conditions they let loose a gentle, dull green glow.
-Korgath is not sure if it is magic or not, but he has always had an almost supernatural ability to connect with animals. This also translates as an ability to read body language damn near perfectly.
-Korgath automatically knows if any of his original Packmates are within half a mile, and in what direction they lie. This would not matter because they are dead, except that it includes Kitty, and in theory anyone he grows close enough to. He’s not entirely positive.

Skills:
-Korgath is an experienced hunter, and knows how to track through rain, sleet, snow, or shine. Over time, he has managed to learn how to track by scent, though this is difficult and better suited for his big fluffy friend.

-Korgath has spent his entire life hunting beasts larger than himself, and is a fair hand with a blade. The axe and knife he keeps at his side have both seen their fair share of use, and he boasts more than the strength necessary to use them. That being said, he is completely useless with a bow, as his clan does not believe in without the use of one’s hands. Additionally, he has only used weapons against wild creatures and abominations, as his people believe one should kill other men with their bare hands. His fist-fighting is rough and relies largely on grappling, but getting hit in the head by an enraged orc is still getting hit in the head by an enraged orc. Has traditional orcish practice of fighting unarmed-to-armed combat, largely revolving around getting in a good cheap shot, joint locks, eye-gouging, and disarming his opponent. He is infinitely better at fighting monsters than he is people.

-Having lived his life outside almost entirely, Korgath is skilled at surviving in the wilderness. He knows many traps for small game, and if it has to do with camping there is a large chance he can get it done.

-Korgath is tough as a brick wall, and has been gored, mauled, and bludgeoned throughout his life. None of it has left him too worse for wear.

-Korgath is trained in the use of heavier weapons and armor, but prefers to go as light as a shirt of chain. Wears leathers when hunting.

-Korgath is almost supernaturally able to commune with wild and domesticated beasts of all kinds.

Equipment:
-Cleaver: Korgath’s axe, forged by a close friend of his father’s. Steel, well-made, nonmagical.
-Skinner-Gutter: Korgath’s knife, part of a pair with Hatchet. Steel, well-made, nonmagical.
-Traveler’s cloak, weather resistant.
-Rope: best tool in the business.
-Backpack: Obvious reasons.
-Pants: Reluctantly used
-Leather armor: For hunting serious prey
-Suit of Mail: Just in case
-Iron Knuckles: a special pair of gauntlets made for slaying men, essentially normal gauntlets with a small ridge of spikes around the ridge of the knuckles and less armor around the articulations of the phalanges, allowing for grappling as well as powerful strikes.Think Alexander Armstrong and you’re in the neighborhood.
-Iron Toeknuckles: See above, but for the feet/shins/knees. Essentially combat shinguards.
-Heavy sandles: The most Korgath is willing to wear in these softer climes.
-Winter clothes: Not in use.
-Waterskin: For drankin’
-Clothes: Hated but necessary in polite company
-Tinderbox: Man still needs to cook to eat meat
-Mess kit: Seasoning makes everything better.

Anything Else:
-Kitty: a Tundra Wolf that Kor has raised since his Pack killed her family in the tundra north of Lake Kall, Kitty and Korgath are both the last remaining members of their family. Eight feet long and four feet tall at the shoulder, she can very reasonably carry a human on her back for long distances. Korgath, not so much. Additionally, she is well-trained as a hunting dog, her nose far more capable than her companion’s, and her teeth much sharper. She generally has a good sense of when someone is trustworthy, and more than once Kor has deferred to her judgement on strangers. Loves cats, thinks she is a lapdog. This is troublesome, as she is as large as an adult female lion.

-Korgath is extremely well-adapted to the cold and extremely unadapted to the heat. He tends to wear very little when he is able to, as the Southlands are much hotter than his home in the distant North. In theory he is slightly resistant to cold magics and slightly vulnerable to fire spells.

On Orcs

A frigid land north of the country of Sirris, Kall-Luan is the home of orcs. It is said that they originated from an isle far to the south, but after generations and generations of nomadism, this is where they have settled. The large, pale-skinned humanoids have spent centuries in the cold hunting, fishing from the great lake Kall, and farming when possible. It is a hard existence, but one they enjoy.

Common politeness is odd to outsiders. If one you travel with is working, you work. If one you travel with is drinking while others work, slap them. If one you travel with is drinking and work is done, join them. It is not genuine to smile at strangers, and if you do so they will consider you untrustworthy. However, if you have risked your life with a stranger, they are then to be treated as a friend for as long as they do not prove themselves otherwise, assuming they are either courageous or capable. Those that travel with other races tend to view them in a condescending, protective sort of way, much as an elder sibling would to their younger kin.

Physically, the orcs are an imposing people. On average, the men stand anywhere from 5’10 to seven feet tall, weighing up to 450lbs, while the women tend to be slightly taller, averaging six to seven and a half feet tall and weighing up to 500lbs. They all bear tusks of varied lengths for decoration and attracting mates, while their actual teeth are slightly more pointed than a human’s due to their largely carnivorous diets. Most bear pale, grey-white skin, but it is not extremely unusual for dull greens and browns to find their way into the mix, relics of their original, verdant home. All orcs’ skin becomes a bright red when they enter a truly intense situation, however, a state they affectionately refer to as a “Bloodrage.” They call it this due to an old belief that an orc’s own blood grows angry with them in dangerous situations. This is misleading, however, as their skin actually changes hue in response to serious emotion of any type. An embarrassed, or sorrowful orc will look the same as a bloodthirsty one, minus facial expression and presence of a murder weapon.

Society is divided into Packs, chosen in adolescence to be trained and raised for common interests and talents. One Pack may be hunters, another Pack is devoted to farming the land, another to weaving, pottery, arcane development, and so on. When Pack members have children, they are raised by the Pack of the father until such a time as they would join their own, around age twelve. This new Pack is trained by the old one of the same nature, passing on the wisdom of elders. After training for six years, the new Pack sets off on a Journeyman project to demonstrate their competence in their respective fields, a showpiece of what they’re capable of after their training. If the old Pack approves, the youngsters are allowed to join. If not, they are cast from the city and into exile. The latter is extremely rare, but individuals have been thrown out from their packs if they are seen as not having contributed to the good work of the Pack as a whole.

Two duties are not allowed to be chosen by a Pack, instead taking children and raising them into the purpose: Priesthood and Rule. Priests are chosen roughly once a generation, the orcs of Kall-Luan worshipping the constant Storm which swirls over the Great Lake Kall, what they believe to be the embodiment of their ancestors. When orcs are still children, they are taken to the lake and hold large, iron rods over their heads. Whosoever is struck by lightning is chosen as the next Priest, assuming long as they survive. If they do not, the Storm swiftly selects another soon after, and so on. The whole process takes, at most, fifteen minutes. So far the fatality rate is relatively low, with the most destructive year only taking three children before a sturdy enough Acolyte was chosen. Following the Choosing, the child is then taken to the Priest for training, becoming an Acolyte and learning tradition, magic, and how to convene with the spirits of old through the Storm. When the Priest perishes, their favored Acolyte takes up the job, while the other Acolytes continue duties of arbitrating disputes, issuing judgements, and tending to the Temple of Kall.

Orcish morality is largely based around scarcity of necessary resources. If one cannot contribute in any way to the city, it is considered right and good to commit suicide. To be a beggar is the highest sin an orc can commit, equal to infanticide. Both ultimately will result in the end of a life more deserving than that of the one who lives. An ugly, mean, horrible bastard is still all of those, but so long as he does his job and doesn’t make life hell for his Pack, he is tolerated. He would not mind if you insulted him based on his intelligence, appearance, attitude or abilities with the opposite sex, but a backhanded comment on his Pack is fighting words. That being said, if one member of a Pack picks a fight with an individual, it is considered a private affair, and the Pack is to stay out of it. If one orc feels insulted beyond the point of recompense, they may challenge the defamer to a Blood Duel, wherein they fight to the surrender with their bare hands. It is not uncommon to kill in these duels. A duel within a Pack is never allowed, as this would be fratricide. There are no revenges for Blood-Duels.

It is seen as horrifically disrespectful to fight with ranged weapons, and as such warriors are raised to close with their enemies as swiftly as possible, dispatching them with their bare hands and armor. Magic is the exception to this rule, as magical combat is always perilous for both the user and the target. Anyone who seeks to strike at Lake Kall is the other exception to this rule, however, as attacking the heart of Kall-Luan where children sleep is considered evil to the point of demonic. Weapons, magic, and dirty tricks all become valid in the face of war with such foes.

Children are seen as little balls of potential, and as such are always fiercely protected. There are few worse wrongs in Kall-Luan’s culture than harming an able-bodied child. Crippled, disfigured, or disabled children are left beside the shore of Kall for a night at birth. If they have not perished by dawn, the Storm favors them, and they are taken in as Acolytes.

While Priests are chosen of the Storm, the King is chosen by a coalition of the Twelve Eldest Packs. When the old King perishes, The Twelve convene and each nominate a new King. After nominations, there is a week of discussion, followed by another week of competitions between nominees. These are generally festive events, the competitions ranging from tests of Strength and Wisdom to Kindness and Patience. The entire city watches, judging. Then, finally, one month after the death of the old King, all Packs in the city vote between the nominees. The winner is then King until death.

It is not uncommon for incompetent Kings to be… corrected. Permanently. With assassination.

Despite their frigid home, the orcs are still a festive people, devoted to living in the moment while they still can live. This results in a great big number of parties and celebrations ranging everything from the election of a new King, the death of the old King, the Coming of Age of a generation’s Packs, harvest time, solstices, birth days, anniversaries, births, Blood Duels, half-anniversaries… you get the idea.

Iron Rose Adventurer's Guild

Korgath Ulverin

Name:
Korgath Ulverin

“I am large and hard to kill. You, less so. Stand back please.”

Alias(es):
Kor, Blueblood, Chip, Brick, Stormchild

Gender:
Male

Race:
Male
Age:
17

Rank:
D

Personality:

The orcs believe in leading by example, and as such Korgath strives to be an exemplar in everything he does. He laughs louder, drinks more, cries harder and shoulders as much as any other man he has ever known. In a more charismatic person, this would lead to a natural leader. For Korgath, the results are… a little uncomfortable, to be honest. He’s trying too hard and everyone knows it, but calms down when in more wild settings.

Spending most of his life traveling through the wilds to reach civilization, Kor has learned that he is, in truth, a hardcore introvert. If he had his druthers, he would live in the woods with Kitty, hunting and fishing without need for intervention from the outside world. This does not befit his station.

Considering his past, Korgath is more than aware that sometimes it is rude to inquire into someone’s history, and is happy to remain quiet on such matters.

History:

Pack Ulverin was a not a special one, yet another Hunter Pack for the city. Korgath himself was the spawn of then-king, Garill Ul’kadosh. The king was a large, mighty man, strong in body and spirit. He was a man who cast a shadow miles long. For this reason, Korgath trained himself since he was a child, pushing himself to be the best of the best, stronger and faster than any other member of his or any other martial Pack. He led them in hunts, was first in and last out of dangerous areas, and in their training he found his most trustworthy companion in Kitty, a beast he found after his Pack slew her mother. He showed an unnatural affinity with creatures of the wild, and soon spent more and more time away from his Pack. It was… unhealthy. Unnatural, if the Priest was to be believed, but his father would have none of it. It served the Hunt well.

Then, the Pack was sent on their Bloodquest. It was relatively simple. They were to find and kill a Cavebear, beasts as large as a house, having been dropped off naked in the taiga. Not easy, but simple. After two days, they had clothed themselves in furs, crafted primitive tools, and found their quarry.

It was an aged male, old enough to be the size of a small house, but still young enough to be quick and dangerous. Worthy prey.

They had found its den and were deep inside, the warmth of the slumbering beast’s breath practically slapping the six young orcs in the chest when they heard a powerful scream come from the entrance; a white drake had appeared, and was hungry.

Kor was fast, but not as swift as an enraged cave bear with a predator knocking on its front door. The beast knocked him aside as it woke from its slumber, slamming the young orc into the wall of the tunnel and knocking him unconscious. What happened next he could not say, but when he awoke, there was blood and fur everywhere, along with the corpses of his Pack. The only one left was Kitty, who had drug him from the fray in order to keep him safe.

Devastated, he returned to Kall, dragging the severed skull of the cave bear. Technically, his Pack had passed their proof. An orc with no Pack was a pitiful creature, and pity did not get one far in Kall-Luan. Korgath was given the option to stay, join the old Pack, and forget his comrades. Or, as his father spoke, there was another choice. He could leave.

Exile was a punishment for most, but this was no exile. Korgath had never been the same as the others. He strove to leave the city, explore beyond their borders and the protection of the Storm. With his Pack gone, it was a tragedy, but a chance for the orcs of Kall-Luan to know the state of the world once more. The strike of the ancients had happened long ago, but who was to say it could not happen again? It was time for the orcs to branch out, make friends and allies amongst the other races. The king extolled the virtues of knowledge and unity, and presented the case before the Twelve. They agreed, with one condition. Korgath would not return without a new Pack. Lineage did not matter, but no orc was to be alone. It wasn’t right.

Korgath left.

Magic:
-Due to a process he underwent before his right of travel, Korgath bears eyes able to see in complete darkness. Usually unnoticeable, in pitch conditions they let loose a gentle, dull green glow.
-Korgath is not sure if it is magic or not, but he has always had an almost supernatural ability to connect with animals. This also translates as an ability to read body language damn near perfectly.
-Korgath automatically knows if any of his original Packmates are within half a mile, and in what direction they lie. This would not matter because they are dead, except that it includes Kitty, and in theory anyone he grows close enough to. He’s not entirely positive.

Skills:
-Korgath is an experienced hunter, and knows how to track through rain, sleet, snow, or shine. Over time, he has managed to learn how to track by scent, though this is difficult and better suited for his big fluffy friend.

-Korgath has spent his entire life hunting beasts larger than himself, and is a fair hand with a blade. The axe and knife he keeps at his side have both seen their fair share of use, and he boasts more than the strength necessary to use them. That being said, he is completely useless with a bow, as his clan does not believe in without the use of one’s hands. Additionally, he has only used weapons against wild creatures and abominations, as his people believe one should kill other men with their bare hands. His fist-fighting is rough and relies largely on grappling, but getting hit in the head by an enraged orc is still getting hit in the head by an enraged orc. Has traditional orcish practice of fighting unarmed-to-armed combat, largely revolving around getting in a good cheap shot, joint locks, eye-gouging, and disarming his opponent. He is infinitely better at fighting monsters than he is people.

-Having lived his life outside almost entirely, Korgath is skilled at surviving in the wilderness. He knows many traps for small game, and if it has to do with camping there is a large chance he can get it done.

-Korgath is tough as a brick wall, and has been gored, mauled, and bludgeoned throughout his life. None of it has left him too worse for wear.

-Korgath is trained in the use of heavier weapons and armor, but prefers to go as light as a shirt of chain. Wears leathers when hunting.

-Korgath is almost supernaturally able to commune with wild and domesticated beasts of all kinds.

Equipment:
-Cleaver: Korgath’s axe, forged by a close friend of his father’s. Steel, well-made, nonmagical.
-Skinner-Gutter: Korgath’s knife, part of a pair with Hatchet. Steel, well-made, nonmagical.
-Traveler’s cloak, weather resistant.
-Rope: best tool in the business.
-Backpack: Obvious reasons.
-Pants: Reluctantly used
-Leather armor: For hunting serious prey
-Suit of Mail: Just in case
-Iron Knuckles: a special pair of gauntlets made for slaying men, essentially normal gauntlets with a small ridge of spikes around the ridge of the knuckles and less armor around the articulations of the phalanges, allowing for grappling as well as powerful strikes.Think Alexander Armstrong and you’re in the neighborhood.
-Iron Toeknuckles: See above, but for the feet/shins/knees. Essentially combat shinguards.
-Heavy sandles: The most Korgath is willing to wear in these softer climes.
-Winter clothes: Not in use.
-Waterskin: For drankin’
-Clothes: Hated but necessary in polite company
-Tinderbox: Man still needs to cook to eat meat
-Mess kit: Seasoning makes everything better.

Anything Else:
-Kitty: a Tundra Wolf that Kor has raised since his Pack killed her family in the tundra north of Lake Kall, Kitty and Korgath are both the last remaining members of their family. Eight feet long and three feet tall at the shoulder, she can very reasonably carry a human on her back for long distances. Korgath, not so much. Additionally, she is well-trained as a hunting dog, her nose far more capable than her companion’s, and her teeth much sharper. She generally has a good sense of when someone is trustworthy, and more than once Kor has deferred to her judgement on strangers. Loves cats, thinks she is a lapdog. This is troublesome, as she is as large as an adult female lion.

-Korgath is extremely well-adapted to the cold and extremely unadapted to the heat. He tends to wear very little when he is able to, as the Southlands are much hotter than his home in the distant North. In theory he is slightly resistant to cold magics and slightly vulnerable to fire spells.

On Orcs

A frigid land north of the country of Sirris, Kall-Luan is the home of orcs. It is said that they originated from an isle far to the south, but after generations and generations of nomadism, this is where they have settled. The large, pale-skinned humanoids have spent centuries in the cold hunting, fishing from the great lake Kall, and farming when possible. It is a hard existence, but one they enjoy.

Common politeness is odd to outsiders. If one you travel with is working, you work. If one you travel with is drinking while others work, slap them. If one you travel with is drinking and work is done, join them. It is not genuine to smile at strangers, and if you do so they will consider you untrustworthy. However, if you have risked your life with a stranger, they are then to be treated as a friend for as long as they do not prove themselves otherwise, assuming they are either courageous or capable. Those that travel with other races tend to view them in a condescending, protective sort of way, much as an elder sibling would to their younger kin.

Physically, the orcs are an imposing people. On average, the men stand anywhere from 5’10 to seven feet tall, weighing up to 450lbs, while the women tend to be slightly taller, averaging six to seven and a half feet tall and weighing up to 500lbs. They all bear tusks of varied lengths for decoration and attracting mates, while their actual teeth are slightly more pointed than a human’s due to their largely carnivorous diets. Most bear pale, grey-white skin, but it is not extremely unusual for dull greens and browns to find their way into the mix, relics of their original, verdant home. All orcs’ skin becomes a bright red when they enter a truly intense situation, however, a state they affectionately refer to as a “Bloodrage.” They call it this due to an old belief that an orc’s own blood grows angry with them in dangerous situations. This is misleading, however, as their skin actually changes hue in response to serious emotion of any type. An embarrassed, or sorrowful orc will look the same as a bloodthirsty one, minus facial expression and presence of a murder weapon.

Society is divided into Packs, chosen in adolescence to be trained and raised for common interests and talents. One Pack may be hunters, another Pack is devoted to farming the land, another to weaving, pottery, arcane development, and so on. When Pack members have children, they are raised by the Pack of the father until such a time as they would join their own, around age twelve. This new Pack is trained by the old one of the same nature, passing on the wisdom of elders. After training for six years, the new Pack sets off on a Journeyman project to demonstrate their competence in their respective fields, a showpiece of what they’re capable of after their training. If the old Pack approves, the youngsters are allowed to join. If not, they are cast from the city and into exile. The latter is extremely rare, but individuals have been thrown out from their packs if they are seen as not having contributed to the good work of the Pack as a whole.

Two duties are not allowed to be chosen by a Pack, instead taking children and raising them into the purpose: Priesthood and Rule. Priests are chosen roughly once a generation, the orcs of Kall-Luan worshipping the constant Storm which swirls over the Great Lake Kall, what they believe to be the embodiment of their ancestors. When orcs are still children, they are taken to the lake and hold large, iron rods over their heads. Whosoever is struck by lightning is chosen as the next Priest, assuming long as they survive. If they do not, the Storm swiftly selects another soon after, and so on. The whole process takes, at most, fifteen minutes. So far the fatality rate is relatively low, with the most destructive year only taking three children before a sturdy enough Acolyte was chosen. Following the Choosing, the child is then taken to the Priest for training, becoming an Acolyte and learning tradition, magic, and how to convene with the spirits of old through the Storm. When the Priest perishes, their favored Acolyte takes up the job, while the other Acolytes continue duties of arbitrating disputes, issuing judgements, and tending to the Temple of Kall.

Orcish morality is largely based around scarcity of necessary resources. If one cannot contribute in any way to the city, it is considered right and good to commit suicide. To be a beggar is the highest sin an orc can commit, equal to infanticide. Both ultimately will result in the end of a life more deserving than that of the one who lives. An ugly, mean, horrible bastard is still all of those, but so long as he does his job and doesn’t make life hell for his Pack, he is tolerated. He would not mind if you insulted him based on his intelligence, appearance, attitude or abilities with the opposite sex, but a backhanded comment on his Pack is fighting words. That being said, if one member of a Pack picks a fight with an individual, it is considered a private affair, and the Pack is to stay out of it. If one orc feels insulted beyond the point of recompense, they may challenge the defamer to a Blood Duel, wherein they fight to the surrender with their bare hands. It is not uncommon to kill in these duels. A duel within a Pack is never allowed, as this would be fratricide. There are no revenges for Blood-Duels.

It is seen as horrifically disrespectful to fight with ranged weapons, and as such warriors are raised to close with their enemies as swiftly as possible, dispatching them with their bare hands and armor. Magic is the exception to this rule, as magical combat is always perilous for both the user and the target. Anyone who seeks to strike at Lake Kall is the other exception to this rule, however, as attacking the heart of Kall-Luan where children sleep is considered evil to the point of demonic. Weapons, magic, and dirty tricks all become valid in the face of war with such foes.

Children are seen as little balls of potential, and as such are always fiercely protected. There are few worse wrongs in Kall-Luan’s culture than harming an able-bodied child. Crippled, disfigured, or disabled children are left beside the shore of Kall for a night at birth. If they have not perished by dawn, the Storm favors them, and they are taken in as Acolytes.

While Priests are chosen of the Storm, the King is chosen by a coalition of the Twelve Eldest Packs. When the old King perishes, The Twelve convene and each nominate a new King. After nominations, there is a week of discussion, followed by another week of competitions between nominees. These are generally festive events, the competitions ranging from tests of Strength and Wisdom to Kindness and Patience. The entire city watches, judging. Then, finally, one month after the death of the old King, all Packs in the city vote between the nominees. The winner is then King until death.

It is not uncommon for incompetent Kings to be… corrected. Permanently. With assassination.

Despite their frigid home, the orcs are still a festive people, devoted to living in the moment while they still can live. This results in a great big number of parties and celebrations ranging everything from the election of a new King, the death of the old King, the Coming of Age of a generation’s Packs, harvest time, solstices, birth days, anniversaries, births, Blood Duels, half-anniversaries… you get the idea.

Iron Rose Adventurers [Light-hearted exploration and questing]

Is this still open? If so, I would be interested in filling the gap somewhere

The Shattered World

---

Harun Fakim Al-Kashir

DATE: Year 7,432 of the 3rd Era. 3rd Month, 15th Day
LOCATION: Heart of Bervenia
INTERACTING WITH: Ante@Pyromania99, Nimue@Crusader Lord, Lady Royce@Lyla, Al'nehak@LiverisGood, Auges@Rune_Alchemist

---

---

Much happened in the next minute. An… oddly beautiful woman appeared, pale and with strange bands on her arms. Harun couldn’t help it, his eyes lingered on her form for just a touch too long… but there were others.

Two children, one of whom he recognized. His face was kept mostly still, but the thief couldn’t help but let his countenance budge just a touch when she bounded into the room. Of course she was a noble hero from times of old. She was, the other child was, Harun was, the Feyblood and the ice queen were, hell, next thing he knew there would probably be some shirtless man bearing a spear and shield saying that he was the chosen of Vis.

He shifted again, becoming the large man with a beard and dark skin, bearing a staff covered in sand and blue cloth. He needed something to lean against, and this was as good a form as any. From his hip, the Sandwalker felt a sense of nervous energy, maybe even excitement. It had been a good time since Xil had gotten any exercise, from what he understood, and things were beginning to head that way.

The smile faded from Harun’s face as he watched the proceedings, particularly the two small ones’ squabble. There was bad blood there, and bad blood in an army led to trouble. They didn’t need trouble. On a more personal note, this rankled the former monarch. In many old tales, twins were the same soul. Anything that caused them to kill one another was a problem. One they could potentially use, but... well, time would tell. As for this Ante... He didn’t have anyone mortal who belonged to him in this world, but the girl had exchanged gifts, if she knew it or not. He would have to see about her.

Feeling a strange sensation from the knife at his belt, Harun stepped aside as conversation proceeded, settling into the corner as he had a hurried discussion with his blade. “Harun, you are no councillor. Let me speak with her.”

“Oh, now you choose to speak with me. And here I was beginning to miss the dulcet tones of your voice, dear friend.”

“Hush! This girl is obviously going through serious emotional turmoil, she needs the council of someone who knows what they’re talking about, and you do nothing but cause problems when it comes to young women. Let me handle this.”

“Come now, I traveled with her for a week and she loved me!”

“You were a bird!”

“And now I’m a charming prince from the southlands, and she needs a pick-me-up. It’s been a time since I’ve played the genie, and you know you want to as much as I do.”

The blade was silent for a time, frustration and a sense of begrudged acceptance leaking through the connection. “...fine. But if you make things worse for that girl, so help me, I’ll keep you awake for months.”

“It will be fine, you old worrywart. Besides, if there's infighting in the group, I feel like you won't need to expend the effort.”

Harun cleared his throat and stepped forward, trying to reign things in a bit. Glancing about the room, he thought it was about time for a change of scenery. Looking at the Lady Royce, he still felt the corner of his mouth lift just a touch. “I like the sound of an airship. I’m assuming, from general chutzpah and the feeling of import here, that the plan so far is for us to fly into the heart of the continent, find what causes the dark moon, and stop it? Because with all due respect, if it were that easy, it would’ve been done by now. I’m going to assume something awful is awaiting us, even if you’re vision cannot see. No offense.”

Turning to the crowd in the room, Harun noticed that he was, at this point, the only man in the group. That was… interesting. Again he felt his eyes flick towards the pale woman and Nimue before he felt a rising sense of disapproval from his side, with a voice as quiet and sharp as a razor in the desert. "Harun..."

Shaking off unsuitable thoughts, the former lord of Cordial switched between the forms of those in front of him as he introduced himself, mirroring those he viewed and trying out their voices and the shapes of their bodies. “Ladies Al’nehak, Auges, Ante, a pleasure, I’m sure. I will skip titles, as I'm sure we all bear many. You may call me Harun, if you so please, and Lady Al'nehak I assure you I am quite well.” As he spoke, he gradually shifted back to his true form, though around fifteen for the sake of matching pace with the crowd. He had been a skinny child, but an athletic one, and this form was still useful for fitting into small spaces. “It would be delightful to ask about all of our abilities and histories, but for now I’m afraid we haven’t the time. When we board our ship, I’m sure we’ll have plenty. Lady Royce, I would like to have a discussion with you regarding materials for a few rituals your people could do to speak with the local spirits, maybe arrange a few deals. For now,” the foreigner turned towards the exit, unable to stop a small smile from breaking across his face. “We’ve a boat docked somewhere, raring to go and waiting for my inspection. Felspeaker, I'm sure you're ready to see my back, but I would like if you could look over the shape of the ship when you get a chance, along with everyone else here with sufficient magical talent. I'm going to assume that includes you, Lady Auges, from how you're going on about our local Fey-touched's magical legs. For now, I'm far too eager to remain here, and we can discuss further as we load and set sail."

“That being said, I would like to take someone with me, in case of foul play from our opponents. No such thing as being too careful.” He pulled a red feather from his hair as he walked, twisting it idly in one hand as he walked past the twin with a matching ribbon. It was the feather of a glass shrike, red and vibrant. He strove keep all sympathy out of his voice. If she was here, she was a warrior, and pity was a hateful thing. Still, he couldn’t help but feel his tone grow the slightest increment gentler as he offered her the feather, pointedly setting his gaze on the horizon as he came up beside her. “Lady Ante, we’ve traveled together before, and I've seen your work. Come with me?”

Afterlife: Dead Sun

@Holy Soldier

Right, so in that case, should we assume that the Beast's pass for RyuShura's char went poorly and the fleshnids got him? I ask for the purposes of getting a post up sooner than later.

Afterlife: Dead Sun

Will post after responses from @Tenma Tendo and @RyuShura, until then the beast is sort of in a weird limbo :T

The Shattered World

---

Harun Fakim Al-Kashir

DATE: Year 7,432 of the 3rd Era. 3rd Month, 15th Day
LOCATION: The Sprawling Plains of Bervenia, Heart of Bervenia
INTERACTING WITH: Morgan@Lyla, Nimue@Crusader Lord

---

---

The thief-king rose, maintaining his composure as he looked at this… strange child. Of course, he certainly couldn’t judge based on appearances. Knowing how things work, she was likely several centuries old, just to fuck about with common preconceptions. Still, her manner of speaking was a little carefree for his tastes. Shifting his form for the sake of comfort, his traveler’s clothes were replaced with the silks and jewelry he had taken at Castle Fraweth, freely wearing his ill-gotten goods. Part of him wondered if the two heroes of that place would notice, though their queen had not in her own hall.

Not that it mattered. Quietly, Xil was translating. More than he had said in a few days, that was for sure. He could understand Royce fine, but Nimue was different. Still, as he listened to their words, his smile faded. Monsters and demons and spirits, he had dealt with them previously. But these abominations from the East were apparently something new, different. The spirits told him that much, but their perspectives were always… off. The truly worrying part was that all of them had been concerned. The wind, the trees, even the very ground they walked on all spoke of these creatures with dread. Nothing Harun had ever heard of was that bad. Nothing.

The thief noticed Morgan being notably quiet. She glanced between her two companions, seemingly sulking in the corner. Harun was slightly surprised, she tended to be rather… outspoken. He supposed being the patron saint of a nation would do that. Still, he sure as hell didn’t mind. The sooner he got the information he needed, the sooner they could all part ways.

“Xil, I trust you’ll give me a hand here? I’ll try my best to avoid flowery language.”

“I definitely believe that.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.” The bastard cleared his throat, arms crossed as he glanced towards the mage. “With all due respect, Felspeaker, if I may interject, there are more pressing matters than Lady Royce’s ancestry.”

His smile faded, brows knitting together in concern as he stood over the rest of the group. “We need information. You either speak with the souls of the land or use divination magic, and the spirits haven’t told me of you so I’m assuming the second. How many of these abominations are there? Are they as strong as a bear, a dragon, a man? Are they land-bound? Are they intelligent? Can you see them? How do they spawn? The moon was not always dark, have we no idea why it has become so? Do we have our own armies, naval forces? Do the other nations work with us? How do our forces stand, how many men do we have? What ‘others?’ Are they as strong as us? Where are they? And most importantly, why exactly would Vis resurrect us? We are strong, but are there no great heroes in this age? Have men grown so weak?”

He let the deluge of questions hang in the air for a moment, taking a breath. It was much to consider, but he was not going to die fighting a fool’s quest. Preparation was ninety percent of any victory. Still, there was one word that stuck out from Nimue’s statements, and he could feel a grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. “Finally, and my apologies for being behind the times, but did someone say ‘airship?’”

Afterlife: Dead Sun

This was distressing.

The smell of blood and sulphur still suffused the air, but now the kits were up and trying to fight. One of them was… odd. Alien. Made of insects and moving wrong. The beast didn’t like it.

Another was smaller, weak, fragile. It had to be kept safe, had to grow… but the beast was confused. One of the group had a similar head, the creature could tell on an instinctive level that it was the same as the beast. But the others were different, strange. They had metal armor and strange appendages, moved wrong and used strange words. It turned its head to look at the biped with a similar face, simultaneously asking for clarification and guidance. The skull-man had a small item in its hand, and had conjured green flame along the side of the bridge, but it looked like the creature. Surely it was still kin, if none of the others were?

Regardless, the monsters from the ceiling were beginning to converge on the group on the bridge, and the skull-man was standing still while it threw about its green flames. The beast didn’t know much, but it saw more and more of the abominations coming towards the bridge, and knew that there wasn’t much time for the group to make their escape. They were all kin… it thought. It just had to make sure that they stayed alive long enough to figure things out.

Breaking its thoughts, one of the monsters scrambled out from the side of the bridge, only to be knocked screaming into the fire by a ball of something thrown by the alien biped. The ones around the beast were fighting, even the small one with the fluffy tail. This all was foolish. There were more coming than were already converging on the bridge, and there was no way the group could handle all of them, surely.

The creature didn’t understand. There was a growing threat, it didn’t make sense to stay. The beasts hackles began to raise, a rising snarl issuing from its throat and mixing with a small whine as it looked around. There were too many to fight, many too many. If nothing else, that was something the strange one of its kin seemed to understand. The monsters were swarming on the walls, the ground, the ceiling… and several of them were beginning to drop down onto the bridge from a low-hanging stalactite. One of them dropped down immediately next to the skull-headed kin.

Without thinking, the beast lurched forward, foaming at the mouth and crying out with a guttural call. Its teeth sank deep into the back of the thing, blood and flesh and bone compressing and snapping between its jaws. In the beast’s belly, another small growl came forth, but the creature ignored it. Snapping the monster's neck, the beast threw it over the bridge, smacking into another one of the creatures. There was no time to play, no time to eat. More were coming.

The beast slashed and clawed and bit and tore, fighting like the cornered animal it was. On one side were the monsters, but the kits had to be protected, had to be kept safe. The creatures were landing blows on the beast, but its claws were strong and its teeth were stronger. Half a dozen bodies were lying around the creature, but more were coming fast and their claws were like razors. The beast was already bleeding from a series of slashes on its hide.

Reaching with its snake-headed tail towards the skull-headed kin, the beast made to wrap its tail around the biped and run to the edge of the bridge, attempting to scoop up the fluffy-tailed kin in its jaws as it ran. It knew in its heart of hearts that it would be faster than either one of them, and they had to GO.

It only hoped that they would understand that this wasn’t a hostile action. They were defending themselves, but they were still kits, after all. If not, why did they lack claws and teeth?

The Underground

http://powerlisting.wikia.com/wiki/Murderous_Possession

I'm okay with this if you are, Cap'n GM@The Incredible John