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Wow, here it is. Untold hours writing and typing, and here it is. I honestly didn't think I'd finish it time. I may format it a little more when I'm not so tired, but anyways, without further ado, I present to you... The Lords of the Mountain.
As the sun irradiated a picturesque mountainside on a crisp morning, the mountain goat emerged from its cave. Looking around for a meal, it immediately espied a rosenbush. As it savoured its meal, a bolt pierced its throat. As the blood began to trickle down onto the mountain, splattering the rosenbush, an ogre leapt down from the above ledge to examine his latest victim. This ogre was different to the rest of his kin, for he was dressed entirely in leather and furs. His right hand wielded a large crossbow, like that of Tilea, only much larger. A long rope was coiled around his left shoulder, with which he slung his kill over his back, ready to bring back to his lair higher up in the mountains. It was early morning, and he already had his first kill. This would be a good day.
With a loud yawn, Kazabb awoke from the previous nights slumber. He lazily scratched his rear, and walked over to his rhinoxen. With a mighty heave, he lifted it above his head. As he placed it back on the ground, he thought vaguely about his coming-of-age ceremony, looking forwards to the grand feast due to take place in two days time. Walking over to his hoarded pile of loot, he picked out a thinlings pike, and waited for his gnoblars to arrive. Eventually, they showed up with a small mammalian animal, jabbed several times, and dripping a trail of gore, that had appeared to have covered several of the gnoblars carrying it. Kazabb nodded, and then skewered it through the midriff with his pike. He toddled over to the fire, sat down on a tree trunk with his mates, and extended his entrée over the fire, watching it toast. In the background, Vozzemm the Butcher was cooking up a concoction of some ingredients found over yesterday’s raid. The Tribe of Two Shoulders was well fed, and excited about Kazabb’s coming-of-age ceremony. This would be a good day.
Early morning, the greenskins were on the move. Gashjak da Rippa surveyed the scenery around him. The black orc had a fancy title, a large tribe, and was tired of beating other orc tribes to a pulp, so he was on the lookout for bigger, better, and more interesting enemies. The ‘umies of Breton had been no fun, so it made sense to move in the opposite direction, so here he was in the Mountains of Mourn. His lieutenant, Borak, approached him. “Da boyz want to know wheere we’re ‘eaded next.”
Gashjak smiled a large, toothy grin, and pointed eastwards. “Over ‘dere,” he said, “’dere’s a large group of dem fings called Ogars or sumfink. ‘Parantly one of ‘dem’s worf 50 of us.”
Borak grinned, and looked out at the distant vale. If they were fast enough, they’d reach that place in a couple of days. This would be a good day.
Dragging his prize back to his cave, Kuggrott sat down to enjoy his pre-breakfast snack. Staring down at the vale of the home of what was once his tribe, he thought about how far he had fallen. Once an important Bruiser in the tribe, he was exiled for supposedly being in on a plot to usurp Voznegh the Excessively Paranoid. Three weeks into his excommunication, and things weren’t so bad. He’d found a nice little cave and a gaggle of gnoblar trappers waiting on him hand and foot. Alas, his thought pattern was disturbed by a faint tremor. Must be that blasted mammoth, he thought to himself, Right. It’s time to bring this thing down. Summoning the effort to get up, he whistled sharply and called out “GET IN BEHIND!!!” His faithful sabretusks slunk in and joined their master. “I was talking to the gnoblars,” he drawled in a low voice, “but I suppose you lot can come too.” Brandishing his mighty hunting spear, he dispatched his gnoblar trappers. This, he thought to himself, would be a good days hunt.
The orcs had almost been running for two days, and they were getting sick of it. “’Ere, Boss!” Borak approached Gashjak. “Da boyz want ta kno’ when we actually get to bash some ‘edz in. None of this elfin’ runnin’ all over da place.”
“Alright, halt!” Gashjak had to admit he was beginning to tire a little himself, though he took care not to convey it. “Tonight we rest. For tomorrow we do some killin’!”
Dispatching his black-hodded night goblins as scouts, he watched them disappear into the mountains in their assigned patrol groups. Gashjak was contented. The gobos would report back to him on the lay of the land, and then they might finally find an opponent worthy of them. The warboss looked at his Bloodaxe, and grinned.
Completing his ascent up the cliff, Kuggrott looked up and saw a gigantic mammoth, larger than anything he had ever seen. However, it was struggling against three yhettee. Constantly leaping in, wildly hacking at its legs and torso with their club-like ice weapons, before being pushed back by the sheer force behind the creatures mighty tusks. The greyback [the leader of the avalanche- collective noun for yhettee] howled as it leapt towards the mammoths head, ice weapons raised, ready to strike. However, the creature saw it, and swung its majestic head at the white creature. As the greyback made impact with the tusks, it emitted a sound of the wind being knocked out of it. Hurled back, it smashed into a rock, back shattering instantly, before all life ebbed away.
Trumpetting victoriously, the mammoth raised its head in a challenge to anyone else. Kuggrott aimed his harpoon-crossbow at the creature’s newly-exposed throat. As the bolt pierced the thick, hairy hide, the mammoth looked momentarily stunned. Recovering (albeit with blood now trickling from its throat), the mammoth lowered its head, and moved forwards. Obviously terrified, the gnoblar trappers surrounded it, throwing sharp sticks, rocks and other general irritants at the creature. Infuriated, the mammoth turned to attack its new assailants, a large foot crushing a poor gnoblar as blood sprayed everywhere, dyeing the white snow a sickening red. Swinging its trunk, several other screaming trappers were sent flying off the cliff to a mountainous grave. The others scattered like gutless mercenaries from the rampaging mammoth. “OI!!! GET BACK TO IT!!!” Kuggrott bellowed his orders to the subordinates. Fearing the wrath of his master more than the creature he was trying to kill, the gnoblars reluctantly obliged.
Reloading, Kuggrott fired off another harpoon. This projectile crashed into the creatures left shoulder. Collapsing a bit to the right the mammoth howled its pain to the skies, its trumpet echoing throughout the vale. Seizing the opportunity, one of the tiger-like sabretusks growled and leapt at the mammoth’s trunk, and pulled, attempting to pull it down. As this transpired, its partner leapt at the wooly creature’s chest. Shards of rib flew all over the place as the prey began to collapse. Sensing an opportunity, the gnoblars leapt onto the monsters midriff, almost in unison, jabbing frantically. Leaping onto its back, Kuggrott thrust his spear downwards, breaking the mammoth’s neck. Reaching into the fallen creature’s freshly-opened chest cavity, he twisted his wrist around a little, and removed its large, dark red heart. His hand dripping with gore, he admired his prize. Grinning, he added it to his trophy rack, before walking over to the greyback’s corpse. Severing its head, he skinned it in front of the dumbstruck yhettee, and his entourage. Donning the greyback head-pelt as his newfound trophy, he grunted a greeting at the yhettee, tossing them the corpse.
Attention now diverted to his mammoth carcass, Kuggrot was satisfied. There, he thought, that’ll teach it to disturb my peace. Dragging it off by the trunk to his cave, he motioned for his gnoblars and sabretusks with their bloodstained maws to follow closely behind.
The vale was filled with echoes of the ogres’ merriment. It was Kazzab’s coming-of-age ceremony, and they were having their greatest feast since last week. Vozzemm was cooking up the main mean, Kazabb’s slaughtered rhinoxen. Stewing away with various condiments, it’s smell was as appetizing as it was nauseating- for the gnoblars anyway. As it began to boil, Vozzemm brought the cauldron over to the main table. Several of the dish’s less important meats were handed round the table, before Voznegh cut off a large portion of the rhinox, before passing the rest to Kazabb.
As the ogres heartily enjoyed their meal, distant warcries began to be heard. Over the mountains charged a large orc tribe, fuelled by the energies of their mighty Waaaagh! At the forefront was Gashjak da Rippa, eager for blood to flow
As they saw the threat, the ogres wasted no time, quickly brandishing their clubs, swords and other miscellaneous weaponry before moving to meet the newcomers. They fought like heroes. Voznegh cleaving orc after orc with his over-egotistical weapon, the Ironguts cutting down several also with their magnificent glaives, and the Bulls crashing into the greenskins, sending them hurtling back, wind knocked out of them before becoming easy prey for the mighty ogres. However, for every orc that died, there was another to replace it, and the ogres were drowned in the unstoppable tide of the green sea.
Voznegh ordered the retreat, and the Tribe of Two Shoulders disengaged, pursued hotly by the marauding greenskins. As they began to exit the vale, night goblins began to appear from the mountain, and it became apparent that the ogres would be bogged down by this tar-pit and overwhelmed. As Gashjak and his bodyguards drew closer, one of them was hit in the chest by a harpoon. The entourage watched, dumbfounded, as the pierce began to seep a thick, dark and shimmering gore, whilst a large figure dressed in furs leapt into their midst, swinging his mighty club wildly yet purposefully. As Voznegh looked at this newcomer, he saw the white scalp adorning his head.
Kuggrot and Gashjak eyed each other up, before the muscle-bound orc yawped out, swinging his mighty Bloodaxe. As the blow was deflected by the ogre’s primitive, metal-tipped club, his sabretusks raced into he fray, snarling and growling, leaping at the warboss, razor-sharp teeth tearing chunks of flesh out of him. Seizing one by the throat, Gashjak brought his mighty axe down to bear on the creature. Splitting its spine at the neck, his axe became stained with his latest victims blood as its head hit the ground with a gentle thud.
Pausing briefly, Kuggrott felt his rage well up inside. Raising his club, he bellowed as loudly as his lungs would permit. Though Gashjak attempted to block the blow, it was too strong, and his axe was snapped at the handle. As the club continued its path unhindered, it collided with the warboss’s helmet at an angle. The force of the blow completely devastated his helmet, and his head swung loosely to the side, neck snapping instantly. Finishing his kill with a sharp kick to the gut, Kuggrott approached the corpse. Draping it over his shoulder, he looked at Voznegh, grunted and said “give my regards to Kazabb.” With that, he was off, vanishing just as abruptly as he appeared.
As the battle was calming down with the ogres in full flight, the irongut looked up from the mud, dying of several injuries. As Borak approached him, he pulled out a pike lying around the battlefield. With it, he stabbed Kazabb, and all life faded from him as we collapsed back into he mud.
That morning, as the orcs were still celebrating their latest victory, a large horn resounded throughout the vale. As the greenskins looked up at where it was coming from, they saw a large ogre dressed in furs, sounding a horn carved of a beautiful mammoth tusk. As they yelled their challenge, he yelled back, his bawling voice triggering a mighty avalanche. As the thundering snow hit the banqueting party, they tried to run, but most were smothered to death instantly. Riding the avalanche was a large pack of white-furred yhettee, and no orc survived their fury. From above, Kuggrott watched the slaughter, satisfied. Killing the mammoth had afforded him the respect of the pack, and here they were doing his bidding. Granted, he’d lost a hound, but nonce could match the yhettee on their home turf. This would be a good day,
Now, you've read all this, so you may as well post feedback. Yes. Feedback. I wantsssss. Seriously folks, even negative (fine, constructive) feedback is appreciated.
Last edited by ArchonFarseerGuy; July 30th, 2008 at 10:53.
Oh man, wouldn't he be a fun leader to be around! An excessively paranoid ogre... I like it!Originally Posted by ArchonFarseerGuy;1214[COLOR=black
To me, it seemed a bit stilted at the start. There's a few bits where I noticed this, generally when shorter sentences were used. It can take a lot of re-writing to fix that, though, and it could just be me.
I really like the way it starts, though, three different parts (linked nicely via your catch-phrase!) all rolling in to one.
Not a bad piece of work!